Mass

My first cooperative venture with David Maslanka came as the result of hearing one of David’s performances in Geneseo, New York. Its sense of musical poetry made such an impression on me that I asked if he would be interested in composing a choral work using some of my poems. From a large manuscript he selected six that became A litany for courage and the seasons. It seemed to me that he caught the spirit of nature perfectly in these exquisite pieces, and the dilemma of the artist in the presence of the Creator.

After the adventure of working with David on Litany, I was looking for another opportunity to work with him on a larger piece. It was in the spring of 1992 that we began to consider a Mass. I had already sketched most of the verses of Hymn to Sophia, and with very few changes I was able to let them echo the shape of the Mass, beginning with a prelude before each of the major parts. I already knew that I wanted the poems to be about the feminine side of God to balance the predominantly masculine imagery of the Mass as it has come down to us. Critical to this stage was a letter I wrote to David in May 1992, answering his request for my personal thoughts about the Mass. In these program notes, excerpts from the letter have been marked “DM” to help the reader understand how our thoughts converged. As I look back on the years of gestation of this enormous work, it amazes me to realize that from the beginning David’s inspiration and mine were nearly identical.

The creation was not simply an act of masculine godhead, but was feminine as well. The notion of Sophia, Holy Wisdom, incorporates images of motherly nurturing. Her form is like the universe itself, round, whole, breastlike. And her face is the “look” of everything. In Western spiritual tradition, Mary, mother of Jesus, is very close to the meaning of Sophia, Holy Wisdom. Mary is the mother of God as well, and it is this principle of holy knowledge and spiritual courage that Mary represents which characterizes also the gift that Sophia holds for us. As Jacob Boehm has written, the Virgin Sophia is the soul’s mother, Divine Wisdom, or the Mirror of the Being of God. She is the Great Mother whose courage endures forever. The Hymn to Sophia begins with homage to this archetypal mother. The poem closes with the realization that our vision, our eyes, imbue us with a hunger for God, and a desire to participate in as much of the created universe as possible. As the Mass develops, there is increasing awareness of the power of God in creation, and our identification with it.

Kyrie

DM: The Mass is for me an outpouring of love for God, an unconditional surrender of the soul to the one who created all there is. And the Kyrie is the greeting for the coming of the Christ, who will bring us this salvation. It can be sad, joyous, and celebratory all at once, but it has in it the awareness that what is happening is the central truth of our existence, the irreducible ceremony in which we express our love for God and for each other. In the Kyrie I visualize Christ on the way to Jerusalem riding on an ass, and the people are wild with joy, that the savior has finally come. This is the justification for calling it The Great Thanksgiving.

Before The Gloria: “Quietly entering your presence”

Quietly entering your presence
I am opened by your silence.
Help me to love without holding back
Help me to surrender to your will.
I await your inspiriting touch.
I await life with you.

RB: “Quietly entering your presence” is the supplication of a hungry soul as it begins its journey toward wisdom-of the heart. With the realization of the hugeness of Creation come the inevitable feelings of personal inadequacy, and the knowledge that our self-interest has separated us from what we most desire. This song acknowledges the power of silence, the requirement of waiting, and the hope of deliverance from separation from God. The first hint of acceptance is here.

Gloria

DM: If the Kyrie is a hymn of Immanence, the Gloria is a hymn of Transcendence. To imagine this in images is finally impossible, but hearing the extravagant truth of the senses in musical form goes a long way to transport us to a place where the unimaginable can be implied. Through dance, through the rich texture of gamelan-like complexity of gongs and bells, and voices that howl in ecstasy at the limit of their range, the limitless God of the universe becomes palpable.

Before the Credo: “Bright Window“

Bright window, your night
Is full of stars
And the promise of morning.
Your light is like a strobe,
Longer in memory
Than in our eyes.
You are the white mask of honesty,
The face without shadow,
The noonday brightness,
The light in the window.

At your hearth I am no longer a stranger.

Mother, help me.
Infuse my heart
With joyful laughter
And call my name
From the unknown place
Behind every atom
Of the universe.

RB: The bright window is the appearance, the look, of the universe itself. This window gives us light, honesty, truth, and comfort. Last but not least, it gives us the certainty of being, and a name. I view this as a prayer of supplication, a reaching into the primal center for courage and faith. By claiming a home in the created universe we achieve our true self, our identity, and the name by which. God knows us. From this act of creative provenance comes the determination to affirm God in our lives, and the grace to make a statement of faith in the Credo. There is a solemn joy in the Credo which bears this out: we know that we have come to a turning point from which there will be no retreat. David and I have slightly different feelings about the Credo. While for both or us it is the turning point of the Mass, he, especially, appreciates its transformative spirit as it is modeled for us in the life, death, and resurrection of Christ. For David, the child image is the symbol that connects us with the transformed life.

