Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Pied Beauty and its Purpose

I am only Clara Schwartz. I am not great. I am not powerful. I cannot change the present. I cannot undo the evils of the past. My influence for the future will be very small, touching perhaps only a few people, unpowerful people, like myself.

I have been told to accept the things I cannot change. But there have been, and still are, great evils in the world which I cannot accept--nor do I have the power to change them. How many of us really have the power to change anything?

Today an aunt of mine, if you will, wrote this response to something I said:

Clärchen, I think that's a great insight--rather than despairing that you can't change the past or pretending that the present is better than it is, you take something from the past and make it present--like music--perfect--because it doesn't "expire" when the age in which it was composed was over. I like that a lot.

According to my same aunt, there is a line in the Talmud which reads something like this: And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world. I have never saved a person. I have never saved a world. But I can save something, perhaps a piece of someone's world.

I cannot undo the evil of the Second World War. I wish that I could--if only I could! I cannot pretend that my present era is better than it is. But I can go back before those times, and I can find things which were good and true, and I can make them present again. If I can bring back one Lied, one poem, one idea, one little piece of music, one glimpse of a life--of one eccentric German Jewish Christian Hausfrau at her pianoforte writing music with too many notes, or of her brother the great Felix Mendelssohn playing Bach and Beethoven for Goethe at the poet's home in Weimar--then I have accomplished my goal.

Pied Beauty is not about living in the present, as everyone tells me I must do. Pied Beauty is not about living in the past, as everyone chides me for doing. Pied Beauty is about taking something good, and making it present once more.

In the world that is to come, we know that God will make all good things new. All that was ever good and true will be present once more, and all that was evil shall be no more.

But in this world? In this dark, broken time? I can only cling to a little piece of goodness and make it present for a few people, once more.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Time, Memory, and Eternity in "How Green was my Valley"

Time, Memory, and Eternity in “How Green was my Valley”

I cannot remember the first time that I saw “How Green was my Valley.” The story of the Morgan family seems to have always been present in my life.

I remember watching it with my Grandfather who, although German and not Welsh, remembers fondly the time when Germans and Welshmen lived peacefully together in his own valley in Pennsylvania, speaking their languages and singing their hymns, when now there is little left besides last names to indicate that these two great cultures once thrived there. My Grandfather would put anything Welsh on television to remind him of people he had known as a child.

And it is appropriate that my Grandfather should love this movie for this reason, for this is at the very heart of the story.

"I am packing my belongings in the shawl my mother used to wear when she went to the market. And I'm going from my valley. And this time I shall never return. I am leaving behind me 50 years of memory. Memory. Strange that the mind will forget so much of what only this moment has passed, and yet hold clear and bright the memory of what happened years ago -- of men and women long since dead. Yet who shall say what is real and what is not? Can I believe my friends all gone when their voices are a glory in my ears? No. And I will stand to say no and no again, for they remain a living truth within my mind.”

~Huw Morgan, from “How Green was my Valley”

At first this might seem to be naught but sentimentality, but in truth there is naught of sentimentality in it. Things that were are as real as the things that are, and that the goodness of the past is still real, even if it is no longer present to us. We live within time, but for God, who is eternal, all times are now. Why then should we ever presume to think that our now is more real than the now of a Welsh boy a hundred years before our time?

More than Nostalgia

When Huw Morgan closes his eyes on his valley “as it is now” and sees it again as it was when he was a child, he is looking from one reality to another reality. The now of this part of his childhood was a better time for the valley of Cwm Rhondda, and it is only by returning to this previous reality that he can show us, who were not part of it, how good it was, and it is only by knowing how good it was that we can truly understand how much was lost. 

I submit the unpopular idea that sometimes it is only through “escaping” into the past that we can truly see the present for what it is. Sometimes “escaping” into the past is not choosing the easy way. It is hard to look at a devastated valley. It is even harder to look at a devastated valley when you know how green it was before.






The Green Valley

Huw Morgan paints for us a picture of goodness: his beautiful valley; his father Gwilym Morgan, his mother Beth Morgan, and their good and happy marriage; his sister Anghared; his five grown brothers Ianto, Owen, Davy, young Gwilym, and Ivor; his sister-in-law Bronwyn; his new pastor Mr. Gruffydd; his chapel; and his home. The first major event of the story is the goodness of Ivor and Bronwyn’s wedding, presided over by Mr. Gruffydd, and with the congregation singing “Calon Lan” (“Pure of Heart”) for the wedding march.



