Scores That Tell Stories

I've had the Grieg score above for 20 years, probably.  And it looks like it’s been through a war – the front cover is attached with scotch tape and the back cover has been missing for years.  It’s dirty, used and abused, and the funny thing is I haven’t played most of the pieces in it.  I’m sure most people would say, “Nicole, you should take better care of your scores!” 

But when I look at that book, I see stories – I see my life.  I see practicing my mother’s old spinet piano when I was first started taking lessons, reading from the manuscript paper my first teacher used to write musical examples for me.  I see the “Dozen a Day” exercise books with the dancing stick figures at the beginning of every exercise.  I see my sister and me trading spots at the piano, one sister dancing while the other sister played.  I see hurriedly throwing the books into a haphazard pile into my music bag – black with treble clefs on it (wouldn't be caught dead with that now).  I see train rides to Bryn Mawr to the piano lessons which I learned to hate in the end, sitting on the aging orange plasticky seats on the Septa train cars.  I see the beautiful, colonial mansion of the Conservatory where I took those lessons, with its antique furniture and wallpaper waiting for me as I walked through the back parking lots from the station.  I can smell the air in that house; I can hear the creak of the old wood floors. 

I can remember buying every piano score that I own, and I can remember every occasion for buying them.  A flood of images sweep through my mind as I think about rifling through file drawers for slim Heller scores, sliding the smooth, sleek Chopin volumes off the shelf.  They smelled so new, so promising.  In those pages was my future, my imagination brought to life.  Everything I could imagine could become real in those notes, and I remember when I brought every single one of those books into my life.

Except that Grieg.  Perhaps it was a “borrowed” score from my teacher that I never returned.  And she certainly wouldn't want it back when she saw its stained, dog-eared pages.  But that’s what makes it mine.  Including the squashed, dead spider between two of the pages, tracing my glorious relationship with those gross creatures back through the years (I was always too afraid to touch its dead body to scrape it off the page).  Perhaps it seems weird to tell your life story through a pile of books – a pile of work tools, really – but the thought brings a smile.  And as I think about what I want in the new year, what I will grasp as part of my life, I close my eyes and find myself in the aisles of that music store with a thick score in my hands, fanning the pages as the notes run across the page just waiting for me to catch them.  And just that quickly, my imagination encounters the future once more.

And that is a blessing.     

Searching for The Truth

“He felt that the truth was about to reveal itself, and yet it was disconcerting.”  

Detective Harry Bosch

I am always reading some book or another.  Well, in truth, I’m always “listening” to some book or series of books on my IPhone.  I’ve been cycling through Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch novels about a gritty homicide detective based in Los Angeles/Hollywood.  Good stuff, if you like police dramas and detective stories.  But dark stuff, as well.  Bosch considers finding murderers his calling – his vocation – and his only concern is finding the truth, no matter what the cost.  And sometimes that cost is his own soul.  

I’ve never had any interest in being a cop, but the law has always fascinated me.  Ever since I was a kid I wanted to be a lawyer.  I imagine it stemmed from going to work with my mother who worked for a court reporter at the Federal Courthouse in downtown Philadelphia.  601 Market Street.  I can still remember the address more than 20 years later, and if you want to hop on a train with me from the Berwyn station on the Main Line outside of Philadelphia I could take you right there without missing a step.  It was within spitting distance of Ben Franklin’s house, Betsy Ross’s house, the Liberty Bell and Independence Mall.  You could smell history in the air mixed with the exhaust from Septa buses and the aroma of hot dogs and pretzels out of the stands on the street corners.  I loved being downtown in the hustle and bustle, especially during the holidays.  We used to buy purses (we called the pocketbooks out east) and socks from the vendors who set up outside the mall, and there was a jewelry lady on a corner close by where we always stopped to look at earrings.  And of course, it wouldn’t be a trip to the city without some strange man opening a trench coat lined with toothbrushes and other personal toiletry items to sell.  “Just keep walking and don’t look at them,” my mother would always say.  And that’s how I learned to survive in the city without being pegged as a tourist.  

I loved going to work with her – riding the train with all the men and women in suits clutching their briefcases; watching the women fast-walk in their gleaming white sneakers (high heels hidden in their briefcases, of course); going through the metal detector at the courthouse where the security guards all knew my mother because of the hours she worked – a lot of nights – and the flower she wore in her hair.  That kind of fashion faux pas was acceptable in the 70’s and 80’s, and in those days the metal detector did not object to the small pair of scissors in her purse which she used to clutch in her hand when walking to the train station late at night.  She was city-tough and beautiful to boot.

One of the things I loved and remembered most was the food eaten on these trips.  (You see?  Even then I loved food.)  We always got off the train at Market East, the last stop on the R5 line into downtown.  This dumped you out into The Gallery - the mall where I once got separated from my mother while shopping on Christmas Eve, and she not only had my brother and sister posted on the second floor so they could scan the crowd for me but also had the police on the lookout.  I can’t imagine how freaked out she was.  Of course, I was walking around without a worry from store to store, and even though I couldn’t find my mother I knew my grandmother was waiting in the train station for us to finish.  I had actually stopped to sit with her for a few seconds before I went back out into the mall to look for my mom.  Of course, when I was found by my brother and sister who screamed, “There she is!” from the second floor loud enough for Jesus to hear it, I got the angry, “Where were you???” yell from my mother which no doubt masked the building fear underneath.  But I digress.

When the weather was bad, you could walk from the Gallery through a small, indoor food market, then past a few decorative windows that looked into fabled downtown department stores like Abram and Strauss as you entered into another smaller mall/office building called the Mellon Independence Center.  This was a bit more posh and served a lot of the business people through its restaurants – the obligatory Au Bon Pain and Dunkin Donuts, plus a number of other small “mom and pop” type stands where you could get a quick lunch and/or breakfast to go on your way to the office.  These little shops opened up into a large, atrium of gray and black marble with many small tables and a baby grand piano keep people occupied while they munched.  I loved this place.  But work waits for no one.  We would take the escalator upstairs and walk out the front doors onto Market Street.  From here, the courthouse was just on the next block over.  But first, a stop on 7th street at the first stand to grab a fruit salad for lunch.  Yum.  But enough about food.

