Wednesday, June 27, 2012

For Christopher and Daryl: My Musical "Sons"


Most of my music aspirations have gone unfulfilled, and as many, I have made peace with my place in the music world, what I have accomplished, and what I am still able to do.  You will be spared the litany of mishaps and unfortunate occurrences.  On this day, 27 June 2012, I can only be grateful as I remember those of my musician relations who are no longer here to share their gifts to any degree at all.  And, as an old song begins, I’m still here.  


Having begun playing (or attempting to play?) piano around the age of six, five-plus decades later I am still trying.  In my school years I sang in school choirs, including while an applied music major at the University of Houston, and studied voice off and on privately because I had to teach my choirs and felt like the lessons would help me help them.  Yet, just a few years ago, I found a very large bucket in which to carry my alto voice; that bucket has proved itself to be serviceable, and said yes when occasionally asked to do solo work at my church.  My thought was that I ought to be safe at my church, if I’m to be safe anywhere.  (Of course, there is an exceptional group of folks that are the family of God called South Main Baptist – but that is for another time.)  By a series of incidents, a mixed bag of negative and positive, I was invited to join the Houston Ebony Opera Chorus.  This positive experience has brought me face to face with young, talented musicians, and I am blessed to get to know them, sing with them, and, hopefully, encourage them.  


Among those young ones, I met a tenor, Christopher Harris.  Mr. Harris later invited me to join his Houston Master Singers.  There I became more acquainted with him and his original compositions.  They continue to stir my heart and are new, fresh, exciting and uplifting each time my mind’s ear visits them.  


On this past Sunday, 24 June, Houston Ebony Music presented its annual Juneteenth concert at Riverside United Methodist Church here in Houston.  Our unique program featured works by local composers.  Two of the works performed were composed by Christopher Harris.  This long, lithe young man has depth and breadth of ability found in more seasoned musicians.  Faultless and I Am Loved are night and day.


Faultless, based on one of my favorite Biblical passages (Jude 24-25) starts with a quiet intensity that builds to a bright, glorious celebration of God, the Father and Son.  I like this passage from The Message:


And now to him who can keep you on your feet, standing tall in his bright presence, fresh and celebrating—to our one God, our only Savior, through Jesus Christ, our Master, be glory, majesty, strength, and rule before all time, and now, and to the end of all time. Yes.


Perhaps the reader will be more familiar with the King James version:


Now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy, To the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and ever. Amen.


Either way, these fine, fine Words that are rendered in three versions and hang on the wall just to the right of my front door, and Mr. Harris has set them perfectly to music that makes the heart swell to bursting. 


On the other hand I Am Loved is broad, sweeping, exciting, and, at times, joyfully overwhelming.  Taken from Sarah Teasdale’s poem, Mr. Harris again created the perfect music setting for these words:


I am wild, I will sing to the trees,
I will sing to the stars in the sky,
I love, I am loved, he is mine,
Now at last I can die!
I am sandaled with wind and with flame,
I have heart-fire and singing to give,
I can tread on the grass or the stars,
Now at last I can live!


When we sang Faultless, there was first a wave of murmuring from the audience, then applause and excited utterances.  When we sang I Am Loved, which ended the program, the applause was even more adnimated.  As I stood with the chorus, my heart swelled with such pride as he, and we, witnessed the audience’s appreciation; it could not have been more had he been my own son.  


And now, a little more than 24 hours ago, I sat near the center aisle in the 6th or 7th pew at Grace Presbyterian Church on Sam Houston Parkway near Westheimer, in Houston, Texas with a direct view of Daryl Robinson, a young man who is not so tall in height, but who is a giant among his immediate peers, those who play pipe organ, the wider circle of peers who are musicians, and the even wider circle of people who just like music well executed.  Perhaps there were folks in attendance who had never been exposed to the grand sound of a well-played pipe organ, or who had never had a live experience like that.  Bless their hearts; they were certainly in the right place!


Daryl played as diverse a program as I could ever imagine.  While each of the four works were wonderfully rendered, the third, Ettrick Banks by Judith Weir (b. 1954) was the most unusual.  It evoked scenes that I easily visualized, unfolding a story in my mind’s eye.  The fourth, Prelude and Fugue on B-A-C-H, S. 260 ii, by Franz Listz, was the most powerful, heart-felt and breath-taking – literally breath-taking.   At its end I found myself exhaling, right hand clutching my chest, and faced streaked with tears.


This is only a lame attempt at painting a word picture whose elements are unique combinations of sound – and quiet – that stir every aspect of the human psyche.  The problem is, either words -- or my vocabulary -- are simply inadequate.  Music is not to be spoken of, but to be listened to, to consume, to be consumed, and to enfold, caress, soothe, renew, restore and rejuvenate.  It can do all of that, and more.


Both Christopher and Daryl, while they have their specialties, are well-rounded musicians.  Christopher writes, has a resonant tenor voice and plays piano.  Daryl is as commanding with his choral conducting and pianistic abilities as he is sitting at the organ.  When speaking of either Christopher or Daryl, I often say to those who know Daryl,  Christopher is to composition what Daryl is to pipe organ; and when speaking to those who know Christopher, Daryl is to pipe organ what Christopher is to composition.  Nothing else need be said; this seems to cut to the chase and relieve me of trying to describe how phenomenal either of these young men are.  I always end, though, with, and he has such a great spirit.  Unlike other uber talented people, they walk with both feet on the ground, are approachable, gracious, pleasant and personable.  My prayer is that even as they soar to higher dimensions of their calling, they remain as human and grounded as they are now.  



