by Leah Cameron
As witnessed through the Judeo-Christian tradition of lament, poetry and song give expression to the liminal spaces inhabited by suffering. The canon of lament in the Western tradition of music is itself a language whose aural/oral techniques are intrinsic to the expression of a wide range of emotions; yet, contemporary evangelical circles often limit the depth and scope of worship by veiling or altogether evading narratives of grief within their services. Parishioners navigate various levels and oscillations of sorrow and even desperation in their lives, but, for the most part, there appears to be very little space within contemporary evangelical church services to recognize and validate such emotions and experiences. However, as seen in many expressions of lament in the classics of Western poetry and music, such rudiments embedded in these artistic forms can provide a transcendent architecture that spans the tragic passages between life and death, hope and suffering, even offering a source of healing and transformation in the space of contemporary Evangelical worship services.
Scottish liturgical composer, John Bell, in his article, “The Lost Tradition of Lament,” bemoans the fact that “most chorus books . . . concentrate attention on the majesty of God and the exaltation of Jesus at the expense of dealing with Christ’s humanity, the expression of anger, doubt, bewilderment and sorrow, which inhabits a third of the Psalms, and the prophetic injunctions on matters of social justice”.[1] To varying extents, we all—churchgoers and non-churchgoers alike—suffer from alienation when our discourses neglect to make room for varied, even uncomfortable, locales. Fortunately, the Judeo-Christian tradition of lament and the act of creating or participating in poetry and music can cultivate a disposition of humility and attentiveness that may even embrace a condition of suffering.
Poet-professor Paul Mariani[2] offers that music is not merely sound, but also feeling: “music is desire, a giving over of oneself completely to a condition of being, rather than meaning” (emphasis mine).[3] Music invites participation on a fundamentally human level: body, mind, and soul. Such holistic, embodied,[4] and communal observance is invaluable when it comes to serving suffering congregants. By participating in the act of translating the seemingly inexpressible into music, grief and sorrow find their voice and even offer precious moments of transcendence.
As Theologian Kathleen O’Connor affirms, the lack of lament in contemporary Christian circles, and popular culture in general, denies us the language by which we can express and, perhaps, even learn from the enormous suffering of the world. Probing further, Old Testament scholar Claus Westermann adds that the absence of lament disables its grieving powers from fulfilling their function. Grief that might be expressed in the language of liturgy and sacrament is subverted, distorted and even perverted when eclipsed or suppressed by optimism and demands for the remediation of suffering. When we speak or sing from a place of routine (the usual song rotation), safety (in fear of stepping on toes), or obliviousness (“I’m happy, why aren’t you?”), we rob ourselves of authentic and hard-won joy, reconciliation, and hope.
Theologian Walter Brueggemann[5] observes that when lament ceases to be expressed in speech and faith—as he suggests it is in contemporary culture—the worship and theology reinforce the social status quo of health, wealth and prosperity as indicators of blessedness. If the petitioner is rendered voiceless or is only permitted to speak praise, this “celebrative, consenting silence does not square with reality . . . covenant minus lament is finally a practice of denial, cover-up, and pretense, which sanctions social control”.[6] The absence of lament in contemporary Evangelical services assumes that the current, often unjust, state of play is its own form of justice. Unfortunately, we often tacitly condone this form of injustice when the various avenues for the expression of grief are monopolized by soliloquies of praise.
If questions regarding injustice are not voiced, human suffering may be interpreted as Divine will, in which case, obedience is the only acceptable response. Such obedience is often masked as civility but, in reality, is often experienced as despair. Mourners lose agency and, thus, also lose hope. On this matter, O’Connor reasons “truth cannot exist if pain cannot speak, nor is worship truthful if pain must be excluded”.[7] Philosopher Theodor Adorno notes likewise the “need to let suffering speak is the condition of all truth” (qtd. in Linafelt 2000, 1-2). How can Christians faithfully minister to God’s people when their fundamental needs go unacknowledged or, worse, are belittled?[8]
However, if grief is appropriately voiced within the Evangelical church, Christians create the conditions in which such Christ-like characteristics as humility, vulnerability, and compassion are fostered, not repressed. Don Saliers, in his book Worship Come to Its Senses, notes that “when a congregation’s worship can speak honestly to the realities of life and connect these to the movements of grace between lament and praise, we will become truly relevant to the needs of others, and perhaps a more authentic evangel for those who do not know the love of God in Christ”.[9] In this scenario, the difficult experiences of people on the periphery become resources because they teach us to love our neighbor.