The federal courthouse was perhaps not the most imposing building in the city, but you felt the importance of it as you walked in the doors.  This was the place where Cosa Nostra was put on trial, for crying out loud.  The hallowed halls of history and justice.  There were 3 or 4 revolving doors at the entrance of the tall, brick building which turned you out into a large, dark foyer with several escalators up to the main lobby area.  The ceilings were impossibly high, and as a small person you felt as if you were walking into a temple of sorts.  And in a way, I believe that’s what these places are supposed to be – a temple for the truth.  

Any attorney reading this is probably laughing their socks off at this point.  And perhaps those of you out there that have been involved in any legal action are laughing as well.  But I do believe that in its essence, the practice of law and the legal system are about the search for The Truth.  In reality, it seems the proper definition would be that they are the search for A Truth - perhaps not The Truth - that those involved in the argument can agree upon or must be forced to accept.  Perhaps even a shade of The Truth, or in some cases a complete reconstruction of it.  But underneath it all there is still the quest for the actual truth and I believe that there are still a few faithful seekers out there who haven’t given up the quest.

Why are you talking about these things in the middle of Advent, Nicole?  Well, because I think those of us who are seeking something – some name it as God, some as inner peace, some as spirituality – are actually seeking The Truth, not A Truth.  And The Truth is a hard thing to find and define, whether it is the truth of a human situation or the spiritual truth of our existence.  And while Advent (and Lent, for that matter) is a season of waiting and preparation, it is also a season of seeking, just as three “Wise Men” sought the birth of a small, defenseless child in the middle of a desert.  Think of how ridiculous and impossible a task that was – ridiculous and impossible without a ridiculous and impossible faith to guide them to The Truth which they knew in their hearts they would find.     

The journey to The Truth is an impossible journey.  And at times a ridiculous one.  But a necessary one, all the same.  And at some point we have to come to the realization that when we find the truth, we are most likely incapable of understanding it and accepting it because it is JUST TOO BIG for us, even though it may seem so small and so simple.  And that is indeed disconcerting.  But we keep seeking, just the same.  I think it’s built into our DNA.  We can only live in darkness for so long until it begins to cost us our souls.  Without a soul, we are only a slave to the darkness that has overtaken us.  And that is why we keep trudging through the desert to find and wrestle with that impossible, ridiculous, small, and defenseless Truth. 

Rediscovering the mysteries

As much as I usually complain about winter, the truth is I love this time of year.  There's something about the sparkle of snowflakes in the crisp, fresh air; the crunch of frozen snow underneath your boots, full of thick fur to keep your feet warm; the promise of a warm mug of a steaming, yummy smelling beverage just waiting to be made at home.  Of course, over the years I've learned to add a little something-something to that hot beverage to make it even smoother...we'll just call it Adult Hot Chocolate.  But I digress...there seems to be magic in the air, no matter what tradition you follow.  Everyone is full of expectation of something, even if it's only the next snow storm.

As the picture above intimates,  it's Decorating Time.  I sort of dread it every year - the dragging of the tree (all fakey-fakey here) and the lugging of the oh-so-cheeky red and green tote bins full of decorations from the attic.  And for the last few years I've been more and more grateful for my neurotic sense of organization when I open the bins and find the boxes of ornaments neatly tucked in together like Legos, the loose tinsel used like packing material to protect the ornaments floating free without boxes.  Genius, I tell you.    

This year was the best, though.  The whole downstairs is FINALLY painted and repaired (well, for the most part) and the deep, red and gold of the living room walls seems like a perfect accompaniment to the festive cheer of George (!), our prelit Christmas Tree.  

I love him. 

The best part of decorating this year was opening the mysteriously heavy Christmas tins I found in the bins.  I couldn't for the life of me remember what was in them.

Every year it seems we are gifted with these little tins filled with edible holiday cheer (LOVE that kind of holiday cheer!) and every year I hate the thought of throwing the tins away.  And I don't.  And every year we end up with a bigger and bigger collection of containers that can really only be used once a year.  A few years ago I found the best solution - more ornament boxes!!!  All the small, flat ornaments that for some reason have no package are carefully wrapped in wax paper and cotton balls and snugly put to bed in their favorite Christmas tin.  Most of these ornaments are some of our most treasured gifts from friends, many of them handmade.  And I'm not one of those people who remembers what kind of ornaments they have hidden up in the attic (what was for breakfast this morning???) so it was truly a surprise to open those tins and rediscover the generosity within them.    

All this preparation and excitement for a day that seems to come and go in the blink of an eye!  It reminds me of prepping for a recital - hours and hours of practicing for a little over an hour of REALLY hard work, and who knows what's going to happen in the end?  Trust me, sometimes no one is more surprised than I when the notes come out of the instrument.  But the more I think about it, living through this time of year is a very similar process.  Advent is all about waiting and preparing - but for who knows what?  We think we know - the birth of Christ, silly!  But part of what we are waiting for is the mysterious birth of unknown treasures in the upcoming year - the treasures of the world to come.  The new surprises under the "trees" that grow into our lives.  The rediscovering of the old memories we've neatly packed up into the "tins" in our brains that get opened year after year when we meet for our ritual celebrations of birthdays, holidays, and plain old partying for no reason.  So much to look forward to!  

But we all know that all the "surprises" won't be good ones - in fact, there are probably some things which won't be surprises at all and will be painful to endure.  And sometimes the memories suck - we all have those, so there's no need to elaborate.  But the hope and anticipation of all the good that WILL be coming our way is a part of the magic of the season of Advent and can transform our lives, IF we allow it.  What potential these few weeks have!  The potential of the world to come - a world that will be changed forever because of what at the time seemed like a small, insignificant event that continues to ripple throughout the generations.  And what a shame if we miss seeing this potential in the hustle and bustle and craziness of all that preparation.  Don't get me wrong - the party never happens without that busy-body, Martha.  She's always painted as the heavy, but who will be the first to complain if there's no cheese and crackers to go with the wine???  But we can't forget to spend a little time with free-spiriting, free-wheeling Mary along the way.  Because the party is just no fun without her, and she's probably the sister that keeps a little flask of something-something hiding in the corner...

