AND THE BEAT GOES ON ...

I had an experience yesterday which brought me up face to face not only with my mortality, but with my immortality. And yours, too...

The days' work having been finished, I was lurking through the virtual halls of the Facebook site. The Omnipotent FB Server had recommended that I friend a person, so I clicked on his photo to browse his profile. The words "Ephesus SDA Church" jumped out at me. I had installed an organ in the very same church. And we are talking ancient history here, folks. This was wayback in about 1975. Why, that makes me almost as old as god. Not as wise, though...

So I quickly recounted this connexion and hit Send. Within minutes, comes a return email from one Lawrence S. granting me the beneficience of Friend status (Hail! Omnipotent Server), and telling me how he as a 12 year old boy stood on the curb watching a crew unload his church's new pipe organ console.

Then it hit me. Hey, wait a minute. I am sitting at my desk with an email originating in year 2010 from a man in California recounting his exprience of watching ME unload an organ console on the streets of Harlem in the 1970s...well, who would'a thought...

Aside from a few prescient authors, who of us could have foretold, of a hot summer's day in 1975, that something called a computer would have become such a pervasive force in our individual lives less than 50 years hence, thereby assuring each of us our ubiquitous 15 minutes of fame whilst simultaneously confirming the fragility of those moments....

Has the Internet affected your life today? More than you know. More than any of us knows or could have imagined just a short 40 or so years ago...and in another galaxy far, far away...

Olivia

LOST LOVES

Alec Wyton once described the two professional certificates awarded by the American Guild of Organists as being the AAGO (Also a good organist) and the FAGO (Formerly a good organist)...

I never got that far. I was just a BPO (Basic Parish Organist)....

Likewise with flying little airplanes. If you are instrument rated you get to fly IFR (Instrument Flight Rules), and if not, you fly VFR (Visual Flight Rules)...

Again, I went back to the basics and flew SOP (Seat of Pants)...

I loved doing both things. Thy each had their moments...

There is little else like leading a large congregation in a familliar hymn, frantically grabbing for any stop or coupler that ain't already on and wishing for the miraculous appearance of a Chamade Trompette while the people are singing for all they are worth and threatening to sonically obliterate you...

There is not quite anything like sitting at the end of the runway, running the throttle up to its limit while you are standing on the brakes and the airplane is quivering like a wet spaniel. Then you pop the brakes, pull back on the yoke, and suddenly you are on your back going almost straight up at only 4 or 5 knots above your rated stall speed...

What a rush! Both give one a great FOP (Feeling of Power)...

I haven't played for a congregation nor flown an aircraft (unless you count riding in the back on Delta) in close to ten years. Mercifully, I don't remember the last time I did either, which is perhaps just as well...

In both cases, I had no choice because of my physical condition, but perhaps God was telling me it was time to move on before I crashed a perfectly good airplane or got fired for playing the hymns too fast...

I did learn something from both experiences: The trick to aging gracefully is to move on to other pursuits while they will still remark "So soon?"

Easter Blessings to y'all...

Olivia

A PLACE OF MAGIC . . .

"I am a graduate of Westminster Choir College in Princeton NJ."

I say that to people who ask me where I went to college with fierce pride, the sense of which is founded in a special community of people who have gone before and come after. The long red line... each of whom has heard the sound.

The first time I trod upon the bricks of the Quad, I heard it. It is that sussurrus of music which pervades the campus. It comes from the practise rooms, the classrooms, and the Playhouse. It comes from the Chapel in the wee hours of the morning. Little did I know then, that it would color my life almost continuously for four very short years. Little did I know that the memory of it would always be in the corner of my mind, coloring my entire life even to this day.

Westminster is not just a place; it is a state of mind. It is song and more song. You cant sing in a choir with other people every day for four years withut a special bond forming. That bond is exemplified in the tradition of singing the Peter Lutkin "Benediction" at the conclusion of Choir College events and concerts.

It has been said that when Greek meets Greek, they open a restaurant. Well, whenever WCC alum meets WCC alum, they sing the Lutkin. Or as the late Lee Hastings Bristol remarked, "The Lutkin is the closest thing the Choir College will ever have to a 'fight song'..."

It is arguably not the greatest piece of music in the world, and to others it may even seem a bit mawkish; but to a Choir College person it is very special. You learn it as a Freshman at the first meeting of the Chapel Choir. You sing it at every possible occasion during your time at the College. You teach it to the choirs of your student church. And finally, in the great fane of the Princeton University Chapel, after your friends have asked "Whom shall we send?" and you have answered "Here am I, Lord, send me", it is sung lovingly to you - a final Benediction until you meet again.