Credo

DM: The Credo has always troubled me because it implies awareness that we must surrender our mind and our will to the creator who is above everything. So there is sternness, backbone, grating irony that what I am about to pronounce for myself – I believe – is the very thing that my ego despises. And yet the words come forth and I make my declaration with the whole creation present to hear me! In phrase after phrase the soul continues to surrender itself. Such is the implacable, ineradicable, inevitable drive of the Credo. It is always too long, but for the ego it is a good lesson.

Before The Sanctus: “Near the hermitage of my dreams”

Near the hermitage of my dreams
The mountain is covered with snow.
Goldenrod and wild aster
Fade to red osier dogwood.
There, in the fastness of ice,
I lie down upon your body
And you bring to birth in me
Indelible memories of home.
I become the child you meant me to be
In the beginning.

I know what it is to love
The mother behind the mask.
She is the one who waits
And refuses to wait.
She is the endless sound
of nebulae in bloom.

RB: The spiritual journey sometimes takes us to places of arctic loneliness, and the interior landscape, even when it becomes familiar to us, contains frightening ordeals. The Hermitage of My Dreams is such a place, where the novice soul surrenders to the creator. It is a collection of images of fall and winter, the earth-body in its time of sleep, where the Great Mother imparts her creative plan for the next phases of life. In a way, it is like a time reversal: I came to the conclusion that memories of childlike love of God are the original human state, and might be worth returning to. We learn to wait for Her, and only then does She show us Her Holy, unending creation.

Sanctus

DM: The Sanctus and Benedictus always produce in me the feeling of holy awe, and even terror. The profligate beauty of the universe has overcome the human heart, and now it sees its hope for salvation fulfilled in creation itself: It is another song of praise both for the creator of the universe, and the one who brings us that message, Christ. I believe it is inevitable to conclude that we become Christ for each other. There is joy and terror in that awareness.

Before The Benedictus: “Sophia, when you call me”

Sophia, when you call me
I feel like dying.
I feel the earth opening up
I feel the Pit coming to greet me.

Sophia, when you call me
I feel like grieving.
I feel my heart breaking.
I feel valves shutting forever.
I feel pools of blood
In my fingers and toes.

Sophia, when you call me
I feel the fear of night.
I feel beasts snarling
Beyond the firelight.

RB: The spiritual journey comes to a crisis in “Sophia, when you call me.” We wonder if surrendering is really going to free us from fear. We feel grief and the numbing terror of nonbeing. It is a song of doubt, in which we feel judged and inadequate. Nothing has prepared us for the transformation that is to come.

Benedictus

Before the Agnus Dei: “O Earth, O Stars”

O Earth, O Stars, who watch our pain and our joy,
Lift us up that we may see our Mother once again.
Together we live the only life there is
Music flows from our union.
When the universe expands and contracts,
It is the love we have for each other.
It is one breath.

Mother of womanly embrace,
Wrap us in the womb
Of your unending love.

RB: When resolution finally comes, it is a surprise that it comes through the original hunger of seeing, the craving that the poet thought separated him from God in the first place. In “O Earth, O Stars,” he asks for a vision of the universe to lift him to an appreciation of the greatness of the Mother. He realizes that union with the mother-soul is his journey’s destination. While this is not different from traditional conceptions of mystical union, it is expressed in a way which specifically emphasizes motherly love, the unending love of creation itself.

Agnus Dei

DM: This hymn is for me the ultimate expression of human wretchedness because it acknowledges that without the presence of the living God there is no hope. We do daily what separates us from God, and we do not even know that we are doing it. To approach a God of mercy seems, in my darkness, to be the greatest gift. If God will forgive my transgressions, I will be whole.

I think of the Agnus Dei as the ‘great prayer’ of the Mass. It is paralleled in my mind with Kyrie, and the Crucifixus from the Credo.

Before Dona Nobis Pacem: “I lay my sorrow down”

I lay my sorrow down
By the healing waters of life.
I open my wounds
to the love of God.
Come to me, Mother,
Any way you wish.
I am ready for your kiss,
Your fellowship,
And your healing grace.

Give me peace on earth
And after death
Your company among the stars.

RB: In “I lay my sorrow down,” the writer acknowledges union with his soul by opening himself to God. With it comes gratitude and peace.

Dona Nobis Pacem