Nostalgia, looking back on something fondly, is not a bad thing, but what we have here is something much deeper. Huw makes the story of his family present to us. Anyone from the Judeo-Christian tradition should know that we do not simply believe in things past, but that we believe in the presence of things “past,” such as the Passover and the death and resurrection of Christ. Why else would we have readings of the scriptures? As my pastor has often said, “Wherever two or more are gathered in the name of Christ, there is the upper room, there is Calvary, there is the Resurrection.” In the telling of all stories, something is made present to us.



As Huw tells the story of his family, many events are made present to us, and they are not all good. Many of them are bad--senselessly bad in some cases. There is a great deal of suffering in this story, but the goodness of the characters endures.






Goodness is in the Foreground

Most stories in our fallen world contain some degree of struggle between good and evil. This film won the Oscar for best picture, triumphing over Orson Wells’ movie “Citizen Cane,” which many people regard as the greatest movie ever made--in technical terms, that is. Yet “How Green was my Valley” surpasses “Citizen Cane” in its great humanity and in its transcendence. “Citizen Cane” is about an empty, dark life. There is no emptiness in the characters of “How Green was my Valley.” There is Gwilym Morgan, who is wise, and yet suspects no evil, because his main blindness is that he believes in the goodness of other men, and is willing to trust the mine owners. There is Beth Morgan, the kindhearted woman who goes through the snow and ice to the meeting of the miners to threaten any man who harms her husband, there are the same miners who rescue her
and little Huw and come and sing for her in the springtime when she is recovered. There is the noble, clear-minded pastor Mr. Gruffydd, who worked in a coal mine himself while being educated at Cardiff. Even the comic retired, half blind boxer Dai Bando becomes a hero at the end. The evil of the heartless mine owners, which through various ways destroys the lives of all these characters, is kept at the background of the story, and the goodness of the characters is at the foreground.

The Film

The movie was based on a very well-written novel of the same name by the Welsh author Richard Llewellyn.
The film moves very quickly to the heart of Richard Llewellyn’s book, often capturing in the medium of film the author’s ideas better than the author himself was able to do in the medium of literature, which is quite impressive, given that Richard Llewellyn was a master of making people and scenes come to life through the written word. The  medium of film makes use of narration, dialogue, images, and music, particularly the songs and hymns of the Welsh people, which are used throughout. In the wedding scene of Huw’s older brother Ivor and Bronwyn you can hear the congregation burst into song (in full harmony) as soon as the bride enters. Because the story follows the narration of Huw, it seems episodic at first, but actually each scene in the film builds toward the climax. Donald Crisp, the actor who plays Huw’s father Gwilym Morgan, and Sarah Allgood, the actress who plays his mother Beth Morgan, were very plain, ordinary looking people, cast for their great acting ability. The direction of the movie (done by John Ford) is flawless, but also completely unpretentious.

If you have never seen “How Green was my Valley,” I urge you to do so before you continue reading, because from this point on, I will be discussing the ending, which is one of the most unusual in film.


Who is for Gwilym Morgan?

I have already said that this is not a nostalgic or sentimental movie. By the end of the movie, Ivor Morgan has died in the mines, leaving Bronwyn a widow, the other four sons have been forced to leave the country in search of work, Anghared is caught in an unhappy marriage to the son of the mine owner, and Mr. Gruffydd must leave the valley, because of an untrue rumor that he and Anghared were going to run away together. As Mr. Gruffydd is preparing to leave, he gives Huw a pocket watch that his own father had given him when he became a minister. He tell Huw to keep it, because it marked time that they had spent together.

And then the siren from the mine sounds. All the villagers rush to the mine. Beth Morgan, Bronwyn, and Anghared ask for Gwilym Morgan, but he is not there. He is trapped in one of the lower levels.

“Who is for Gwilym Morgan?” asks Mr. Gruffydd. “I, for one,” replies Dai Bando, the half-blind retired boxer who was a half comic character until this point. It is Mr. Gruffydd, Dai Bando, and Huw who go deep down into the mine. Then you hear Huw call “Dada! Dada!” through the empty, partly filled with water tunnels. Huw finds his father barely alive, crushed under a rock, and after recognizing his son, Gwilym Morgan dies.

Eternity

After Gwilym Morgan dies, he appears to his wife in the presence of God. Before she even sees her husband’s dead body, Beth says, “He came to me just now, him and Ivor with him, and he spoke to me of the glory that he saw there.” It is not only in Huw’s memory that his father lives, but also in the presence of God.



The Beginning and the End

When the mine elevator is drawn up, we see Huw with his father’s body lying in his lap.