From time to time over the forty-plus years since that day in the "U Chapel" when the Lutkin was sung to me and the members of my graduating class, I have myself felt drawn to that magical few acres of ground we call the Choir College. When I heed that call, without fail I come away refreshed and hopeful, renewed in spirit. Yet I know that the time is coming - not too soon, I hope - when I will not be able to make that pilgrimage except in my mind.

The late General Douglas McArthur spoke of such a time to the assembled students of West Point, his beloved Alma Mater, and with a few emendations I quote:

"The shadows are lengthening for me. The twilight is here. My days of old have vanished - tone and tints. They have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their memory is one of wondrous beauty, watered by tears and coaxed and caressed by the smiles of yesterday. I listen then, but with thirsty ear, for the witching melody of faint anthems, of far voices united in song.

"In my dreams I hear again the crash of the Missa Solemnis, the rattle of Carmina Burana, the strange, mournful mutter of the Brahms Requiem. But in the evening of my memory I come back to Princeton. Always there echoes and re-echoes: 'The Lord bless you and keep you...'

"Someday I will sing that final Benediction with you. But I want you to know that when I cross the bar, my last conscious thoughts will be of the Choir, and the Choir, and the Choir.

THE GLOBAL IMPORTANCE OF BACH TODAY

This address was brought to my attention today, and I believe it cannot be reprinted too many times...

So please welcome one of my favorite journalists, Uwe Siemon-Netto.

**********

The Global Importance of Bach Today

(Opening presentation by Uwe Siemon-Netto at the "Bach in Today's Parish" conference, Concordia Theological Seminary, Fort Wayne, IN, November 2, 2009)

A few caveats are in order before I speak to you about the global significance of the music of Johann Sebastian Bach. I am not a musicologist, nor a musician; you'll hear from these eminent scholars and artists later. I am just a journalist, and as a journalist, I'll start with hometown news first -- before going global.

I was born in Leipzig, virtually in the shadow of the Thomaskirche. When I was four, my parents began taking me to the motet or cantata services in the Thomaskirche every Friday or Saturday. This might sound alien to present-day parents, Lutherans included, who do not introduce their kids to music saying that they were "too busy" for that and preferred to spend some "quality time" with their children, like munching hamburgers together.

I spent most of World War II in Leipzig. This is why a blend of two kinds of acoustical impressions has been resonating in my head ever since my childhood - the sound of bombs and sound of Bach.

Often the two dovetailed. Often an air raid followed a cantata service or an organ recital. Or an air raid interrupted a house concert in our home. It was during one of these weekly concerts that I was first introduced to the Art of the Fugue, to which I shall return several times this morning.

The first time I heard the Art of the Fugue, it was played by a string quartet in the music room of our downtown apartment, which was destroyed on Dec. 4, 1943. Two of the musicians were members of the Gewandhaus orchestra, and two were amateurs. In the middle of the performance the sirens howled, and we all rushed to the basement.

There is something else I must tell you about these extraordinary events. They suspended on a very private level the artificial division between Jew and non-New imposed on us by the Nazis. Often Jewish relatives or friends came out of hiding a night to perform Bach or Beethoven, Pachelbel or Pastorius with us before joining us in the air raid shelters or disappearing into the night.

From that the very moment I heard the Art of the Fugue at home, the opening bars of its Contrapunctus One returned to my inner ear virtually every day - while being bombed, while fleeing from Soviet-occupied Leipzig after the War, while sitting exams at school, while feeling lovesick or covering the Vietnam War as a reporter, while suffering from a writer's blocks.

Oh, I sang Lutheran hymns in my head too, and I still do, none more often than "Abide with me." But most of all I am fixated by these fugues! They order my mind and my soul.

In my prayers fugues join the hymns my grandmother sang into my ears during the air raids. And this has been so for nearly seventy years now.

But that's enough about me for the moment. Let's stay in Leipzig for a while longer, though, in Leipzig, cradle of the peaceful revolution that brought down the Berlin Wall exactly 20 years ago. Did you know that this monumental event in history has a strong Bach connection?

The protest movement that ultimately snowballed into the bloodless revolution of 1989 started with young Christians, and even though it developed into a mass movement involving more non-Christians than Christians, it was the Church that provided the umbrella for its growth.

Here is a significant bit of information you will rarely find in your media:

This protest movement had its roots in the popular anger over a barbaric act committed by the regime of East Germany's Communist leader Walter Ulbricht. Ulbricht was a former bordello bouncer.

