Do you have the time?

One of the weirdest things I learned during the pandemic was been the manipulation of duration for optimal engagement. Almost all of my newsletter articles were three paragraphs long. I would record songs to be released by the church’s social media that were more than three minutes but less than four. When I made musical sermon intros for online worship, they were generally somewhere between sixty and ninety seconds. There's a sweet spot somewhere between "just enough" and "too "much," but those two points can be excruciatingly close together.

Of course, that's something that we all know intuitively to one degree or another. No one is shocked to hear that Hey Jude and Bohemian Rhapsody were discouraged from being released as singles by their respective record labels. After all, both songs are well over the three-minute mark that I've spent the last sixteen months refining. When the TV show Scrubs first aired in 2001, the theme song I'm No Superman by Lazlo Bane played over the opening credits including a full verse and chorus to accompany scenes of the actors pantomiming doctory things. Eventually, that was distilled to just the chorus. By the series close, all that was heard was a jangly guitar chord and the final line of the song "...I'm no Superman" accompanied by a title-card that read "Created by Bill Lawrence."

It's hard to imagine that a culture that once rapturously sat through entire operas and symphonies now cannot be bothered to listen to a song that lasts any longer than the amount of time it takes to make a bag of microwave popcorn. The focus of our lives has shifted, though, from what others have to say to what we are willing to hear. And that has resulted in shorter songs, less dialogue (and more explosions) in movies, and even anxiety whenever a church service creeps over sixty minutes. But when we tailor our lives to our tastes, we miss out on the obvious truth that growth comes from discomfort. We broaden our horizons when we hear more. We become deeper, richer, and fuller when our timepieces tell us it is time to move on and we elect to stay and lend our attention anyway. 

… and the livin’ is easy

"Summertime and the livin' is easy..." at least that's what the song says; in reality, especially now, nothing seems easy. As the weather finally turns warm, I can feel myself becoming an odd Summery cocktail- mixed with equal parts want of interaction and need for constructive solitude. We're all just doing the best that we can. I will occasionally  fondly remember the days of going to Target without a strategy, a mask, or this pervasive albeit deserved anxiety that has consumed the world. The fish may indeed be jumping, and the cotton likely is high-- but living is in no way easy.

Of course, that's the point of the song. Gershwin's mournful melody and chords belie the words of Dubose Heyward (author of the original play Porgy upon which Gershwin's opera Porgy and Bess is based). Sung to a baby in the first act as a lullaby, the words are sweet, self-aware, and almost whimsical. "Your daddy's rich, and your ma is good looking..." However, after both parents perish in a hurricane in act two, the same song is sung again, but the words hit harder. "But till that morning, there's a nothing can harm you, with daddy and mama standing by..." And, though the story of this small, broken family isn't the central narrative of the opera, it underscores the broader narrative. I wouldn't say Porgy and Bess has an "ending" because nothing ever really gets resolved. It's a small window into the community of Catfish Row; we see things change, we see things progress, but nothing ever really gets better.  

... and that's precisely why I choose the music of the sanctuary rather than that of the opera house. Don't get me wrong, I love Gershwin; but as a Christian, I'd rather read the line "One of these mornings, you're gonna rise up singing" as a resurrection. In Act one when Clara sings the lyrics of Summertime to her baby, its an examination of life's ephemera and a resolve to cling to the moment. In Act three when Bess sings the same song to the newly orphaned child, it's an acknowledgement of change and a relinquishing of hope. But the church knows that seasons have always been temporary, and we've been promised that joy comes in the morning. Life isn't easy, but God is good.

I Mean… It’s Not My Favorite Piece, But…

What piece of art had the greatest effect on you? There are no wrong answers, I suppose-- only misinterpretations of the question. I very specifically did not ask you what your favorite piece of art was. I want you to really think about what you've found most evocative. There's a real distinction, and depending on the person answering the question it can be very subtle or as different as East is from West. 

For instance, the fifth symphony of Shostakovich, while brilliant and thrilling, is not meant to be enjoyed. While living under the rule of Stalin, Russian composers were forced to write nationalistic music; this particular symphony is meant to be completely over-the-top so as to be slyly satirical. Artists openly and bitterly wept at the premier. Shostakovich famously said he meant for it to feel as though the listener were being beaten with a stick and told "Your business is rejoicing!!"

For instance, the fifth symphony of Shostakovich, while brilliant and thrilling, is not meant to be enjoyed. While living under the rule of Stalin, Russian composers were forced to write nationalistic music; this particular symphony is meant to be completely over-the-top so as to be slyly satirical. Artists openly and bitterly wept at the premier. Shostakovich famously said he meant for it to feel as though the listener were being beaten with a stick and told "Your business is rejoicing!!"

The visual arts are replete with nay-sayers power-walking through installations chortling how "Anybody could paint that..." and otherwise completely missing the point. I would argue that in those instances, the curmudgeons themselves actually become part of the work by actively participating in the surface-level-only interpretation. That's seriously evocative. 

Personally, I nearly crashed my car the first time I listened to Allegri's Miserere. I wouldn't call it my favorite piece, but I don't listen to it while driving anymore. Likewise, Handel's Hallelujah isn't even in my top 20 choral settings, but it's one of the only ones I can't sing all the way through without choking up. It's got a raw power that is far greater than the sum of its parts.

I guess the point I'm trying to make is that viable art is more than happy or sad. It's all well and good during a slump to listen to music that cheers you up, but I hope that you also take the time to listen to music (or experience other art) that will help you feel the way you do feel-- because that feeling is valid.