And then something happens which never happens in film. The story returns to the beginning, and we see Beth Morgan serving dinner to her family, Bronwyn entering the valley for the first time, Mr. Gruffydd with Huw, Anghared when she was a happy young girl, all five of Huw’s brothers, Ianto, Davy, Owen, young Gwilym, and Ivor, together, and finally Huw and his father coming over the ridge as they did in the beginning.



What does this mean? It means that goodness has triumphed, for the goodness of these people can never be undone. Its reality cannot be taken away by anything, not even by death.

Some day we know that there will be a new Heaven and a new earth, and that we shall live even more real in flesh as Huw’s father did to him in memory. Goodness will endure, all times shall be made now, and all things shall be made new.


Wednesday, June 18, 2014

The Wistful Lied, Kommen und Scheiden

The Wistful Lied

“Kommen und Scheiden” is a short poem by the under-rated German Romantic poet Nikolaus Lenau, friend of Wilhelm Hensel, and thus of Fanny Hensel and the Mendelssohn family. Lenau, like his contemporary Heinrich Heine, had suffered from an unhappy love affair, and often wrote poems of unrequited love. As Fanny Hensel grew older, she moved away from the bitter poetry of her long time acquaintance Heinrich Heine, and began instead to set the poems of her friend Nikolaus Lenau.



“Kommen und Scheiden” is only six lines long, but in six lines Lenau expresses the goodness of the presence of the speaker’s beloved, the meaningfulness of her speech, and his deep sense of loss at her departure.

Kommen und Scheiden

So oft sie kamm, erschien mir die Gestalt
So lieblich wie der erste Grün im Wald,

Und was sie sprach drang mir zum Herzen ein,
So lieblich wie der Frühlings erstes Lied ins Hein,

Und, als Lebwoll, sie winkte mit der Hand
War’s ob der letzte Jugendtraum mir Schwand.

Gestalt is a word which has no true equivalent in contemporary English. It means presence, not body and soul, but perhaps body-soul. It is the woman’s entire presence (not simply her outward appearance) which is as lovely as the first green in the wood. This suggests that the woman was a particularly lovely person. The second couplet furthers this idea by saying that whatever she spoke struck the speaker’s heart as being as lovely as the first song of spring in the meadow. This calls to mind a woman of great heart and intellect. It is only in the third couplet that the speaker tells us what went wrong. The woman waved Lebwoll (the German greeting given to a person whom you wish well, but whom you will probably never see again) with her hand. She did not betray him. The wave of the hand (as the Lied compiler John Glenn Patton noted) suggests that she was unaware of how much her presence had meant to the speaker. The speaker does not blame her, nor is he disillusioned by her, but with her departs, or rather disappears, his last dream of youth disappears as well.

When Fanny set this poem to music, she did so in a manner as subtle and unassuming and yet as poignant as the poem itself. The first couplet is set in a bright, sweet major key, and the melody, which is then echoed in the piano line, sways like the trees in a spring woodland. It brings to mind the joy that the woman’s presence gave to the singer.

The second couplet is still in the major key, but there are changes in the harmony and the melody (better explained by a music theorist, rather than by me) which make it poignant, like the words of the woman, and sweet, like the song in the meadow.

In the third couplet, Fanny changes the Lied to a minor key that expresses the extreme sense of loss which the singer undergoes at the departure of this remarkable woman. Lebwoll is flatted to underscore the singer’s sadness.

Fanny’s Lied paints a world filled with goodness, breaths life into the character of the woman filled with goodness, and mourns with the singer when he has lost the woman filled with goodness. Fanny, like her brother Felix and all of the Mendelssohn family, believed in the goodness of God’s creation and in the presence of God in His creation. Perhaps it was her belief in goodness that enabled her to grieve with the singer of this poem when he lost someone who was good.

At this point, Fanny is technically finished with Lenau’s poem, and a piano postlude is what the listener would expect, but instead of a piano postlude, Fanny repeats the last phrase of the poem, not in the sad sounding minor key, but in the original, bright happy major key, with the addition of a poignant sounding chord which Fanny imported from a different key.

The result is a wistful memory of the first, joyful part of the Lied. Fanny thus shed light upon something which was probably present in Lenau’s poem, but which could only be brought out by her subtle, sweet music: the fact that the joyful time was still good, even though it was past. Its goodness could not be undone by the passage of time.


Then in the very last measure, on the word schwand the piano line and the vocal line end at the exact same moment. On one last wistful note the entire Lied vanishes.