On his orders, the Communists blew up Leipzig's graceful late-Gothic university church. It stood on Karl-Marx-Platz, formerly - and now again -- called Augustusplatz. Ulbricht, also a native Leipziger, had big plans for transforming this largest square in Germany into the biggest proletarian parade ground in Europe. In Ulbricht, a church had no business standing at such secular venue.

The university church, symbol of Leipzig's academic life, as murdered on May 30, 1968. Three weeks later, the Third International Bach competition took place in Leipzig. During its opening session in the Congress Hall of the Zoo, Aall the Communist bigwigs sat in the front rows, next to prominent personalities of the international Bach community.

Suddenly, invisible hands unrolled a yellow poster from the ceiling of this concert hall causing a gasp. The poster showed the outline of the murdered church, the year of its death --1968 - and the words, "Wir fordern Wiederaufbau" ("We demand Reconstruction").

This spectacular incident drew the attention of the world's musical elite to a Communist outrage. The authors of this demonstration were four young physicists, all Christians. One was eventually betrayed by a West German leftist to East Germany's secret police and sent to prison.

It was this stunning episode that ultimately spawned the resistance movement whose success in November of 1989 Germans are commemorating in these weeks.

I must still beg you to remain with me in Leipzig for a little longer for it is, after all, the capital of the global Bach community, the number one pilgrimage site for Bach lovers from all continents. Of the 850 students at Leipzig's Hochschule f=FCr Musik und Theater Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, Germany's oldest state conservatory, almost one quarter hails from Asia. Asians fill the pews of the Thomaskirche during its motet and cantata services.

Japanese in particular have been flocking to Leipzig even in Communist days. One of them was musicologist Keisuke Maruyama. He became a Christian by studying the impact of the weekday pericopes in the 18th-century Lutheran lectionary cycle on Bach's cantatas.

After he had finished his research he told my friend Rev. Johannes Richter, then the superintendent (regional bishop) of the half of Leipzig's Lutheran parishes: "It is not enough the read Christian texts. I want to be a Christian myself. Please baptize me."

When Richter told me this during one of my rare reporting stints to Leipzig, atheism was the state religion of East Germany. On the same occasion I interviewed the members of the Thomanerchor, whose director Bach had been from 1723 until his death in 1750.

Since the Reformation, the Thomanerchor has been a municipal institution, and so it was in Communist days. But under Communism, for the first time in the choir's history, no chaplain was allowed to provide pastoral care to these boys in their boarding school. For the previous 800 years, their predecessors received their instruction in the Christian faith in their dorms; now even table prayers were forbidden. To be catechized they had to go to a nearby church.

But when I asked several of these children whether they were believers they replied: "O yes, almost all of us are. You cannot really sing Bach without faith."

These two examples show that in an era of darkest atheism Bach worked as a missionary - to a scholar from far-away Asia, and to kids raised in a godless environment, and even a ranking Communist functionary.

I remember interviewing the director of the Leipzig Bach Institute of that period. He was a member of the Communist hierarchy. He told me that he could only be an atheist only as long as he did not have to listen to Bach. "It is strange, though, how quickly this changes when I hear Bach's music."

This now really does take me to the global significance of the music of Johann Sebastian Bach. I have made the fascinating discovery that whenever I write about Bach for the Atlantic Times, my regular client, these articles automatically appear in its sister paper, the Asia-Pacific Times.

Why should this be so? Because the editors of both publications know that Bach is one of the hottest topics in the Far East. You write about Bach in Germany or in France or in the United States, and Asians gobble it up - so much so that features like these sell advertising space more easily than many other topics.

My wife and I spend our summers in the Dordogne in southwestern France, where towns and villages are gradually restoring their Romanesque parish churches; there are about one thousand of them in the Dordogne alone. These sanctuaries are usually empty, largely for lack of priests. But this changes during the summer thanks to a concert series organized by Ton Koopman, the great Dutch organist and Bach performer, who owns a home there.

Then busloads of music lovers pour into the Dordogne from all over the world, Dutch, Belgians, Germans, Scandinavians, Japanese, Koreans, Chinese. A French count sleeps in a car parked immediately in front of ancient churches where the musicians store their ancient instruments. He protects those instruments literally with his own body against thieves and vandals.

French peasants devoid of musical education suddenly appear in their churches they and their ancestors had ignored for at least two centuries. Their children, until recently ignorant of any form of classical music now join choirs whipped into shape by Koopman, the star, and hitherto unknown instructors.

