There is something that will always be hysterical about a scene wherein a big burly-looking lumberjack dances his heart out to some version of today’s girly pop hits, be it Madonna or Sabrina Carpenter. At the root of our laughter is the same truth that makes time stand still when we put on some music to slow dance with our spouses for a few uninterrupted minutes. Music is a kind of clothing for what is profoundly yet invisibly expressed. It gives form to invisible reality. In the case of the lumberjack, we laugh because the manly lumberjack and Madonna’s “Vogue” are mismatched. In the case of the spouses, the music and the inexpressible moment are perfectly matched. And this seems as good a place as any for some comments on a theology of music, because if music can be thought of as a kind of clothing, then we should start by explaining that music has two jobs in the liturgy.
Music is for both expression and formation. The General Instruction of the Roman Missal (GIRM) follows the ancient saying “Lex orandi, Lex credendi,” essentially, the manner in which the Church prays and expresses itself (lex orandi), is a manifestation of what she actually believes (lex credendi). But as GIRM 2 points out, what the Church expresses can never be separated from her theological understanding. In other words, if music is a kind of clothing we put on in a given moment, the music that a community selects and sings has to tell the truth about what is actually happening in that moment. It has to tell the truth about what the Church has always believed. This is not just a question of making sure the words say “nice Jesus things,” but that the genre or style also do not conflict with the sacredness and mysticism of the liturgy. But how do parish musicians discern this? We start by asking important questions like: What exactly should the musicians be expressing? Does this particular form of music express what the Church has always believed? If the answer to the first question is something like “music is expressing the joy of the community,” it is already a sign that perhaps we are starting on the wrong foot.
Rather than being a celebration of the worshipping community, or a “work of the people,” as is sometimes expressed, each liturgy is an invitation by the Holy Trinity to participate in that one sacrifice of Jesus Christ which restores that grace which is lost to us because of our sin. In our midst is the very God who appeared on Sinai in clouds of thunder, whose voice alone created the cosmos, who is the fire of love unending. And that same God makes Himself vulnerable for us under the appearance of bread and wine. At every Mass, the priest places in our mouths He whom the angels cannot bear to see because of His glory. The Church has always believed this (lex credendi). But is the music we are choosing actually expressing (lex orandi) that reality?
One easy test case might be to point out inappropriate options where the lyrics might reference bread and wine or use Catholic sentimental language like “the table of the Lord,” but give no indication that those elements might be his body and blood or transubstantiated. These would be examples of inaccurate expressions of Catholic theology which could in no way form the soul correctly during Mass. But another case which might make us slightly more uncomfortable is to ask whether the form is acceptable. In other words, if what we believe is that the Crucifixion is being presented to us, that in viewing the elevated host, the veil between heaven and earth is momentarily broken, then what form of music could possibly clothe that moment? What music is dignified, mystical, sober, and heavenly enough for us to cry Agnus Dei, miserere nobis (Lamb of God, have mercy on us)? What genre of music is robust enough to express the Church’s sense of fear and trembling, that assurance that in the host is the crucified Lord whose love, not even the tomb could contain. If we take an honest assessment of what gets played on the average Sunday, two things become very clear. First, these kinds of questions don’t leave a great many options to choose from. Second, of the options that exist, very little of our music is up to the task of properly clothing our liturgies. There is no blame game necessary here. Most of the issue is really about the kind of music that has been made available in the last 50 years by publishing giants like Oregon Catholic Press (OCP) and Gregorian Institute of America (GIA).
But thinking theologically, if the role of liturgical music is to express orthodox Catholic belief in such a way that it forms the soul of the hearer to further belief, then it is the role of every choir to ask these important questions. Does this music sound like heaven? Does the Sanctus make me aware of the angels singing with us? Would I play this music at the Crucifixion before the lifeless body of God? Are our song choices for Communion promoting an awareness that we should approach the communion procession, as St. Ephrem says, “as though we are preparing to consume fire?” To ask these questions is to understand the Church’s theology of music.
While much more could be said with respect to the Church’s theology of music, the obvious pragmatic question would be: but how do we get the congregation to actively participate? And while this is good and necessary, it might be helpful to distinguish between what the Church does and does not mean by “active participation.” Doing this might help alleviate the anxiety that pastors and liturgical musicians might feel when their congregations are not singing at every moment with triumphal joy. In the next article we will continue to build the City of God and answer the question: “What does it mean for the congregation to actively participate?”
Ruben M. Gilbert is an Associate Director in the Diocesan Office of Divine Worship.