Happy Advent!

Kill all the organs!

Today, like many of my colleagues, I came across a ridiculous op-ed piece in the Boston Globe called "Save the church! (kill the organs)" - you can read it here.  Needless to say, blood began to boil.  Tempers flared.  Eyes rolled.  Some might say we are an overly sensitive bunch, we organists, but the truth is we are tired of being the Whipping Boy (or Girl) for those lamenting the decline in attendance on Sunday mornings (or Saturday evenings).  My first response was to repost the article on Facebook, of course, accompanied by a snarky comment about the author of the piece.  Maybe that wasn't fair, but as my older brothers used to say - don't dish it out if you can't take it.    

Here's the deal: there are MANY, MANY, MANY reasons why attendance is down across the country.  Do the research.  You can no more say it's the music than you can say it's the horrible taste of the communion wine.  But if we are really going to face the issue, we as church musicians must take some of the heat.  The truth is, there are MANY, MANY, MANY worship services out there that are led with poorly played, poorly chosen music.  It's just the truth.  And again, there are MANY, MANY, MANY reasons for this.  Such as:

There aren't enough well-trained organists/musicians available, so churches are forced to use unqualified people.

The pay is horrendous, so those who are well trained don't/can't take the positions where they are needed most.

The instruments are horrible and not well-maintained, which in turn does not encourage the congregation to sing well.

The leadership - lay or clergy - do not put enough emphasis on the quality of the liturgy.

The clergy and the musician for some reason can't play well together in the sandbox - doesn't matter who threw sand in who's eyes first - so the liturgy and the community suffers.

SOMEONE is lazy.  

The congregation/clergy/musician/whoever doesn't care about quality - they only want to entertain or be entertained.

Not enough time is allotted in the musician's schedule for service preparation.

The clergy has never received enough/proper training in liturgy and music.

The musician and clergy do not respect each other.

And perhaps the most important - The leadership/clergy and musician are not on the same page regarding the vision for the liturgy and the community.


Now, I will probably get blasted by some of my colleagues for saying these things, but sometimes it IS our fault as the musicians.  Perhaps not as individuals, but as a collective group.  Let me tell you a story:  Many years ago (and I mean, a lot) a workshop addressing the professional concerns of organists was held as part of a larger conference.  Luminaries in the field were invited to be a part of a panel discussion to answer questions and give guidance and advice out of their vast knowledge and experience.  Someone brought up the issue of compensation, and the difficulties many organists had when it came to being paid a fair wage and how much more difficult it was to get a raise while working for a church.  Discussion ensued, and one particular panel person said something to the effect of, "Well, before we even discuss getting a raise, we have to be sure that we are working hard enough and playing well enough to even deserve it."  Well children, after that comment there was much weeping and gnashing of teeth.  The nerve of someone even intimating that an organist wasn't deserving!  Said luminary was not invited to speak on such topics again.  

The truth shall set you free, peeps.  If we are not going to be honest about our abilities and our work, there really is no hope for the profession.  There will always be many levels of playing in the organ world - this is true of every instrument.  But we have to agree to some sort of minimum standard for playing in public as professionals.  And I don't mean Carnegie Hall levels - I'm talking about playing with accuracy, musicality, and sensitivity to the text at a BARE minimum.  We all have to be willing to go get coached or take lessons or whatever is needed when we come across some sort of issue we cannot overcome.  And as employers, churches should be more than willing to chip in towards this type of continuing education.  If they aren't, then they are getting what they pay for.  

The church also needs to start being honest about what it wants.  Different strokes for different folks, as the saying goes.  If a congregation has decided that they want nothing but contemporary Christian music, then stop looking for musicians from The Peabody Conservatory of Music.  If it is your intention to maintain a high quality music program that has been established since the 19th century with professional musicians and a world-class instrument, don't hire Susie Q. from down the street who has only taken 6 organ lessons.  The common denominator is this:  whatever you want, hire qualified people and treat them like professionals, not jukeboxes.  Need help discerning what's lacking or what's needed?  Consult with your musician as a fellow colleague and professional and rely on their experience.  If you don't have one, try your local AGO or college/university organ professor.  You'd be surprised at the resources that may be available to you.  

And the same goes for musicians.  If you believe at the center of your being that the music in a worship service should be of the highest standard and quality possible, don't work for a church or clergy person who admittedly thinks music is not important.  Or work to find some common ground you can both agree upon.  If you can't stand traditional church music, don't disrespect the liturgy and all those celebrating it by slopping your way through hymns every week.  Treat the instrument and the music with the respect they deserve as a tools and vehicles for worship.  We are obligated to be at our best whenever we sit at the bench.  Otherwise, we can kiss our profession goodbye, and it will be no one's fault but our own.  

Living the Bohemian Life

Play me!

Over the past 9 months I've been living a very different life than I have for the past 13 years or so.  I'm not teaching or Working For Jesus at the moment (the nickname we in the business give to a church gig).  I'm just concertizing.  I have been incredibly fortunate over the past year to have whisked myself all around the country and all over the globe to play concerts and teach masterclasses.  I've been to some exotic places that I may never get to see again, met wonderful people and been exposed to some pretty fascinating cultures.  

It's been bitchin.  

But at the same time, it has been difficult to adjust to life without "The Job".  Ah, yes, "The Job".  It fills your days (and nights), keeps the brain going, pays the bills, and gives shape and rhythm to your life.  In many ways, it defines you - but not in a bad way.  It's hard to be a musician and not be "defined" by what you do.  Music, once you let it in, becomes part of your soul in a most permanent way.  It completes you in a way that is almost impossible to define, impossible to quantify.  And who would want to try?  Sometimes we just have to accept these "gifts" for what they are and not spend so much time analyzing them.  But changing my lifestyle has not been an easy journey, and I most likely will change it again in some way in the near future.  After all, that's what life is all about.  Change.  

I used to enjoy getting up every morning, getting "dressed up" as some would call it (just normal work clothes for me), and going in to the office.  Now, most of my days have very little structure for the most part. I have things to do, work to accomplish, music to learn, etc., but the timetable for the most part is completely my own.  It is both freeing and terrifying.  I think I was always one of those kids who could play with wild abandon as long as the playground was surrounded by a fence.  Give me a wide open field, and suddenly the world feels a lot more, I don't know, suspicious.   

