music — Clayfire Curator

Waiting for Christmas

by W. Zachary Taylor | December 22, 2011

As we swiftly flow from Advent into Christmas, there is limited time for reflection on the worship of the last four weeks. The meetings to evaluate how things worked, how people were affected, and what kind of transformation occurred in our community will take place next month. But now, as I take down the elements of the waiting room, the memories and conversations are still alive in this place:

Shocked reactions of people being handed a birth announcement that reads, “Congratulations, you’re expecting!” The snarky comments of white-haired women were definitely more humorous than the glares and “I don’t think so!” responses from fathers of teenage daughters.
The pastor openly and adamantly declaring from the pulpit, “You know what I learned from watching a pot of water and waiting for it to boil? That I hate to wait! I want worship to start on time. Oh, that was brutal.”
People rolling their eyes at being invited into the worship space by number, and making comparisons with the DMV.
The guy who asked, “Next week, can we watch paint dry?”

Then, there are the conversations about having a new understanding of Advent, making connections to the worship we might practice during our everyday waits, and genuine gratitude for the time and thoughtfulness that went into planning and implementing it all.

Applying the philosophy of worship curation in our context led to Advent worship that was engaging, revelatory, and transformational. It gave talented, artistic people opportunities to participate in ways that did not exist here before. It strengthened our faith community and invited the neighborhood around us to join our waiting. It also gave the musical groups a better opportunity to prepare for Christmas.

You may remember from my first blog post, that Advent has not meant much to people in our community. Well, that was because, in previous years, the last three Sundays in Advent were filled with Christmas programs of some kind. Musical preparation for actual Christmas services then became an afterthought. We often would cherry-pick from the various musical numbers that we had done over the previous weeks and musically regurgitate them in our Christmas services. To me, that was fundamentally messed up, but that was the tradition. By curating Advent worship this year, Christmas worship is organically becoming unique and meaningful.

With fewer Christmas programs during Advent this year, our musical groups have created new arrangements of our favorite Christmas hymns/songs. Our Multimedia Arts team is working to bring the outside in by projecting a starry sky on the sanctuary ceiling. I am particularly excited about processing to the outdoor winter garden and placing Jesus in the nativity set as we sing “Silent Night” during our candlelight worship gathering.

Having waited patiently (and impatiently), we now flow into Christmas with hope, gratitude, and excitement for the arrival of the much-anticipated Savior.

How have your community’s Advent practices influenced your planned celebration of Christmas this year?

Image © W. Zachary Taylor

Categories: Curation

A Muddy Magic

by Mandy Smith | December 14, 2011

I’m not ashamed to say it: “I believed in Santa Claus.”

I still remember the Christmas Eve when I was six. On the way to a friend’s Christmas party, my Dad pointed up at lights in the sky, crying, “Santa’s sleigh! And the red light at the front must be Rudolph!” So we rolled down the car windows and listened for the roar of plane engines. But all we felt was the warm air of an Australian summer and the silence, surely, of a sleigh. I left the window down, resting my chin on it to watch the lights until they disappeared from sight, wondering if he’d already been to my house.

As adults we fondly remember those magical moments of childhood Christmas Eves. Every year for six, or even ten, years there was that one night when we could hardly sleep because we knew something extraordinary was at work, something beyond our comprehension, and when we woke, nothing would be the same again. A tiny bit of that breathless anticipation still hides in our hearts and we assume it’s just a faint memory of childhood. Mingled with that memory of magic is a small sadness that the lovely dream has ended. But maybe we still feel something because our adult selves know the greater, real-er wonder at work as the Almighty God, Creator of the Universe becomes Created. We tuck ourselves into bed on Christmas Eve with a sense that something beyond our imagination is about to break into our world and nothing will be the same again.

This is not a magic of tinsel and sugar but a more muddy magic. This is the earthy essence of Incarnation.