Wealthy Frenchmen like my friend Francis Vigne, a retired engineer, buy orphaned organs from the Netherlands and Germany and install them in these rural sanctuaries that had never held any instrument since they were built a millennium ago. Now slowly the locals, intrigued by their alien sounds, pop into these churches they had never seen from the inside. And more and more often do I hear them sigh: "All we need now is a pastor."

It is my impression, which I cannot substantiate with statistics, and for which I must beg you to trust my experienced journalist's nose, that all this is a manifestation of what many French call la grande soif pour Dieux or, more sophisticatedly, la soif pour la transcendence.

I claim that the music of Bach and his contemporaries lures the thirsty to a place where they will be refreshed -- to ancient edifices where they sit tightly packed on narrow benches, often without backrests, and listen to Koopman's Baroque ensemble, more and more and more every year - so much so that many copycats are now imitating Koopman's initiative.

When I see and hear all this I cannot help thinking with enormous sadness and anger of one big Lutheran church near St. Louis, which proudly proclaims: "Here you will never hear the music of Johann Sebastian Bach."

Well, let me tell you this: In southwestern France people might not fill the pews every Sunday but they have also not replaced the altars with sets of drums; they swing along not with praise bands but with Bach, Telemann and Pachelbel, Sch=FCtz, Schein and Scheidt. And I have noticed that when the concert season is well over, some of the churches, once so empty, remain packed.

Yes, I do believe that Bach is busily at work as an evangelist, to paraphrase Nathan Soderblom, the former archbishop of Uppsala in Sweden. I also share a similar view expressed by the late Arthur Peacocke, one of the most significant figures in the burgeoning dialogue between Faith and Science.

Peacocke, an Anglican canon and a noted biochemist, sounded much like Martin Luther who once described music as a tool of the Holy Spirit. He specifically made a point to which I am inclined to subscribe to heartily:

The Holy Spirit Himself dictated The Art of the Fugue into Bach's plume.

When I wrote this on my blog site I got into deep waters with Lutheran coreligionists who believe themselves to be more orthodox than I.

What infuriated them was not only my reference to the Holy Spirit's authorship of the Art of the Fugue, but even more so a story of mine describing how Glenn Gould's rendering of the Goldberg Variations, another very abstract work by Bach, had triggered the interest of Masashi Masuda from Hokkaido in northern Japan in Christianity.

Masuda told me on the telephone one day that he wanted to discover the source of this wonderful composition - and was guided to the Christian faith, thus supporting Arthur Peacocke's theory.

Masashi Masuda became a member of the Society of Jesus, and ultimately a professor of systematic theology at Sophia University, a Jesuit-owned school in Tokyo.

You cannot believe the furious electronic missives aimed at me across the internet in response to this report. "Sir, did you not know that the Holy Spirit only works through the Word?" one angry reader chided. I replied, "I thought we had learned in Systematics III that the Holy Spirit blew as he wished.

I apologized saying that I was unaware that the Third Person in the Trinity was under any obligation to study the Book of Concord before blowing? So now we know: The Holy Spirit has no right to use an abstract composition by Johann Sebastian Bach as a shoe ladle for the Word of God.

Another email correspondent seemed ready to burn me at the stake, if only this could be done in cyberspace, for implying in my Masashi Masuda story that the Holy Spirit might have guided this former non-believer to a denominationally incorrect target. "See? Now Siemon-Netto even asserts that Bach has driven this man to the Antichrist."

Rare in a journalist's life are such wonderful occasions when divine irony refutes absurdity with swift fury. On the very day I received this email a friend from Portland, Oregon, sent me this beautiful bit of news: She had a grandson, who used to be a godless lout. Then one day his father gave him a Glenn Could recording of Bach's Italian Concerto, another work without words.

A few months later, this young man surprised his father by playing the Italian Concerto on the father's piano, from memory. Until that point Dad had had no idea that this teenager even knew how to handle a piano.

Next, the boy informed his grandmother that he would now like to learn how to play the organ.

So from that day on he accompanied her every Sunday to her Lutheran church, and now he can play the organ and has become a Christian. I just copied this bit of her email to my angry interlocutor, self-righteously adding three of the first Latin words I had ever learned: "Quod erat demonstrandum."

As Prof. Robin Leaver told me this morning, Johann Olearius, the 17th-century German mathematician and librarian called the Holy Spirit "der grosse Kapellmeister" (literally, the great orchestra donductor). Again: Quod erat demonstrandum.

This leads me to a fascinating question others are probably more competent to answer than I:

How come that the most destructive and tasteless forms of music and the very best have an almost equal ability to transcend ethnic, cultural and geographic barriers while others don't.