It's amazing how we can find happiness in the midst of mess.  If you were to visit the first floor of my house right now, you'd wonder how anyone could possibly stay sane and spend so much time here.  Every stitch of furniture and "stuff" from the dining room has been moved into the living room so I could strip the wallpaper, repair plaster, and paint.  The dining room table is now sitting in front of the fireplace with all the "good" dishes and wine glasses sitting on top of it.  The beautiful, floor-to-ceiling hutch we bought off our neighbors down the street years ago now sits in two pieces in front of the dining room table in front of the fireplace.  Dining room chairs are all over the place.  Pictures, plants, candles, smaller furniture, and other "decorations" litter the room in any available spot that doesn't block the pathway from the hallway into the kitchen to the couch and then to the television.  Hey - we have priorities.  Until today, getting to the piano would have taken a few lessons from your favorite Cirque de Soleil gymnast.  It's a freaking disaster area.  And yet, today I had a rehearsal at the house with a young, very talented oboe player in high school who also plays with the Cleveland Youth Orchestra.  Half hour before the rehearsal I had been sanding plaster.  A quick change of clothes later and we were bubbling along with a Vivaldi Oboe Concerto in the midst of a mess, with an episode of Star Trek:The Next Generation paused on the television in the background.  

And you know what?  I loved it.  

The house feels cozy and lived in.  Life happens here - it's not a museum.  Creativity is born around here somewhere - perhaps in some clear spot underneath a piece of furniture somewhere.  What caused this sudden euphoria?  Maybe it's the wonderful chill in the autumn air - my favorite season.  Maybe it's the promise of a colorful world in a few weeks.  Who knows.  But let's not kid ourselves - this "mess" is going to get old in about, oh, another 3 minutes.  While I love to thrive around creative clutter, the thought of a sleek, roomy, living space where I can do cartwheels in the middle of the room is equally as enticing.  And the promise of the biting cold of winter, well, there had just better be enough brandy in the liquor cabinet to add to my hot chocolate when that white monstrosity starts falling from the sky.  

But for today, I'm enjoying the mess.  It is far more interesting that the artificial clean I usually try to impose upon it.  And who wants to live an uninteresting life?  

Live out loud, people!

"Maestro, put down your baton" - the trickle down effect of poor leadership

Play me!

I've been fortunate in my career as a musician to play with a variety of different orchestral ensembles - full symphony orchestras in performances of compositions like Stravinsky's fabulous Firebird, Resphigi's nauseating love affairs with Italy, Martin's quirky pieces for chamber orchestra, a variety of piano and organ concerti (my favorite!), Bach cantatas, masses and instrumental pieces....I am lucky, lucky, lucky. Playing "orchestral keyboard", as it's called, is one of my favorite things to do - my dream job, in fact. There is just no comparison to playing inside of that musical animal. It's chamber music on steroids.   It's passion on wheels.  But only when the players are the best and the conductor is stellar.

Well, there's the rub. 

I've sat under some fantastic batons for some incredible musical experiences, and this result is almost always a direct product of the ability of the person wielding the stick to work with the palette in front of them. A talented conductor can take a stage full of a variety of different skill levels and make incredible music with it. Someone who's not-so-talented...well...they just make life hell for everyone. I remember going to performances of what it arguably one of the world's best orchestras under one of their "secondary" conductors. The orchestra completely ignored him and instead depended on the masterful leadership of the concertmaster. I'd never seen so much head cue-ing in my life. Some might consider this disrespectful to the conductor, but I call it survival and believing that it's more about respecting the music and its demand for excellence than it is about blindly following an idiot. At that level, anything else is a waste of time. Play hard - and play well - or go home.  (As an aside, you should REALLY read Gary Graffman's memoirs, "I Really Should Be Practicing" - a wonderfully entertaining read with fantastic anecdotes about some of the most famous conductors and orchestras of all time.  Oh yeah, and some great stories about Graffman and his concert career.)

I've sat under a few of those "not-so-talented" batons, but not many (thank heavens). You can usually tell what you're going to get before the conductor even opens the score.  It's how they take to the stage.  How they approach the podium.  How they hold the stick (that communicates VOLUMES).  Some are humble, some are confident, some are arrogant - but these aren't necessarily the determining factors.  It's hard to explain.  Something just oozes out of their pores.  You can feel when you are in the presence of great musicianship and skill, sometimes despite the personality of the person.  You also know when they have absolutely no idea what they're doing. I imagine this is true in every profession.  But there's nothing more frustrating than watching the tip of that stick and wondering what the hell he's trying to say.  

What is your point, Nicole?  My point is that this is a universal phenomenon, not just a musical one.  Poor leadership ruins orchestras, companies, communities, churches, families...pick whatever institution you like, and the need for inspired, skilled, consistent leadership is paramount.  The trickle down effect of poor leadership is confusion, chaos, wasted time, demoralization, brokenness, and the eventual destruction of the "ensemble" and its mission.   Surviving poor leadership takes the most dedicated, most skilled, and most creative "ensemble" and an enormous amount of external support.  And after extended periods of time even these brave warriors could crumble.  Survival depends on a lot of things - you have to know who you're working with.  You have to know where you're going.  You HAVE to trust each other.  You have to believe in your "product".  You have to be willing to do what it takes - everything it takes - to fulfill your mission.  

But sometimes you have to channel your inner Kenny Rogers and "know when to run."  And run fast.  Drop your bow and go.  Leave the music on the stand and move on.  Because there are times when "surviving" a situation takes more than you have to give, or more than you really should give.  And let's face it - walking up to the conductor en masse and saying, "Maestro, put down your baton" is rarely an option unless you are the bravest of souls willing to gamble with commiting professional suicide for a cause worth sacrificing yourself for.    

Now THAT takes serious leadership.  