In explaining the philosophy of the non-profit organization Word Made Flesh, Rob O’Callaghan writes:

The Incarnation demonstrates God’s great commitment to all of humanity, to live among us and to die on our behalf. But Jesus’ very humanity means that God, ironically, has shown us by His own example how to be human. Our faith in Jesus includes a calling to be Christ-like, “to walk just as He walked” (1 John 2:6). This implies, among other things, a similar commitment to be with people, to be present, available to be used by God.

How can reflecting on the concept of Incarnation become an opportunity for service as we explore how God is also in our own bodies?

Poetry and Music seem fitting ways to evoke the mystery of unseen things.

Over the Rhine’s dreamy Christmas Album, The Darkest Night of the Year captures the ways adult hearts yearn for wonder.

Paul’s words from Philippians 2:5-11 have such a rhythm to them that readers over the centuries have wondered if he used an existing hymn or even penned the poetry himself. Because of this, the passage is often called The Christ Hymn and that rhythm still draws the reader into a place of reflection on the nature of Christ’s incarnation and humility. If you have a musically-gifted crowd (or a leader who is able to help worshipers compose on the spot), put this hymn to music in your own way. Try different translations of the scripture to find the one that has the best meter. Or have a reading of the hymn as poetry. Ask worshipers to write their own versions.

Lyrics like “Lord of Lords in human vesture” make the hymn, Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence perfect for an Incarnation-themed worship experience.

The Celtic song, Christ Child’s Lullaby, draws us into the mysteries as Mary might have experienced them with these lyrics: ”You are my God and helpless Son, High Ruler of Mankind.”

Which poetry or music brings to mind for you the mysteries of Christ’s incarnation?

Image: “Humbled Himself” © Mandy Smith (click image to enlarge)

Categories: Curation

On Not Making Safe Spaces

by Jodi-Renee Adams | October 20, 2011

“You should never be comfortable, man. Being comfortable fouled up a lot of musicians.” From the Gospel of Miles Davis. Okay, so actually it’s from an interview Miles gave in December 1969 to Les Tomkins for Crescendo magazine.

I’m a fan of Miles Davis. Don’t get me wrong; the guy could be a real piece of work and I don’t mean that in a kind or generous way. Regardless of how one may feel about his, um, personality, no one can argue that he influenced the world, changed music and even affected how people listened to music. Why? Because he was a better player? No, in fact he lost a few gigs in his early years because he couldn’t blow high and fast—the signs of a “skilled” player. Miles was so fascinating because of the risks he took in his playing and in his musical expression. He dared to do what wasn’t popular or easily accessible or expected. He was never content to be comfortable.

There is a difference between success as we tend to define that in our capitalist culture and an experience of deep enjoyment, creativity and a total involvement in life [which some might argue is the liminal space to spiritual transformation and divine encounter].

Psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi set out to unpack this difference in his book Flow. Ultimately, he’s coming at this from the perspective that finding true happiness and being completely alive calls us to take risks, to move outside our comfort zone, to find that thin place where we’re asked to do more than we think we could and stretch ourselves; but then, beautifully, through that goal comes other benefits of creativity, awareness, “consciousness,” and personal transformation. In all of his study, he constantly breaks down our conception that stability means monotonous, risk-less lives; that happiness is rooted in comfortability and passivity, or that we resign ourselves to what we know in the name of maturity, peace, or safety.

This is what we mean by optimal experience… Contrary to what we usually believe, moments like these, the best moments in our lives, are not the passive, receptive, relaxing time–although such experiences can also be enjoyable, if we have worked hard to attain them. The best moments usually occur when a person’s body or mind is stretched to its limits in a voluntary effort to accomplish something difficult and worthwhile. (Csikszentmihalyi, 3)

Risk-taking fosters participation. It improves physical and sensory skills while also developing symbolic skills. It leads to the discovery of new solutions. It fosters a mental and spiritual environment where meaning is created. But here’s the thing: it all depends on the risk and the goal.