How come you see people twitch to the same inane beat whether you are in Iceland or Okinawa, in Berlin or Bali? If Arthur Peacocke is right that the Holy Spirit disseminates Bach, what do you call the spirit that promulgates rap and Hip Hop but not, for example Schubert's lieder, on a global scale?

We might have to consult psychologists here, perhaps even physicians. After attending a genuine - not touristy - Voodoo seance in Haiti back in 1964 my wife told me that this experience had literally put a spell on her, mesmerized her, changed her physically at least as it was happening.

One physician said that this intense drumbeat actually changes your breathing or your heartbeat. I don't know about that. I was there too, and it did nothing for me. But like my wife, and evidently like huge audiences in Tokyo, I feel profoundly changed when listening to the Art of the Fugue or the final chorus of Bach's St. John's Passion.

There might well be some kind of spirit involved in Rap and Voodoo, in addition perhaps even to temporary biological and physiological transformations. Others might be more competent to opine on this.

But what about the Spirit who made sure that the Japanese with their entirely different musical background grasp the significance of the music of Johann Sebastian Bach, whereas most of us Westerners might find the traditional tunes of Japan charming, exotic, an alien delight, but not really overwhelming.

About ten years ago, I put this question in Tokyo to a couple of musicologists, whose names, I am ashamed to say, I have misplaced in my messy archives. They came up with the following theory that might in part explain the current Bach Boom in Japan and other parts of Asia for several decades now.

When Francis Xavier and other Jesuit and Franciscan missionaries landed in southern Japan in the mid-16th century, they brought with them Western-style church music, especially Gregorian chant, and the organ. In fact they built pipe organs from bamboo, and before the sixteenth century was out, some Japanese princes were so accomplished on the Queen of the Instruments that in the 1560s three of them toured European courts playing before kings and princes and before the Pope.

Christianity was eradicated in Japan in the early 17th century. Christians were crucified, burned at the stake, and scorched to death while hanging upside-down over cesspools.

But my Japanese interlocutors told me that while the Christian faith was wiped out, elements of Western music infiltrated Japanese folk song. This influence evidently remained strong enough to help Bach's music sweep Japan four centuries later.

I like this theory. I am sure Arthur Peacocke would have loved it. It comforted me in my perplexity throughout the last four years in St. Louis when I listened to Robert Bergt's spectacular Bach at the Sem performances, and found the huge Chapel of St. Timothy and St. Titus filled with white heads.

Most of these heads belonged to members of outside communities. I was grateful to see them there. But where were the seminarians in whose theological tradition the music of Johann Sebastian Bach played such a towering role? Where, for that matter, were most of the faculty members?

These concerts were recorded and then repeated over KFUO-FM, this marvelous gift by faithful German-American Lutherans to the larger St. Louis community, a jewel of the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod whose reputation is otherwise not really one of winsomeness.

Now this KFUO is being sold for an apple and an egg. The church body whose founder had linked music and the Holy Spirit so closely glibly jettisons one the Comforter's most splendid tools. Ladies and gentlemen, by all means grill me electronically for this outburst: This unfathomable act reminds me hauntingly of Walter Ulbricht's massacre of
our University Church in our mutual hometown of Leipzig in 1968.

I have been invited to talk to you about the Global Significance of the Music of Johann Sebastian Bach. You cannot do this without contemplating the Third Person of the Trinity, and I cannot help noticing that He is being mocked in our own family of faith.

Of course you can try to keep the Holy Spirit and his toys out of reality and replace them with kitsch. But be warned. The Holy Spirit will still blow as he wills, perhaps not on Founder's Way in St. Louis, but -- Japan and Korea, in once abandoned Romanesque churches in southwestern France, in the head of a formerly godless lout in Oregon -- and in my head, which keeps finding order and comfort thanks to Bach's incomplete masterpiece, the Art of the Fugue.


Uwe Siemon-Netto Ph.D., D.Litt.
Director
Center for Lutheran Theology & Public Life
Concordia University,
Old Administration Building, 312 A
1530 Concordia West
Irvine, CA 92612-3203

CONVERSATIONS WITH GOD 4

Hello all!

After a long absence...I'M BAAAAACK...

Well, the poop really hit the fan this week. I lost a big job, and my car died, and I overdrew my checking account...

So I did what every girl does: I spent a while during the wee hours running through the house screaming, lying in bed crying, and punching my pillow...which is far less painful than punching the walls...

And do you know what? It actually made me feel a lot better...