Hating the Rich

I knew it was coming. And the political season is ripe for it. So last week when the lectionary gave us James 2:1-17 (scroll down to read it) my prophecy was fulfilled. How we love to take scriptures out of context and use them for our own purposes! It's one of our favorite past times as Christians, it seems. Go ahead, everyone! Break out the popcorn, point to any scripture in the bible with your eyes closed, and tell everybody what it means without bothering to look at it in context or studying the culture of the time it was written or bothering to consult any theologian or biblical expert that knows more than you. Just do it. It's so easy. And then when you're done, don't forget to choose a nice ripe target to condemn with your new-found knowledge.

Ok, that was a little harsh, but you get my point. And I don't think it's that far from the truth in some cases. But my question is this:  if Christianity teaches us not to hate or judge others, why do we spend so much time hating and judging the rich?

It is not surprising that this passage from James is often abused, misinterpreted, and used to condemn. Condemning the rich is an epidemic in this country, which I daresay is some cases is born out of envy. James uses one of our favorite punching bags - the rich - to make a point about how we are supposed to treat each other. And as usual, pastors, politicians, and everyone else who felt their day had come took it to blame the rich for all the ills of society.

But you know what? Money isn't the problem. People are the problem. And people use money for their own selfish gain, just as they would use some other tool if it were at their disposal.

Rich people aren't evil. Well, some of them are. But so are some poor people, and I think in the end the evilness evens itself out. It's true that those "in power" have more "weapons" to use against others. But I know plenty of people without the weapon of money that have used their mouths and their ability to manipulate other people to hurt others without spending a dime. So, what's the greater sin?

That's an easy answer - there is no greater sin, but a missed opportunity. The opportunity to do something about an injustice rather than standing on a street corner outside some company headquarters telling everyone how evil your most hated CEO is. If someone has done something wrong and you have the proof, go report it and then go about your merry way. If we spent half the energy we use up complaining about the world doing something good for it, we'd all be in a much better place. Rich people have just as many problems as the rest of the world does - sometimes more, because of their wealth.  Their money is not going to help them when a loved one dies, or when they are in a state of spiritual weakness, or when their marriage is falling apart, or when their kid screams "I hate you!" right at their face.  Money may buy them more resources to deal with these things, but the pain is still the same.

We are all called to serve where we are. Including the rich. Imagine the good you could do with a million dollars in your bank account. I wish I was rich. I wish I could use my imagined great wealth to help my family pay their bills and fix their houses. I wish I could use my imagined great wealth to help my friends in times of need and unemployment. I wish I could write a big, fat check to help fund an industrious initiative to help the younger generation of today learn how to live with dignity and character.

If I had this wealth, would I want nice things for myself? Of course. Jesus never said it was wrong to have nice stuff. Or even a lot of nice stuff. He said it was wrong to value that stuff more than we valued God or each other. Jesus never told us that we all had to be destitute to be faithful. He taught us that we had to be willing to give away what we had to benefit others. And some of us have more to give than others - thanks be to God, because someone will benefit from that largess.

So quit bad mouthing those who have more than you. Because don't forget - if you live in this country, you ARE the rich person. Go be an example and do something good for someone else.


My brothers and sisters, do you with your acts of favoritism really believe in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ? For if a person with gold rings and in fine clothes comes into your assembly, and if a poor person in dirty clothes also comes in, and if you take notice of the one wearing the fine clothes and say, "Have a seat here, please," while to the one who is poor you say, "Stand there," or, "Sit at my feet," have you not made distinctions among yourselves, and become judges with evil thoughts? Listen, my beloved brothers and sisters. Has not God chosen the poor in the world to be rich in faith and to be heirs of the kingdom that he has promised to those who love him? But you have dishonored the poor. Is it not the rich who oppress you? Is it not they who drag you into court? Is it not they who blaspheme the excellent name that was invoked over you?

You do well if you really fulfill the royal law according to the scripture, "You shall love your neighbor as yourself." But if you show partiality, you commit sin and are convicted by the law as transgressors. For whoever keeps the whole law but fails in one point has become accountable for all of it. [For the one who said, "You shall not commit adultery," also said, "You shall not murder." Now if you do not commit adultery but if you murder, you have become a transgressor of the law. So speak and so act as those who are to be judged by the law of liberty. For judgment will be without mercy to anyone who has shown no mercy; mercy triumphs over judgment.

What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, "Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill," and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.        James 2:1-17

Finding Truth in the Terrifying Darkness

Play me!

Ah, Bartok...perfect middle of the night music.  If you want to be too afraid to walk down the dark hallway back to bed, that is.  Nighttime visions of sugar plums and fairies transform into ghoulish figures imposed upon scenes from Alfred Hitchcock movies.  Or Teletubbies...more on that later.  But this music is apropos to the subject matter below - you'll see.  You're listening to the first movement of Bartok's Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta.

I've always been a bit of a night owl. When I was young, I hated going to bed early because I thought I would miss something important. This carried through into my adulthood and until the invention of the DVR - praise Jesus - I would always find things to do around the house or some work that needs to be done just to have an excuse to stay up past 10 pm.

Staying up later usually means you are more tired when you finally go to bed, and that you are more likely to sleep through the night. Yeah. Go ahead and laugh, all my insomniac friends, because we all know that's the biggest lie around. Truth is, if you normally wake up about 3 hours after you fall asleep, it really doesn't matter if you go to bed sort of tired at 9:00 or REALLY tired at midnight. 3 hours later, the lights in your head come on. The only exception to this - for me, anyway - is exercise. I am usually guaranteed some sort of coma-like slumber if I have done my due diligence at the gym or working with the weights in the basement during the day. You'd think this guarantee would keep me disciplined...but alas, here I am at 2:51 am sitting at the table in the living room, waiting for my tea to steep in a mug I bought at the mid level of the Eiffel Tower because I was too chicken to go to the top by myself.  Hey - it was really windy.

There is, of course, an evil side to this. For me, waking up in the middle of the night is like being inside my own personal horror story. The random and irrational thoughts that go through my mind are quite possibly the most torturous moments of my life. I read somewhere that when you are sleeping, or semi-asleep, the part of your brain that controls rational thought gets turned off, or slows down, or something. I cling to this Internet Truth with all my might, lest I believe the disjointed impressions of my dreams and their residual thoughts. It must be truth because most mornings I wake up and say to myself, "What was your problem Nicole? Get a grip, girl." And I wonder if that's a microcosm (thank you, Bela Bartok, for making that an everyday word for musicians who actually bothered to study during that section of music history) for life. Problems seem to diminish in scale the farther we get away from them, and years after some trial we wonder - the new, stronger, more experienced self wonders - why we couldn't see the forest for the trees before we went stumbling into it. Everything always seems worse in the middle of terrifying darkness.