Why are you taking a risk? What are you asking of yourself? Risk for risk’s sake is not going to lead to the same purposeful outcomes. In fact, one might argue that the habit of just simply being a “risk-taker” leads to a recklessness devoid of relationship and self-awareness. Think of people you know who like to be different just to be different, just to say that they’re “not like you.” What do they stand for? What do they accomplish? How do they shape their environment? I’m going to wager that it doesn’t happen in the same way as those who weigh the invitation of an invisible kingdom and take a leap for the sake of what might be. To do the latter is quite simply to walk in the footsteps of a risk-taking Christ.

This invitation always dances in front of us as the faithful, almost in the peripheral vision of our best intentions. The shadow side of human nature is drawn to the comfortable — not to be confused with the ritualistic or the practiced — and thinks that safety is what gives people the best chance to grow. What if your job as a worship curator or poet or hymn-writer or teacher or visual artist wasn’t to create a safe place, but to create a safe place to take the risk, to make the leap, to stretch? It’s risky, but try it. Reach inside it. See how it feels. Then create. Go.

Image © iStockphoto

Categories: Leadership

Locating Music and Expanding Our Musicality

by Guest Blogger | September 2, 2011

This post was written by Tracy Howe Wispelwey.

My friends in Burundi approached their local worship team and asked if they would start to incorporate traditional Burundi drumming and song into the music being used in liturgy. Burundi has a rich tradition of drumming and song. However, that expression never found its way into liturgy as colonialism physically overtook the great lakes region of East Africa and colonial ideology wove Western culture into Christianity. Moreover, indigenous and native cultural expression was systematically extinguished as the violence of colonialism permeated physically, culturally and spiritually. Now there are many who cringe to find the top ten CCLI songs being sung in a small village in East Africa, because it points to a continuing dominance of Western cultural export, as well as a decline of native expression and the stifling of promising, new and unique voices. There are many in Africa (and in the West) who long for a restoration of indigenous and unique expression throughout Christianity, but especially where colonialism perpetuated/s creativity’s destruction.

However, the young people in the worship band simply loved to play guitar. They countered that being pressured to use instruments and sounds they did not want to use would be to wield the same kind of colonial methods that the older generations lament. Many liturgists and pastors I know in the United States resonate with this – there is a desire to move beyond commodified music, to explore the depth of many different traditions of music and song in liturgy. Yet, there are also reasons a song becomes mass-produced – many might honestly cling to it, but that connection is incorrectly codified and distributed as normative for everyone. Is there a way to use and share music without letting our call to creativity atrophy in our communities?

I love global connectivity, and the fact that a song can travel like worldwide sonic wildfire these days. But something is wrong when there are just a few sonic fountains, or if current economic privilege allows a single culture to dominate the global distribution of worship and liturgical resources.

I offer two suggestions. First, we can locate our music and songs. To know the fullness of a person’s story deepens the testimony of her or his life. Can you culturally and historically locate all of the songs you use in worship gatherings? Can you give a song new depth by offering your community a reason for why it will be sung in your context? African-American spirituals continue to inspire myriad Christian traditions, and are enjoyed outside of faith communities in part because the songs evoke the strength, perseverance and hope of very specific people in a very specific place and time. Locating music reminds us that we are part of a global community and it connects us to legacy and history beyond our lifetimes. I also hope it reminds us of the power and longevity a song holds, and therefore the tremendous call and responsibility we possess to continue writing and creating!

Second, we can expand and enrich our musicality. I am both a songwriter and composer. The genre I work in is electroacoustic composition, which gathers field recordings (the sounds of life, a city, nature) and uses them like instruments in the composition of a particular piece. Recalling the young worship band in Burundi that wants to play the popular Christian music on guitars – what if we expand our musicality to include the sounds and textures of their community as well? Can we actively expand our musicality as a spiritual practice in our own spaces? Regardless of where we gather – Can we really know and listen to the songs we sing, the music we play, and then open our ears to the breath of our neighbors and the sounds of the cities in which we live?