Sunday, February 16, 2014

Thoughts on Prayer

Thoughts on Prayer


One balmy summer Saturday evening, when my parents and I were standing outside church after mass in conversation with our Canadian pastor, we overheard my brother, who was still inside the church packing up his organ music books, talking.

“Is he talking to himself or talking to God?” asked our pastor, with his characteristic smile and quirky sense of humor.

“No,” replied my father, “I think he’s just talking to Liz.” Liz is the lady who locks up the church after the priest and parishioners leave.

Our pastor laughed, and said that he hoped that none of us were offended by this question, and we all assured him that we weren’t.

“Of course, with Davey you never know,” said my mother.

Conversing with God


The minister, Mr. Griffith, in How Green was my Valley tells young Huw Morgan that another word for prayer is “Good, clean, direct thinking.”



Many liturgical Christians may rebel at this, but let us ask ourselves, isn’t there good clean thinking in our liturgical prayers? One of the greatest Catholic thinkers of the 20th Century, J.R.R. Tolkien, also said that in many cases prayer was a matter of thinking.

From the Jews and from the German Christians whom they taught, I learned that man is, or should be, in a state of dialogue with the thous around him: with the Great Thou (God) and with his brethren, and even with other parts of creation, for, as the Jews also taught the German Christians, God is both transcendent Creation and is immanent within Creation.

We as Christians know that God is present in other people. It was through the teachings of the Jewish Philosopher Martin Buber that I came to understand how it is that by loving our neighbor, we love God. Our Lord said that the second commandment was like unto the first, and I believed it, but it was only through the teachings of the Jewish philosopher that I began to understand this teaching of Christ.

We live in constant dialogue with God, with neighbor, with creation. Perhaps this is what it means to pray without ceasing. If so, then one of the greatest practitioners of this prayer was a man who had received such little theological instruction that he was too embarrassed to make any theological statements, but who, when asked why he was the greatest composer of his time, answered, without bragging, “because I talk to God the most,” and that poorly catechized man was Ludwig van Beethoven.



Perhaps it is this awareness of God’s great presence is what prayer consists of. Perhaps, if we know that God is present always, then whether we are with fellow human beings or alone, whether we are doing dishes, at the piano, raising our voices in song, conversing, watching a silly (wholesome) TV show with our loved ones, reading, learning, teaching our children, working in the garden, doing laundry, mowing the lawn, listening to Beethoven, changing a tire, playing with the dog, walking through the woods, smelling the roses, or thinking in our own rooms, we can be, we should be, we are in dialogue with God. Yes, perhaps this is prayer without ceasing.

This state of dialogue with God and neighbor also brings more meaning to those times when we are called to formal prayer. Beethoven, in the picture above, was working on a mass setting, his Missa Solemnis, which he spent four entire years of his life writing. And yet the act of creation was also a prayer. Tolkien would have said so.

And it was the same Mr. Griffith who said to the newly recovered Huw, "and it will be the first duty of those new legs of yours to bring you to chapel next Sunday." And in taking Huw onto the flower-covered hill top in the spring, helping him to learn to walk again, and teaching him about prayer, Mr. Griffith was himself praying.




Thursday, January 2, 2014

The Christmas Rose

Est ist ein Ros entsprungen

Es ist ein Ros entsprungen
Aus einer Wurzel zart;
Als uns die Alten sungen,
Aus Jesse kamm die Art,
Und hat ein Blümlein bracht,
Mitten im kalten Winter,
Wohl zu der halben Nacht.

This Christmas carol and Stille Nacht are the best known and best loved of German carols. This verse was written first, dating from at least the 16th Century, and subsequent poets from different branches of Christianity have written additional verses to it, each poet writing a different hymn from the same root.

You can hear Bach's setting of the poem here, sung by the Ottawa Bach Choir: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dLysqqnCZQ

We have all sung the words of the first, original, verse so many times, but what do they mean?

The Ros symbolically is Mary, and the tender root from which she has sprung is the root of Jesse. Aus Jesse kamm die Art. The root from which Mary has sprung is also the root of Judaism, from which all of Christianity has sprung. And how did this come to pass? It came to pass because God chose to become man, and Mary, the rose who had sprung from the root of Jesse, chose to be the handmaiden of the Lord, and thus through the Holy Spirit brought forth the Blümlein, the little bud, which is the Christ Child.



The Christ Child, God incarnate, Savior of the Nations, of all the nations, is the little bud brought forth by Mary, who sprung from the tender root of Jesse.

German paper Christmas roses are symbols of Jesus, Mary, and the root of our Faith.


In Germany, for all these reasons, Christmas trees are often decorated with paper roses.