Approaching the matter from a very different lens, American philosopher and gender theorist, Judith Butler, offers a poignant assessment of the consequences of our current state of arbitrarily selective bereavement—what she labels a “hierarchy of grief.” Butler argues that the repression of certain emotions and experiences is not only unjust for the people it directly exploits—it also leads to many ontological, epistemological, and aesthetic implications that effect society as a whole. In other words, foundational assumptions about the nature of “the good/blessed/ordained life” impact the way in which these values are actualized in society, as one might expect. Therefore, if communities allow for a rich exploration of mourning, not only do they more accurately portray what it means to be human, they also offset the consequences of this imbalance and take significant steps in cultivating a just world. If we create space for lamentation, we weave threads of humility, justice, and truth into the fabric of our communities.
Despite the lack of a language of lament in many contemporary Evangelical churches, the Judeo-Christian tradition, nevertheless, has vast and rich resources for the expression of lament, most notably in the lamentation of the Hebrew scriptures, such as the Psalms and prophets.[10] Poetry and song give expression to the spaces inhabited by suffering. Liturgical Christian worship acknowledges and embraces suffering in its creeds and chants. For example, Biblical excerpts, especially from the Psalter, are foundational to the Common Book of Prayer and its descendants. One sees repeatedly in history that lamentation holds the power to motivate sufferers to envision, imagine, and act justly rather than becoming passive victims; O’Connor explains, “Laments are the beginning of action, a rejection of passivity, . . . [as such] they can invert despair”.[11] Through liturgy and traditions of lament, the mourner denounces the hierarchy of suppression and injustice by “naming” or “voicing” the truths of suffering.
Further, Hebrew theologian Gershom Scholem[12] argues, poetry is the closest human beings can get to adequately expressing lament. Scholem observes that, “every lament can be expressed as poetry, since its particular liminality between the linguistic realms, its tragic paradox, makes it so”.[13] For him, language itself must be transformed, even emptied, if it is to adequately express lament. This phenomenon occurs, for example, when metaphors eventually abandon their images so that new concepts can emerge.[14] For Scholem, poetry, like lament, embraces both language and silence, paradoxically articulating and annihilating human grief: “Of all symbolic languages, the language of mourning contains the deepest paradox, because its concreteness annihilates itself”.[15] According to Scholem, lament exists in both the realm of the revealed, or expressed, and the realm of the symbolized, or silent.[16] Because poetry participates in the dance between both the articulated and the unarticulated, it is a fitting medium for the expression of lament.
If poetry dances, with lament, “between the realm of the revealed, or expressed, and the realm of the symbolized, or silent,” how does music factor into this equation? Why is the medium of music particularly indispensable when it comes to voicing suffering? The cathartic power of listening to music—with or without lyrics—does not require that we understand its meaning in linguistic terms. This catharsis is immensely useful for someone who lacks the mental or emotional stamina to interact rationally and, more importantly, addresses aspects of ourselves that cannot be defined in rational terms alone. In addition, certain musical features give expression to our pain when other potential avenues for healing are unavailable and, in many ways, inadequate.
While many of music’s sonic, rhythmic, and structural principles are akin to spoken and written word, Irish writer Kevin Barry notes that its inherent “instability and dependence upon discontinuity [allow it the] capacity to express the movement and pattern of sensibility [outside of words]”.[17] This unique space affords the lamenter license to express and “name” his/her own narrative, and by extension, his/her intimate emotions, without being required to understand them. This is a great source of hope to those who are both wary and weary of explanations.
To continue this line of investigation, certain musical conventions[18] particularly suit the expression of lament. For example, chromatic intervals create a liminal space, as if the sound itself is suspended between tones. Accidentals challenge the boundaries of a “home key,” leaving the listener with an ambiguity that results from continuously shifting tonal centers. Such compositional choices can create a suspended continuum on which songs of lament are able to exhibit increasing tonal and rhythmic tension, often throughout an entire piece. Tonal dissonance may contribute to the experience of unease, even dread of the auditor. This sensation is often conveyed with long, lyrical lines that give voice to a relentlessly sorrowful soul. Vocal phrases are often melismatic, in which several notes are sung on one single syllable at a time.[19]
Songs of lament, especially in the Baroque period, at times employ basso ostinato, in which the bass voices or instruments repeat the same sequence of notes, over which other voices are heard. This “ground bass” may create the perception that, at a fundamental level, the same pattern supports the other voices, unceasing in its regimen of deep, daunting tones. A famous example of the device of ground bass is heard in “Dido’s Lament,” from the Baroque Opera, Dido and Aeneas. The chromatic fourth contributes to the woeful effect of the aria, making use of a “lament bass,” a Baroque Operatic convention. In songs of lament, the principal voice or instrument often rises in tessitura, gradually singing/playing higher in its register as the piece continues. The listener may experience increasing agitation and unrest as a result of the rise in tessitura; as the intensity increases and the pitch rises, the dramatic tension mounts.