Tonight after lying in bed staring at the ceiling for about 2 hours, I turned to my Kindle for relief.  I read yesterday's newspaper - scintillating.  Then I turned to a book I downloaded after reading a post in a dear friend's blog - you can check that out here, if you'd like.  The post is about the trials of faith and uses examples from L.B. Cowman's Streams in the Desert - I recommend it highly.  This daily devotional was written by a woman who worked as a missionary in Japan and China in the early 1900's.  Her husband's health issues forced them back to the States where she cared for him until his death six years later. She wrote Streams in the Desert out of her incredible life experiences.  Tonight I read the entry for August 29 and then decided to leaf back through and catch some that I had missed.  It was a treasure trove of comfort and inspiration for thought, speedily guiding me away from the vicious cycle going through my head.  What captured me most was the following quote from the August 24 entry:

"Who has not known men and women who, when they arrive at seasons of gloom and solitude, put on strength and hopefulness like a robe?  You may imprison such folk where you please; but you shut up their treasure with them."  

Whoa.  This is a whole new world of possibility.  When life really sucks we tend to think that we are completely alone in whatever we are our suffering - that we have been stripped of everyone and everything that makes us who we are.  But in fact, the opposite is true - we are stripped of everything BUT who we are, and the people who love us enough to stick around even when we are being a jerk.  Just this past week I look around at all the "projects" I've undertaken in the past 5 months - patched plaster, painted walls, homemade curtains - and I shuddered at the thought that I had been gilding my own cell, my own barrier created to shut out a world of disappointment and seemingly predictable mediocrity. I was creating a haven from a somewhat self-imposed hell. But perhaps I was merely taking my "treasures" - my creative gifts, such as they are, at least, for plaster repair - and using them to dig a tunnel out of my own depression.  Is this all an unconscious effort to keep my creative juices flowing, to keep my mind dreaming of the potential around me, even if it was as practical as walls without holes?  Something to ponder...

But for now, it's 4:11 am, my tea is cold, and I can now smell yesterday's lunch wafting from the pots in the sink.  There's only one thing to ponder about that - back to bed.  

But first, back to the Teletubbies, because I'm sure most of you stopped that Bartok recording some time ago.  Hey - he's not for everybody.  The video below went around the internet a while back.  Check it out - it's only 1:42. After resisting the urge to correct his horrible grammar and spelling, I included below the quote from the creator of the video about a similar one he made: 

"The concept for this video was simple. The two creepiest things in the world are Arnold Schoenberg's Pierrot Lunair and Telletubbies. I simply combined them. The result is something more horrifying than you're wildest nightmares. Sleep well!!"

Rolling on over ekklesia...

Play Me!

You know, I've been ruminating for months now about writing more about the Church, liturgy, faith, etc. I've had scads and scads of ideas and thoughts swimming through my head, just waiting for the right impetus, the right bit of inspiration to bring it all into focus. I thought I found it in this article about the changes in the Title IV canons of the Episcopal Church last week. Today I thought I found it in this article article about a man who recently found his home in the Episcopal Church.  I've started a number of compositions in a number of different formats, and I've finally asked myself:

Why the hell am I bothering?

I love to write, and I find most times it's the best way for me to organize my thoughts into any cohesive format so others can understand.  Occasionally I seem to find topics others are interested in, but I think most of the time there are only a few souls who relate.  I'm cool with that.  But let's face it - if you are not in "the majority" or a part of the prevailing mindset in the Church you will be disregarded, ignored, or even professionally and socially persecuted for your views if you make a little too much "noise".  Doesn't even matter what your views are.  And I'm not picking on the Episcopalians, per se.  In many ways, most of the denominations function like the same, egotistical monolith - they've just painted the doors of their church a different color.  

But my question to myself is this - why do I continue to advocate for an institution that has caused me and the ones I love so much harm in the name of order and discipline without any attempt or thought to reconciliation afterwards?  Why do I continue to yearn for a community who leaves lost sheep behind in times of distress?  Why in the world would I tell someone else to take a chance on an institution that time and time again proves that their self-centered priorities will ALWAYS trump the needs of those who aren't interested in playing the game because they truly believe that THIS IS NOT A GAME?  

I used to think part of my vocation was to be a voice for the potential of the Church, despite whatever current manifestation it has taken here on earth.  I still believe there is incredible potential of ekklesia.  My faith is strong and I'm certainly not afraid to fight for what I believe in.  But the more I see the Church allowing itself to be ripped apart over issues like open communion, gender equality, sexuality, biblical legalism, baptism of infants vs. adults, gay marriage, ordination of women, virgin birth, the deity of Christ...pick your favorite reason for schism....I wonder if human beings really have the stomach for it.  And I'm not belittling the issues, just questioning the seemingly unavoidable schism that follows.  Is it impossible for you to love me - or even like me - if I do not stand for everything you stand for?  And after all, what do those things really matter if I as a member of a parish or congregation can disappear from your pews for weeks and no one calls to see if I'm dead or alive?  Or do we just "let the church roll on" like the old spiritual says?

Living in agreement is easy.  Keeping community in disagreement and strife is what real life is all about.  That is the challenge we are called to face every day.  Is there anyone left willing to take the risks and make the sacrifices to make it work?  Or are we going to go get our praise on where we feel the most comfortable, continue to keep shouting the party line, and "roll on" over those in our way?

New Year, New Beginnings

I love fall. There's just something different about the smell of the air, the light of the sun, and the sound of the breeze.  The dense aroma of summer humidity gives way to the light coolness of that first hint of the approach of winter. The glorious, yellow rays of hot sun somehow turn more golden - less harsh and more velvet. The wind wafting through the trees reveals the crisp sound of leaves giving up their final bit of green to give way to brilliant red, orange and yellow. I can wax poetic all day about fall, baby.

