Gory Devastation Before Glorious Resurrection: Three Musical Depictions

C. S. Lewis, one of the greatest Christian thinkers of the 20th century, transitioned from atheism to theism but laughed at the idea that we could ever “know” our Creator any more than Hamlet could “know” Shakespeare. It later occurred to him, however, that this might be possible if Shakespeare wrote himself into the story. If Creator came in the form of the Created perhaps the Created could know and be known. Infinity entering finitude, Word becoming flesh, perfect love and light taking on human form: that is the glorious truth that Christmas proclaims. And it is followed by the equally bold claim of Good Friday – that God shares in our suffering, that Christ, “who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing…and he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death - even death on a cross!” (Phil. 2:6-8, NIV) This reality comes as both sword and salve; it mends the broken and breaks the proud. That God participates in our suffering and invites us to participate in his suffering as doorway to abundant life in Christ – this is a paradoxical and profound reality that has fueled artistic creativity around the world for centuries. With that in mind, here are three recent works that explore the mysterious beauty, goodness, and truth of Holy Week. 

The first work featured today was written by the founder of Deus Ex Musica, Delvyn Case. His Tenebrae Factae Sunt (Latin: There was darkness), infuses familiar choral sighs associated with lamentation (descending half steps in the upper voices) with striking layer of dissonance reflective of the dark night in which Christ experienced abandonment. The listener is immersed in the terrors of the night through use of microtonal sounds, twisting harmony, and exclamations of the phrase, “Then Jesus cried out in a loud voice.” Collectively, this evokes the sound of wailing – both personal and corporate, a chilling reminder that the death of Christ, while reverently remembered by the devout, was certainly a horrifying affair. The work concludes with a long pitchless exhale (the “s” sound derived from the word “ghost”) representing Christ’s last breath from the cross.

The second work, one of my favorites, is James MacMillan’s Seven Last Words from the Cross. Above a tender string line, the words, “Father forgive them…” ascend – the painful prayer of the rejected one. The music swells and stutters underscoring the slow asphyxiation taking place, or perhaps reflective of the jeering crowds that witnessed his murder. Christ perseveres, offering himself and forgiveness to his enemies. MacMillan’s music pours forth in visceral evocations of penal execution and penitential response. It concludes quietly – the modal descants of the human voices are gone, along with the Celtic fiddle embellishments and post-tonal harmonies characteristic of MacMillan’s work, leaving only threadbare fragments of a musical sigh. In the subsequent silence, the listener is offered a moment to reflect and meditate.

A complete analysis of MacMillan’s multi-layered masterpiece would take much more space. Of The Seven Last Words of Christ, Kiss on Wood, Fourteen Little Pictures, Visitatio Sepulcri, The World’s Ransoming, St John and St. Luke Passions – only a few of his many Passion-related works – MacMillan says that he seems “to be going round and round the same three days of history.”[1] Centuries after Bach’s potent passions, MacMillan along with many composers around the world, is showing that Christ’s life, death, and resurrection can still be a relevant source for rich devotional and artistic expression. As theologian Jeremy Begbie says, MacMillan gives “voice to a vibrant hope, but never descends into sentimentality, never allows us to forget that God heals the world by descending into its darkest depths.”

The third work is my own. As I describe in the program notes, Into Bright Shadows, composed for flute, cello, and piano, presents three movements each exploring moments of existential awareness. The first movement opens with a mysterious tone: a repetitious cyclical piano part underscores the interjectory conversations of flute and cello music. In the center of the movement, this musical duet continues even after the piano stops, and continues as the piano re-enters playing its previous music backwards; some of the flute and cello music is also in retrograde, and some of it is new – a musical depiction of artistic creativity within the passing of time and the cyclical nature of history. As a meditation on the Incarnation – the ultimate depiction of a “bright shadow” – this movement’s sparse, somber atmosphere reflects the tone of lent and Good Friday.

The second movement is a simple modal chant-like melody over arpeggiating piano accompaniment, reminiscent of Arvo Pärt’s quiet, sorrowful music. It was my aim to musically recreate a “glimpse of the beauty of another world that awakened a yearning both for that world and for the experience of desiring that world” – perhaps like the one C.S. Lewis describes in his autobiographical Surprised by Joy. Similar to the location of Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday is that of silence and waiting. The tone of this movement moves toward hope and the bright awakening that is to come, the longed for resurrection.

Much like Easter Sunday, the third movement explodes with exuberant festivity. Elements of Latin American music, extended instrumental technique, singing, and driving rhythms propel this music, and it is this movement that is perhaps most akin to the chamber music of Haydn with its surprising exploration of deep joy, humor, and confidence as realities to be acknowledged and not simply as a coping mechanism for a bleak existence. It is this discovery of the possibility of an abundant inner life that I hope to convey throughout this work.

In the Christian narrative, the Author writes himself into our story and makes himself known to everyone who has “ears to hear, and eyes to see.” This appearance of a “bright shadow” is the Paradox that knocks at our door, the Melody that asks to be our cantus firmus – the Love by which all other loves are judged. As Lewis says, this story not only claims our “love and obedience, but also our wonder and delight,” for it is addressed “to the savage, the child, and the poet in each one of us.”[2]

Josh Rodriguez, co-director of Deus-ex-Musica

Assistant Professor of Music Theory & Composition at California Baptist University

If you are interested in contributing an article or would like to recommend a topic for exploration, please send an email to: josh.rodriguez.music@gmail.com

[1] MacMillan, “God, Theology and Music,” 19.

[2] Lewis, “Myth Became Fact,” 60.