AS WELL IT SHOULD!

God almighty...

THE VERY ARTICLE...

I wish you wouldn't sneak up behind me...

I LOVE THE WAY YOU TWITCH WHEN I DO IT ...JUST LIKE MOSES...

Well, at least I didnt smash a bunch of stone tablets...

TRUE, YOU GET POINTS FOR THAT

BY THE BYE, HAVE YOU STOPPED TO NOTICE THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN WHAT GOES ON WHEN A GOOD THING HAPPENS TO YOU VERSUS A BAD THING?

Can't say that I have...so tell me...

YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO WORK THAT OUT FOR YOURSELF WITH FEAR AND TREMBLING - BUT OK...JUST THIS ONCE...

Ah, so you are a "just" God after all...

GROAN...THOSE POINTS? GONE!

IT'S SIMPLE, REALLY... A GOOD THING HAPPENS IN A FLASH, UNEXPECTEDLY...WITHOUT PRIOR WARNING...

Sort of like Ed McMahon knocking at your door to tell you that you have won the sweepstakes?

YES! AND I HAVE TO TELL YOU, OLD ST. PETER GOT SO EXCITED WHEN ED KNOCKED ON OUR DOOR...

I hope old Pete wasn't too let down...

A LITTLE, UNTIL ED STEPPED OVER THE THRESHOLD AND CALLED OUT "AND HEEEEEEEER'S ED!"... I DO A PRETTY GOOD IMITATION, DON'T YOU THINK?

Not bad...not bad at all...

ANYWAY, WHEN A BAD THING HAPPENS, IT STARTS OUT AS JUST A LITTLE TINY THING, JUST A SMIDGEN OF A THING REALLY, AND IT TAKES ITS SWEET OLD TIME AND HIDES IN THE SHADOWS AND YOU KNOW IT IS OUT THERE BUT CAN'T PUT YOUR FINGER ON IT, AND IT GETS BIGGER AND BIGGER AND AND BIGGER AND JUST AS YOU REALISE WHAT IS HAPPENING, ZOWEE!, IT EXPLODES ALL OVER YOU!

OMG! (oops, sorry...) You are right. Thats how it happens...

TELL YOU A SECRET...

Ok...tell all...

KEEP AN EYE OUT ALL THE TIME FOR LITTLE SMIDGENS LURKING IN THE SHADOWS AND DO SOMETHING ABOUT THEM BEFORE THEY HAVE A CHANCE TO GET ANY BIGGER...

Jesus H Christ! Too easy, can't do it... Is it really that simple?

YEP...THAT SIMPLE...

I'll have to work on that...

WITH FEAR AND TREMBLING?

Absolutely!

GOOD GIRL. YOU GOT YOUR POINTS BACK...

Thank you. By the way, what DOES the H in your Son's name stand for?

DARN IF I KNOW. HE WON'T TELL ME... AND I STILL CAN'T GET HARRY TRUMAN TO TELL ME WHAT THE S IN HIS NAME STANDS FOR...

Good night God...

GOOD NIGHT. I BLESS YOU...

*****

The god represented herein may or may not bear any resemblance to any other god, real or fictional, and the views presented here are those of the author alone, and should not be construed to represent those of any god living, dead, or immortal.

CONVERSATIONS WITH GOD PART 3

IN THE DOLDRUMS

*** *** *** *** ***

The Doldrums is the region of calm winds, centered slightly north of the equator and between the two belts of trade winds, which meet there and neutralize each other.

It is widely assumed that the phrase 'in the doldrums' is derived from the name of this region. Actually, it's the other way about. In the 19th century, 'doldrum' was a word meaning 'dullard; a dull or sluggish fellow' and this probably derived from 'dol', meaning 'dull' with its form taken from 'tantrum'. That is, as a tantrum was a fit of petulance and passion, a doldrum was a fit of sloth and dullness, or one who indulged in such.

The term was used to mean 'a general state of low spirits'

*** *** *** *** ***

I am definitely in the doldrums right now.

My College reunion is over...

The Spoleto Festuval has come and gone...

I feel as though I am about to expire of terminal ennui...which is itself a death worse than fate...

SO YOU THINK?

Jesus!

NO. HIS DAD.

Doesn't matter. I hate it when you sneak up on me...

(laughs) THAT'S A GOD'S PREROGATIVE...BUT YOU WERE SAYING...

I was just expressing my dismay at the way things seem to go in cycles...an up followed by a down...lots of excitement followed by horrible boredom...