Ultimately, we are listening for the Holy Spirit to reveal the fullness of beauty and life, and fully knowing and hearing our songs and music is often a great place we can start.

Tracy Howe Wispelwey’s creative identity is The Restoration Project under which she has released multiple albums and toured to many places. She is also founder of Restoration Village, a nonprofit that seeks to facilitate and nurture creative partnership, and a member of la Fraternidad Teológica Latinoamericana through which she is working with others to build a network of theologian-artists and liturgists resourcing communities of faith. She and her husband live in Cambridge, MA.

Like The Restoration Project on Facebook and follow Tracy on Twitter.

Categories: Leadership

How Big Is Your Musical Pond?

by Jodi-Renee Adams | September 1, 2011

I have ruined my children. Yep. My kids were nurtured in an auditory environment where much of what was being celebrated in popular music (Christian or otherwise) made me want to puncture my eardrums with the nearest dull object. Despite our best intentions, all the kids are musicians: bass for the eldest, alto sax for the middle, and violin for the youngest. They run their scales. They can spot a I-vi-ii-V progression. They know that dissonance is ridiculously awesome sometimes. These little people woodshed with the fundamental spiritual insight that the music is a force bigger than they are, a living place where their voice is really only made possible by the people that have come before them, a place where identity (and music) is only as meaningful as your ability to collaborate and make music with other people.

Their musicianship is the source of a lot of fun moments and a great source of mama-bear pride for me, but nothing compares to the lesson they’re constantly teaching me about the transformative power of artistic integrity and self-awareness.

Kids are the best representations of artistic integrity–which ultimately, isn’t about excellence or quality; it’s about honesty. Kids create out of their own desire to give something to the world, not just to “say something.” Their art comes directly out of their minds and imaginations because they don’t know how to be false. Their pleasure over what they’ve created, what their friends have created, is contagious. On the other hand, you’re not going to find my six-year-old’s art hanging in the MOMA exhibit next month. Kids get, without getting their feelings hurt, the idea that there is honest art and then there is skilled art.

And maybe, just maybe, you can be honest without being skilled, but in order to be culture-changing skilled, you’ve got to be honest.

When Christ said that the Kingdom of GOD belongs to those who are like children, I’m firmly convinced that this attitude of honesty and imagination is what he envisioned.

This is more than music, art, writing. There’s an intense, interdependent relationship between our own artistic integrity, our self-perception as artists, and our own willingness to be spiritually formed.

This became more and more apparent to me when I began worship coaching, working with church musicians during the week and heading off to my “professional” gigs later on in the week. At the church, I would often be one of the strongest musicians in the group, but on a gig, without question, I was often the weakest link and almost relished the opportunity to get shredded by people who were much better than I was. The skill differential that existed between the church musicians and the “pros” wasn’t what freaked me out as a newly-returned-to-the-church Christian: it was the attitude I got from so many of the church musicians I played with; an attitude that said they were the better musicians despite the fact that they had to capo to play in anything other than four or five keys, that all of the music was a carbon copy of a carbon copy of some song they heard on the radio. Not only could they not do it–they resented that I asked them to do it. I’ve got story after painful story about getting nasty comments and passive-aggressive attitudes from church musicians because what I asked of them musically was exposing–on many levels. And without exception, the most visibly irritated players all thought: They. Were. The. Stuff. Not outwardly, of course, and maybe not even very consciously because I truly doubt most people are that sinister, but to any outsider it was like a neon sign hanging around their neck. And yet they seemed completely unaware of their own musical inadequacies or disjointed self-perception. Or the connection between their own artistic process and their spiritual formation.

Big looming question: If you can’t confront your own music in a neutral and honest way, how can you confront the rest of yourself? If you can’t perceive the reality of your musical skills and voice in an objective, “we’re-all-on-a-journey” kind of way, how do you open yourself up to the disturbing beauty of personal and spiritual formation? If you need to keep the musical pond small so that you feel safe, how small do you have to keep your GOD?

So, how big is your pond?

Categories: Formation