“Word painting,” a technique in which the music imitates the literal meaning of the word, can also create dramatic mimesis in songs of lament. In “Dido’s Lament,” Henry Purcell paints descending chromatic lines on the words “darkness” and “death.” The words “remember me,” are presented in a syllabic text setting and repeated with their last presentation leaping in register with a sudden crescendo, signifying Dido’s urgent, desperate cry as she prepares for her fate: death. Songs of lament will sometimes return to the initial melody in its original register to conclude the sequence. This reprise reminds the listener of the initial disposition, in comparison with the departing resolution. The effect is oftentimes one of great pathos because the situation seems to remain static, despite the energy and emotion expended in its musical representation. Conversely, depending on the context, listeners may feel as though much has been accomplished, expiated or even redeemed, as a result of the process of mourning by means of music.
Models for the expression of lament need not be limited to the tradition of classical music or the canon of Western literature. With some direction, skill, and courage, they—and many other musical and poetic forms—can be available to contemporary worship leaders who tire of playing the same four chords. The goal is not to emulate the classical tradition but to expand the vocabulary, often limited, with which Evangelicals voice lament. Careful consideration of the effects of the fundamental components of instrumentation, melody, harmony, rhythm, and tone, to name a few key elements in question, as well as poetry and liturgy may allow leaders in contemporary Evangelical churches to creatively meet the needs of the church body and all those who might find rest there.
Theologian Nicholas Wolterstorff writes “to lament is to risk living with one’s deepest questions unanswered”.[20] Indeed, lament occurs in a space estranged from the comfort of certainty or the indifference of ignorance. Without inhabiting the darker, more challenging, places of life on earth, Evangelicals risk devaluing the Kingdom of God to an experience of a comfortable status quo that risks marginalizing those who suffer most. Thankfully, the uniquely transcendent categories embedded in poetry and music offer a platform for the expression of deeply alienating circumstances and emotions. Poetry inhabits a liminal space in which language and silence converge; here, mourners may express their lament in ways that transcend the limitations of purely denotative language. Music gives voice to the inarticulable sufferings of the soul, meeting—if only for a time—the intrinsic human need for emotional and spiritual expression and communion. If lamentation is denied or discouraged, the potential for compassion, true communion, and a profound picture of redemption is lost. Liturgy, and the important role of poetry and music within it, makes possible both individual and public lament that is a wise spiritual embrace for contemporary Evangelical worship services.
Notes
[1] John Bell, “The Lost Tradition of Lament” in Composing Music for Worship, edited by Stephen Darlington and Allan Kreider (Norwich: Canterbury Press, 2003), 110.
[2] Mariani reminds his readers that there can be no resurrection without death. In much the same way, there can be no hope without lament. Mariani references poet John Keats’ concept of “negative capability,” which emphasizes the ability of the individual to perceive, think, and operate beyond a prescribed “category” or “classification” of knowledge. He stresses the human capacity to experience and express phenomena outside of conventional epistemological boundaries. Taking his cue from Keats, Mariani advocates for kenosis as part of the process by which we may experience the revelation of God in place of our own rationales and understanding. For Mariani, the arts, more specifically, language and music, are perhaps the most significant ways in which we can participate in God’s hopes for and instrumentation of suffering, giving aesthetic voice to lament in kenotic ways. Indeed, the ingenuity, insight, and vision that is required of artists, especially those of faith, cultivates a disposition of humility and attentiveness in the face of suffering.
[3] Paul Mariani, God and the Imagination: on poets, poetry, and the ineffable (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2003), 60.
[4] It is not only music’s lack of denotation that renders it a unique medium for the expression of lament; music’s embodied nature, as well as its performative aesthetic, aids in the release of embodied, often alienating, suffering.
[5] Brueggemann examines the psychological and sociological function of the traditions of lament, ultimately arguing that it redistributes the dynamics of agency in the relationship between God and the mourner, allowing the mourner both receptivity and relinquishment in a willed movement toward God who validates human suffering. Drawing illustration from the Psalms, Brueggemann notes the stages of Israel’s lament, first in the articulation of pain, then the practice of submission, and, finally, the embrace of relinquishment.