SO LOOK AROUND YOU - I MADE A WORLD OF ALMOST LIMITLESS INTEREST AND YOU ARE BORED?

Hmmmm...

I CAN STIR UP A HURRICANE IF YOU WANT SOME EXCITEMENT...OR HOW ABOUT A NICE PLAGUE...

THat's quite all right. No need to put yourself to that much trouble...

THE WORLD IS THERE FOR YOU TO USE AND TO EXPLORE. I HAVE ALREADY DONE THAT...AND IT REALLY IS GOOD, IF I MAY SAY SO MYSELF.

But how do I get myself out of the doldrums?

YOU ROW FOR ALL YOU ARE WORTH...IT BEATS DEALING WITH THAT HURRICANE OVER THE HORIZON...SO WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

Now where did I put those oars...

*** *** *** *** ***

The God described herein may or may not bear any resemblance to any other God, real or fictional, and the views presented here are those of the author alone, and should not be construed to represent those of any God living, dead, or immortal.

THE NUTSHELL

When our class reunion was announced, it was suggested that we all send in a short autobiography of what we have done since 1969. After getting to Princeton, I sent my bio to my classmates. I repeat it here for you all.

*********

Greetings to all!

I thought it might be time to write to you before you hear "the news" from elsewhere... I have had a wonderful time in Princeton this week.

It cannot be forty years since we were students... I'm not that old. What? Neither are you? That's a relief...

Anyway. Here is what I have been doing...

After putting the Yearbook to bed in 1969, I lived with my parents for a short time and moved out before we seriously maimed each other. I did my job-hunting and ended up playing in an Episcopal Church on the weekends and working for the Hartman-Beaty Organ Company in Englewood, NJ. (Who?) By 1971, I was doing much of the technical design for their organs, and did most of the engineering work on a tracker organ they were building for Trinity Methodist in Charleston, SC. (Remember this!)

In 1970, I took the position of Director of Music at the Methodist Church in Leonia, NJ, and a year later, being very bold, not to mention having left the employ of H&B (who?), I offered to to rebuild their pipe organ, enlarging it from 17 to 44 ranks - not bad for an Opus 2! And it is still there and playing as I left it. I also founded the Second Sunday Concert Series, which continues to this day...

For the next five years, I worked with Allan Van Zoeren, a master voicer and tone finisher, and Tim Koelewijn, the master pipemaker who restored the pipes from the Schnitger organ at Zwolle, concurrently with selling Wicks organs, all of which gave me valuable experience as to what to do and what not to do tonally in an organ.

I met my to-be first wife, Edna, in 1977, and we were married in August of 1978. We honeymooned in - guess where - Charleston, SC. We attended services at Trinity Methodist, as I had never seen or heard the organ I engineered. Talking with a few local organists at lunch, I was strongly encouraged to move and set up shop there. So, we considered it, decided, moved there on our first anniversary, and the rest, as they say, is history.

I have built and rebuilt close to 35 organs since going South,including four IV-manual jobs, and in my spare time" have managed to compose more than 40 works for organ (including 2 organ symphonies in the style of Louis Vierne), various instruments, chorus, and Carillon. I am in the midst of completing my third art song cycle. I also got interested in aviation, and for a time owned and flew a Grumman AA5A "Cheetah" 4-place airplane. I was the second organbuilder in the world to have a website (Austin beat me by THREE DAYS!). And, I made the mistake of not evacuating on the morning of 22 September 1989 (my birthday) when Hurricane Hugo came to visit. Luckily no harm befell us even though there were 90-foot pine trees crashing down around our home in Mt. Pleasant.

But Hugo provided some benefits to us, and my First Great Moment occurred on 25 October 1992 when David Higgs dedicated, to an SRO audience, my new 72 rank pipe organ at First (Scots) Presbyterian Church in the heart of the Historic District. It is considered to be a worldclass concert instrument and is a major venue for the Spoleto Festival.

Then, in June of 1995, my Second Great Moments (sic) occurred with (1) in April, my winning Second Prize (there was no 1st prize awarded) in the Guild of Carilloneurs of North America's Composition Competition (say that 3 times very quickly..) with my piece "Cortege"; and, (2) in June, the premiere performance of my "Concerto in D for Organ, Strings, and Tympani", Op. 21, at First Scots with members of the Charleston Symphony Orchestra.

In 1998, I attended the Paris Congress of the International Society of Organbuilders.

Then, in 1999, my wife and I separated and divorced. I remarried within a year, and that marriage ended amicably after only a few years.

In 2004, I journeyed to France, and performed much of the work of restoring the Recit division of the historic 1895 Stoltz Freres organ in the Parish Church in Ligueil, which is near Tours.