As a child, fall always meant a new school year, new classes, new clothes, new books - New You. A chance to reinvent yourself, a chance to refocus and refashion your dreams of who you want to be. Our stomachs are full of butterflies and our hearts are full of hopes as we take those first steps to the bus stop or the first steps on that long walk to school.  Our dreams are perfect and our happiness is untouchable.  The world is ours.  

But the rules of Playground Politics do not conform to such thoughts - in that reality, you are who your classmates ALLOW you to be. We've all experienced that truth in one way or another when we were just young chicks, I imagine. Breaking the mold of "geek" or "jock" or "nobody" is virtually impossible. You must conform to stay popular or risk the ridicule of being, well, you.  Or so it seems when you are a child or young adult with no control over your circumstances.

We like to think that as adults that idea of the New You applies at the start of a new project, a new job, etc.  But as the old Gershwin tune says, "it ain't necessarily so". You are who your coworkers/boss/family EXPECT you to be - are we not?  We are expected to be strong and endure, so we endeavor to do so.  We are expected to be smart and responsible, so we try our best to comply.  We are expected to be loving and compassionate, so we slap on a smile and do our thing.  And there are many times in our lives when we genuinely feel strong, smart, responsible, loving, compassionate, or whatever adjective best describes how people see us.  It is a natural part of who we are, and we gladly live in to it.  But there are also times when it's just too hard to be those things, but we feel we must try anyway for fear of losing ourselves, losing our lives to the schoolyard bullies who just won't leave us alone.  

But maybe that holding on to who we were - who we were expected to be - is holding us back from being the New You.  Maybe it's time to "be the tree", as we used joke about the goofy meditative practices of the 80's - time to let the old leaves fall, as beautiful as they were, and brace ourselves for the onslought of winter cold so that we can emerge ready to sprout new growth in the spring.  For there is always a spring in our future unless we choose to die in the winter frost.  Yes, it is a choice.  And when we don't have the strength to choose, we get help from the people who love us.  Or the people we pay to help us - whatever works best for you.

It's time to shop for a new book bag - it's not too late.  Let's look for some new folders in our favorite colors and throw away the same torn few that have been knocked around our locker for years.  Let's find our courage and walk past the pack of bullies blocking our way - because in the end, they really don't have a plan to deal with the person who simply ignores them or takes them on.  And if they come after us, we know our bff's will be standing by with a baseball bat, or something.  Well, maybe that's just my dream...but we can hold our heads high and walk to the bus stop full of butterflies.  And even if they've been temporarily trapped in someone's net, we can still fill our hearts with hope.  

"Stop the world, I want to get off..."

Stop the world 

I want to get off

This is too weird for me

Stop the world

I want to get off

I get the definite impression

That this isn't how it's meant to be

     No, no...

Too much undesignated time on your hands can be a very bad thing, especially if your mind is like mine and is constantly in motion. I've been thinking a lot about deep, philosophical things lately, like the meaning of life and our seemingly small, insignificant impact on the grand scheme of things. I know, I know - you're all saying, "Get a job, Nicole!" Surely, there are better ways to spend my time. And clearly, I need another martini.

But the more I look at the world - actually, let's take it a bit smaller - the more I look at the things that touch MY world, I wonder whether I really belong where I am. It seems everyday I look around and wonder to myself, "Who are all these Pod People, and when did they land on planet Earth?" It's harder to define myself as being part of a group or community, or simpatico with any wave of thought. Why do we need all these labels, anyway? For example:

I don't want to be called conservative, and I am most certainly not liberal. But if you live in the middle you may as well not exist because no one is listening to you.

I'd prefer not to be called African-American, but that will be ignored and people will call me what they want to call me no matter what I say. If you want to refer to the color of my skin calling me "black" seems a bit ridiculous, even after some rather aggressive summer tanning. I think "latte", or "light caramel" would be more appropriate. But why is any of that needed? Why can't you just call me Nicole?

There was a time when relished the thought of being called Episcopalian - those days are SO over. The combination of hypocrisy and apathy that completely overshadow the people who are actually doing good work in that church is more than a little bit dangerous, and I just can't jump onto this new, progressive, soft and fuzzy, more "spiritual" theology that they seem to be boring us to death with on Sunday mornings but yet sells like hotcakes off the virtual bookshelves of their most popular theologians and scholars. But perhaps living in this fishbowl called Ohio is more to blame for that than anything else. I still have a deep affinity for the Lutherans, but I don't like the direction their liturgy is taking and there are few Lutheran churches (at least in this area) who worship really well. And by that I mean the music, preaching, AND execution of the liturgy run like a well oiled machine, no matter what their "style". It just ain't happening, with few exceptions. Perhaps another fishbowl issue.

Organists are kind of like the second cousin, twice removed of the family of professional musicians. For some reason we seem to exist on a completely different plane of existence than our musical comrades, I think mostly because our professional lives have evolved so much around the Church, which in many cases seems to have no use for professional musicians or artists in general. They just get paid too much, you know. And if you're not really interested in church work, well, the organ world doesn't quite know what to do with you. Living for the sake of one's art isn't as common in this corner of the artistic sphere as one would think, besides the fact that you'd starve to death in a matter of weeks.

So, what's left? I still want to dream big dreams and be willing to risk it all for the sake of something extraordinary. There are few people out there on that road, and it gets incredibly lonely. I'd still like to believe that anything is possible if you are willing to do what it takes to make it happen. But it seems to many people are more concerned with being reasonable and practical. Ok, I get that - everyone has their own way of living. And sometimes life just beats all the life and energy out of you, and you just don't feel like you have anything left to risk. But I have never believed that a person's spirit can ever really run dry. Sometimes it needs a little assistance - friends, family, faith, therapy, gin, whatever - but there is always more. Sometimes we just get convinced - by ourselves or others - that it's simply not worth the effort. Or even worse, that we ourselves are simply not worth the effort. But that is NEVER true.