[6] Walter Bruegemann, “The Costly Loss of Lament,” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 36 (1986): 60.
[7] Kathleen M. O’Connor, Lamentations and the Tears of the World (New York, NY: Orbis Books, 2002), 125.
[8] Theodor W Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, translated by Robert Hullot-Kentor (London, UK: Althone Press, 1997), 7.
[9] Don Saliers, Worship Come to Its Senses (Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press, 1996), 60.
[10] Jesus Himself gave deep and sometimes very public expression to sorrow and lament in his earthly life. In Matthew 23:37-39, He grieves profoundly and compassionately over the sins of Jerusalem; in John 11:35, He weeps over the death of Lazarus.
[11] O’Connor, 129.
[12] Scholem observes that when exile occurs within God Himself, it is followed by His creatively “externalizing acts of creation and revelation” (295); he argues that people mirror God’s model by cathartically expressing their grief by means of its aesthetic recreation. In this way, despair can be redirected, functioning as creative participation in the architectonics of bridge-building between death and resurrection.
[13] Gershom Scholem, “On Lament and Lamentation,” in Lament in Jewish Thought: Philosophical, Theological, and Literary Perspectives. Edited by Ilit Ferber and Paula Schwebel. Translated by Lina Barouch and Paula Schwebel (Berlin, Germany: Walter de Gruyter, 2014), 317.
[14] Language acts as the site for reciprocity, invoking hospitality in our understanding of God and His relationship to human suffering. It breaks the silence with its sacrament. Furthermore, literature creates a space that gives form to a dynamic exchange between participants, human and divine. Within this space, signs and symbols constitute a metaphoric world in the structure of narrative, wherein a dialectic of similarities and differences “draw disparate things together” (Siegel 351). In essence, the endless possibilities for associations between words and their referents (things) produce landscapes without boundaries. Sholem would argue that this is most clear in poetry. As such, poetry mirrors the process of creation in which authors metaphorize the primordial and the shapeless.
[15] Scholem, 315.
[16] Scholem, 314.
[17] Kevin Barry, Language, Music and The Sign (New York, NY: Cambridge UP, 1987), 57.
[18] For the purpose of this paper, I limit my scope to the Western tradition of both music and poetry.
[19] For example, the melody in Samuel Barber’s “Agnus Dei,” first presented by the soprano, begins on a long note and then undulates in even rhythm and diatonic steps, a melisma of two measures on the words “Agnus Dei,” creating precisely such a lamenting effect. All voices are annotated “with increasing intensity,” ending in long chords, marked at a fortissimo dynamic in extremely high registers for all parts. Indeed, the range in pitch in songs of lament is relatively extreme, conveying the dramatic range in emotions experienced by the lamenter, as well as the desperation that accompanies such extremes both in experience and in performance.
[20]Nicholas Wolterstorff, “If God is Good and Sovereign, Why Lament?” Calvin Theology Journal 36 (2001): 52.
Works Cited
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Barry, Kevin. Language, Music and The Sign. New York, NY: Cambridge UP, 1987.
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Brueggemann, Walter. “The Costly Loss of Lament.” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 36 (1986) 57-71.
Butler, Judith. Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence. New York, NY: Verso, 2004.
Mariani, Paul. God and the Imagination: on poets, poetry, and the ineffable. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2002.
O’Connor, Kathleen M. Lamentations and the Tears of the World. New York, NY: Orbis Books, 2002.
Saliers, Don. Worship Come to Its Sense. Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press, 1996.
Scholem, Gershom. “On Lament and Lamentation.” Lament in Jewish Thought: Philosophical, Theological, and Literary Perspectives, edited by Ilit Ferber and Paula Schwebel, translated by Lina Barouch and Paula Schwebel, 313-319. Berlin, Germany: Walter de Gruyter, 2014.
Siegel, Robert. “The Well at the World’s End: Poetry, Fantasy, and the Limits of the Expressible.” The Christian Imagination, edited by Leland Ryken, 343-356. Colorado Springs, CO: WaterBrook Press, 2002.
Westermann, Claus. “The Psalm of the Petition or Lament of the People and The Psalm of the Petition or Lament of the Individual.” Praise and Lament on the Psalms, translated by Keith R. Crim and Richard N. Soulen, 52-72. Atlanta, GA: John Knox Press, 1981.
Wolterstorff, Nicholas. “If God is Good and Sovereign, Why Lament?” Calvin Theology Journal 36 (2001) 42–52.
Leah Cameron is a Professor of English at Trinity Western University, and a lyric soprano, active as a soloist and instructor
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