My Third Great Moments (getting sic (sic) of this joke, arent you...) occurred (1) in 2006, when Dutch organist Arjen Leistra premiered my "Variations on 'Est Ce Mars'" as a part of his Koniginnetag (Queen's Birthday) Recital at the Hoflaankerk in Rotterdam, and (2) almost exactly one year later, in 2007, when I participated in the planning for that year's PipeDreams Tour of Organs in Holland. I authored the 90 page guide entitled: "The Netherlands: Crossroads of European Organbuilding", which included a fairly comprehensive essay on Dutch history, culture, and music. We visited more than 40 organs during the two week tour, and I accompanied the group as Organbuilder-in-Residence giving short talks I called "Organbuilder's Minutes" at the more interesting instruments.

The last Recital of the tour was held at the Hoflaankerk and performed by my friend Arjen, who was the tour's Organist-in-Residence, and it was only fitting that we conclude with the singing of a hymn. We sang, in English, "We Gather Together to Ask the Lord's Blessing", to the old Dutch tune "Kremser", which is familiar to you all. I wrote a new concluding verse, which I want to offer to you all.

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With organs resounding, our fanfares announcing,
The triumph of Jesus our Saviour and King.
The whole diapason gives gladsome intonation,
And through our music, Lord,
We witness of Thee.

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Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary 2009: diapason (n): etymology: dia through + pasōn,
genitive feminine plural of pas all (1) the entire compass of musical tones
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The Charleston Lawyers' Chorus (tm) sings an excerpt of the rock opera "Runaround, Sue" : "Permission is hereby granted any student, former student, graduate, friend, or whatever of Westminster Choir College to use the above hymn verse however they d___ well want, with a credit line being accorded the author, unless the Church Secretary says there isn't any room in the Bulletin... yeah, yeah, yeah..."

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In 1997, I began to experience the symptoms of Parkinson's Disease. I have been since then under the personal care of the former Chair of the Neurology Dept of MUSC, Dr. David Bachman, who specialises in PD and Alzheimers.

Today, after close to 15 years of life with PD, I am only a light 2 on a 1 - 5 scale of severity, which is somewhat unusual. Unfortunately, I can no longer fly nor can I reliably play the organ for worship, but otherwise, my Doc says I am a walking advertisement for the salutary effects of attitude on one's physical condition. I tremble at the thought...

The PD coincided with my increasing awareness of other factors in my life which I had been denying or at least repressing; so, gravely depressed, I went into intense counseling for a year, and ended up not only beginning to find my true self, but co-founding, in 2000, a support group to help others like myself here in the Charleston area.

I have had gender identity issues since I was a child, but I hid them from everyone including my parents and first wife...and from you, in another galaxy long ago and far, far away! But one can only sustain that sort of dualism only for so long...

As one gets older, one realises she no longer has more years left than she has already lived, and things take on new levels of priority. After much thought and prayer, I have been guided to the path which I must follow for whatever time I have left (lots, I hope).

Some of you have already met the "new" me in Princeton this week, I am well along in the process of affirming my true inner self. My new name is Olivia Margaret Ontko. I intend to continue in my life's work of designing and voicing pipe, digital, and hybrid organs, composing, and writing. (Can you believe it, I am writing a murder mystery which will involve Westminster and a chase up the NJ Turnpike?). If any of you want to know more, visit my support group website at http://www.transgender.org/CATS (yes, there are pictures and they are all G-rated...),

or - dont be shy - just ask me...there are no dumb questions...

My email address is now OliviaMargaret32@gmail.com and my personal blog may be found at http://OliviasArtifacts.blogspot.com/

I would be happy to see each and every one of you if you get to the Charleston SC area. I live on 3 acres in a little community northwest of Charleston, down a dirt road way out in the country.

How far out in the country?

There is no cable TV service available, which is no hardship as I haven't watched the telly in many years. I have to drive 2 miles towards town before my cell phone will work, which I do in my vintage 1988 Pontiac Fiero. But the internet and my landline phone work just fine thanks to AT&T and a bunch of signal boosters...

But... on a clear night in the middle of winter, there are so many stars visible from my front porch that you can almost read a large print book by their light; and the red fox trots softly across my front yard not three meters from where I stand; and you cannot hear any traffic noise except for my neighbor's rattly old Ford pickup making its way softly down the dirt road towards home...

That brings me up to date; thank you for reading this.

I have been richly blessed. God guide and bless y'all every one.

Allan / Olivia