This week saw the 10 year anniversary of the sudden death of organist John Scott.
I still remember where I was when a colleague telephoned with the news on August 12, 2015.
I met John Scott only briefly after an organ recital. He left us too soon, while at the height of his powers. I was then, and remain now, an avid listener to the webcasts from St. Thomas, New York. Though I never had the opportunity to see him work with a choir, I had the privilege to be a student of his musicianship in some small way through the sheer quantity of music and liturgy that eminated from that wonderful place through the internet (usually four Evensongs a week, and Choral Mass on Sunday).
Stephen Buzard, who was working as an assistant to John Scott at the time of his death, has shared a touching remembrance on Facebook:
I think about John often. His exquisite musicianship, deep churchmanship, and tireless dedication to his craft inspire me daily and shape how I approach my vocation. I am the musician I am today because of him.
We are fortunate that John Scott made many recordings during his lifetime. In recent years, the Hyperion record label has made their recordings accessbile via streaming platforms, and it has been a great joy to explore recordings of his — both organ and choral — I have never heard before. This week, I have delved back into the impressive catalog that is eight-CD "The English Anthem" series from St. Paul's Cathedral, London.
Scott was a musicians' musician, and endlessly adaptable. He sounded just at home on the massive organ of St. Paul's, London, as he does on the two-manual Taylor and Boody at St. Thomas.
12 Carols for Christmas, No. 11: The Infant King - Edgar Pettman
More often than not at Christmas, I find myself reaching for “Sing lullaby,” a modern carol text by Sabine Baring-Gould. If that name is familar to you, it may be because you know his carol “Gabriel’s Message” or, perhaps, his book on were-wolves.
The Director of Music of St. James Cathedral, Chicago, writes that this carol has become a regular feature of Christmas in that cathedral.
Particularly as Christmastide nears its end, it is fitting to look ahead to the whole of Jesus’ saving work, including his death and resurrection. This carol does that beautifully beginning in the second stanza.
The juxtaposition of the infant Jesus with his death is an affecting one. It appears in various places: the gift of myrrh at Epiphany, one elaborated in Peter Warlock’s carol, “Bethlehem Down”
Sing lullaby.
Lullaby baby, now reclining,
sing lullaby.
Hush, do not wake the infant King.
Angels are watching, stars are shining
over the place where He is lying:
sing lullaby.
Sing lullaby.
Lullaby baby, now a-sleeping,
sing lullaby.
Hush, do not wake the infant King.
Soon will come sorrow with the morning,
soon will come bitter grief and weeping:
sing lullaby.
Sing lullaby.
Lullaby baby, now a-dozing,
sing lullaby.
Hush, do not wake the infant King.
Soon comes the cross, the nails, the piercing,
then in the grave at last reposing:
sing lullaby.
Sing lullaby.
Lullaby, is the babe awaking?
Sing lullaby.
Hush, do not stir the infant King.
Dreaming of Easter, gladsome morning.
Conquering death, its bondage breaking:
sing lullaby.
I am more familiar with the Willcocks arrangement of this tune (as I suspect many of us are), but it’s very good to spend some time with the original, too.
Two years ago, I wrote about the "new worlds" sentiment found in two different hymns: new worlds - thousands of.
Frederick William Faber writes of "thousands / Of new worlds as great as this" in a stanza that has been cut from the Hymnal 1982.
And the midst of Robert Bridges's famous hymn gives us: "newborn worlds rise and adore"
But I had not realized how ancient the "many worlds" sentiment was in Christian liturgy.
Stephen Buzard, the director of the 2017 St. Louis Royal School of Church Music (RSCM) course drew our attention to a similar line in the Phos hilaron.
The Phos hilaron is truly ancient – the oldest known Christian hymn outside of the Bible.
While it's often rendered as "O gracious light," Lutheran theologian Marva Dawn loved to translate this literally: "O laughing light" or "O hilarious light".
The Phos hilaron was introduced to the Evening Prayer (Both Rite I and Rite II) with the 1979 Book of Common Prayer.
Here it is in the Rite I version:
O gracious Light,
pure brightness of the everliving Father in heaven,
O Jesus Christ, holy and blessed!
Now as we come to the setting of the sun,
and our eyes behold the vesper light,
we sing thy praises, O God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
Thou art worthy at all times to be praised by happy voices,
O Son of God, O Giver of life,
and to be glorified though all the worlds.
There it is again – right there in the very last line – the "many worlds" idea. The plural is deliberate.
This year is the 20th anniversary of St. Louis RSCM course, and a new setting of the Phos hilaron has been commissioned to honor the course's founders: Phillip Brunswick and Brother Vincent Ignatius, OSB. The composer is Gary Davison.
Yesterday, Mr. Buzard drew our attention to that last phrase of the Phos: "through all the worlds".
There is an exceptional, mystical way in which Gary Davison has set those words.
And so here we have it, the best of the Anglican choral tradition: an ancient Christian text in a brand new, beautiful, thoughtfully-composed setting.
The author of this website is an organist whom the New York Times calls “repeatedly, insisting that he pay for his subscription”.
He likes to read parking meters, music, Indianapolis Monthly, and weather forecasts in Celsius, particularly whilst wearing cassock and surplice.
He serves lasagna, overhand, as an example to many, and on ecclesiastical juries. He mixes salads, drinks, and metaphors. He takes photos, lots of dinner mints, and a little bit of time to get to know.
Stephen Buzard, the director of the 2017 St. Louis Royal School of Church Music (RSCM) course drew our attention to a similar line in the Phos hilaron.