I do not want to live in this very "black and white" world that is emerging around us. I also have no love for some fuzzy, undefined, unfocused alternative. So I ask again - what's left? And why do I have to fit in your little boxes, anyway? It reminds me of the song from the opening credits of "Weeds". (For those who have never watched it - it's a racy but well written series about a young widow with 2 children living in an affluent neighborhood in California who starts selling weed to keep up her family's standard of living. Great show, but don't watch it with the kids). There's a fantastic claymation video featuring the song below.

When did we abandon the goal of living extraordinary lives in favor of "little boxes made of ticky tacky"? I don't want to be defined by the ridiculous labels and definitions given by modern society - do you? Let's bust out of this joint, as we used to say in the 80's. Let's create something new and different and live like we are on fire while we're doing it - you know, burning with passion, and all. Cause my little clay house just isn't big enough...

Little boxes on the hillside 

Little boxes made of ticky tacky 

Little boxes on the hillside 

Little boxes all the same

There's a pink one and a green one 

And a blue one and a yellow one 

And they're all made out of ticky tacky 

And they all look just the same 

And the people in the houses 

All went to the university 

Where they were put in boxes 

And they came out all the same 

And there's doctors and lawyers 

And business executives 

And they're all made out of ticky tacky 

And they all look just the same 

And they all play on the golf course 

And drink their martinis dry 

And they all have pretty children 

And the children go to school 

And the children go to summer camp 

And then to the university 

Where they are put in boxes 

And they come out all the same 

And the boys go into business 

And marry and raise a family 

In boxes made of ticky tacky 

And they all look just the same 

There's a pink one and a green one 

And a blue one and a yellow one 

And they're all made out of ticky tacky 

And they all look just the same.

Love? Yup. Honor? Definitely. Obey? Um...no.

Remember those words? It used to be the norm at American marriage ceremonies for the bride to vow to love, honor, and obey her impending spouse. You still see it in an occasional movie or two. Perhaps you used it in your wedding because you wanted to use the exact same service your parents did. Or, perhaps you are part of the growing movement (so it seems) in the country to return to more a "traditional" understanding of marriage. Hey, whatever floats your boat. If you ask The Hubby if I "obey" him, I'm sure you'll be treated to boisterous gales of uncontrollable laughter. We ask each other to do things, and even every once in a while imply that if a certain thing gets done, someone will be loved all the more (ha!). But I don't do the "honey do" list thing, cause he's not my employee or my slave, and he doesn't expect me to do any more for him than he does for me. And we certainly don't order each other around. I don't own him and he's not the boss of me.  So there.

But in real life, who do we really obey? We obey the laws of the country and state, as they are made to protect the citizens and keep order. (Insert snarky remark about legislation and legislators here). This seems reasonable. We obey the "laws" or regulations of our workplace because they ensure the smooth operation of the business or company. (Surely there's another snarky remark for that). Again, reasonable. But do you obey your boss? Probably, because it's understood as part of the hierarchy of the system. But does your contract or letter of agreement require you to obey? It probably says something like "is under the direction of", or "reports directly to". No company would DARE put the word obey in a legal document.  The general thought is that those who are more qualified/educated/experienced are the leaders, and those who are aspiring to be so follow, learn and contribute to the whole.  You know, for the betterment of everyone.

Let's move out of the public sector into the magical, mystical world of The Church. Few of the mainline denominations include the word "obey" in their wedding vows anymore, as we have "moved beyond" such antiquated ideas and language. (I KNOW someone has something to say about that). Many of these mainline denominations - especially the Lutherans, Episcopalians, and the United Church of Christ - seem to bend over backwards to "refine" their language to be more modern, more inclusive, more relevant. Everyone's included. Everyone's equal. Everyone's thoughts and opinions are of equal worth.  It's an equal opportunity community.

Well, unless you are clergy. Did you know that many clergy must take a vow of obedience at their ordination?  In many cases it's a vow to obey their bishop or elder or dean or whatever the direct supervisor is being called these days. I find this puzzling at best. Over the years it seems as if the church was moving away from a legalistic, hierarchical understanding of the faith. We follow Jesus' example and teachings.  We follow the Ten Commandments.  We promise to love and serve one another in love.  We are in a relationship with Christ.  Why then must clergy obey?  This seems less like a promise to be in community with one another - a promise to trust and respect the dignity of every human being - and more like an antiquated form of control.  If the catechism of said churches does not even require us to "obey" God and his commandments, why do the clergy have to obey a mere mortal who is capable (and does) make as many mistakes as everyone else?  Is the relationship of bishop/dean/superintendent to their clergy supposed to model our relationship with our pastor?  If I join a church, do I have to obey my pastor?  If clergy are "called" to the ministry, held to a higher standard, and trained and encouraged to model the behavior of Christ, then why require them to obey?

And what if you don't obey?  I'm not talking about breaking laws, but you know, differences of opinion.  Suppose you are chatting it up with The Bish about some cool new idea you have for your parish.  Let's say The Bish doesn't think the idea is all that cool, and says in no-so-many-words that he doesn't think you should do it.  But hey - you know your flock and what they are capable of.  He "suggests" you don't do it, but you do it anyway and it's fairly successful - not a home run, but a boon for the parish.  What happens?  I would imagine any good leader would consider it a win-win for the kingdom, even if they didn't like the idea, and would perhaps congratulate you on the success of the ministry and suggest ideas to help you improve it, or suggest you share the idea with other parishes.  But we all know that's not the way it always happens.  There are those in authority do not like to be challenged - especially in public - and The Church has its fair share of such individuals.  Often the "transgressor" is punished or "disciplined" in some fashion for their "disobedience".  How is this an example of living in a healthy community?  Is blanket obedience in the end more important than finding creative ways to help the community grow?

I would love some clergy interaction on this.  I have many clergy friends - many who don't take kindly to being told they have to "obey".  Why do you take this vow?  Do you really find it necessary to obey another human being to fulfill your ministry, or do you just do it because you have to?  Don't get me wrong - I love rules (when they're fair and reasonable).  They allow me to be creative and inventive, especially in finding ways to bend them when necessary.  And as one of four kids and a PK, we were experts at figuring out the rules so we could find a way around them.  You know, for fun.  But I'm curious to hear some "official" take on the matter.

Anyone up for the discussion?  Anyone?  Bueller?  Beuller?