Sunday, June 17, 2012

For My Brer on Father’s Day


Brer is my brother, John.  When we were kids he was overly fond of that very dark,  highly viscous fluid known as Brer Rabbit syrup.   That is why I call him Brer.  Sometimes we would run out of the “good” syrup and rather than suffer the agony of ingesting that thick stuff, I would do without the pancakes or waffles our mom had prepared.  From scratch (how else? ).   Anyway, this is not about my inclination toward thin syrup or my mother’s culinary wizardry; it is about my Brer.  And yes, it is Father’s Day.


For the record, I have written about fathers in prior blogs.  On 5 November 2008, I posted Real Dads of the Darker Nation – Part 1, and on 9 November, Remembering Daddy, writing of my father, who is still very much a part of me, though he died 44 years ago.  On 21 June 2009 I posted Real Dads of the Darker Nation – Part III, writing of men who become fathers to the children of another.  And on 24 February and 13 December 2010, and 8 December 2011 I posted writings about my Sweet Pea’s father, Charles Richards. 


Today, while thinking of my father, Charles, and my friends who assumed the role of father in the absence of fathers, I also think of my brother.  Somehow, Brer has morphed into the patriarch of our little Hoxie clan – not because he is the oldest surviving male – but because he has truly become just that.  Sons do not always assume responsible roles in the stead of their predecessors.  Samuel, the prophet, who anointed young David, son of Jesse and later to become king of Israel, had, to put it bluntly, lousy boys.  They were unfit to succeed their father in God’s work.  I am sure without much thought, you, the reader, can think of the mishandling of well established business by succeeding generations – some you may even know personally.  The deal is, all are not fit to walk the path or assume the responsibilities of their predecessors.  We Hoxies fared well in this regard.  Lewis and Lillie conceived and gave birth to John Chester.  As it turns out, that was a good thing.  


Brer is more than a brother; he is my earthly rock.  He gives wise counsel, listens as I verbalize my wildest thoughts – without judging, solves problems, and mediates disputes fairly (and, yes, mediators who help others resolve conflicts still have their own with which to contend).  He even understands my warped sense of humor (a major plus).


Brer is a father and grandfather of natural, adopted and blended-in children; he claims them all without distinction.  And for him, father is not just a label.  He reminds me a lot of our father with his stern exterior and kind heart – like Napoleons – that hard candy with the soft, chewy stuff inside.  He even looks like our father, a little slight on the vertical side, large eyes, strong jaw, and everything else.  Brer has shown me decades of stability and dependability.  On top of all that, he is a really, really smart guy.  And to beat all of that, he knows the Word from cover to cover, and will remind me, quoting book, chapter and verse, when appropriate. 


Weird – perhaps Brer is also psychic.  He just called with an early birthday greeting, and to invite me to lunch tomorrow.  Is he peering over my shoulder?  Spooky.  :)


None of this is to say Brer is perfect (there is none perfect but Jesus, the Christ), or even good (there is none good except God my Heavenly Father). Brer’s got his little idiosyncracies and warts; still, for a sentient  being who puts his pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us, Brer is pretty much the cream of the crop.  It is good to have a brother who not only shares the same blood, but shares himself.  Like Lewis Hoxie, a real father of the darker nation, so goes his son, my brother, John.  





Saturday, June 2, 2012

For T: Soli Deo Gloria

What an absolutely wonderful weekend this is turning out to be -- wonderful and heartwrenching.  This weekend, in my church family, is all about T.  


This weekend we celebrate Thomas Coker's 25 years in ministry at South Main Baptist Church and 50 years in ministry.  That is the wonderfulness of it all.  Then he retires.  That is the heartwrenching part.  


The celebration has been true to South Main's longstanding tradition of doing things well, in excellence, decently  and in order.  Earlier this afternoon we had a concert featuring just about all of our music ministry, and including participation by returning "alumni."  What a joyous time we had.  The music in all respects was top notch, from our kindergarten group to, well, our more seasoned members.  


Let's digress for a moment, for just a little "TC" background:  Thomas has pursued an excellence in music at South Main Baptist that sets our music ministry apart from what people normally expect of a church choir.  We have done (and done well) sacred works like King David, Elijah, Messiah, Requiem (Brahms & Rutter), Mass in G (V. Williams) and more; and we have done (and, again, done well) Broadway shows, including Hello Dolly, The Wizard of Oz, Man of LaMancha, Into the Woods, and even more.  It is difficult for someone who thinks she has a decently-rounded background to be hit in the face with "stuff I've never even thought about doing."  He has had to drag this writer out of her box, sometimes kicking and screaming.  Often inwardly questioning his song selection, she was reminded of telling the choirs she directed, It's not about what you want or even like, it's about helping worshipers make a connection to God, reinforcing the theme of worship through music.  Being whipped by the sermon she had so often preached to others, she had to swallow hard, dig in, and yield to T's directions.  In learning that song, whichever one, she learned to love what she had previously professed to loathe.


Near the end of the concert, Pastor Steve Wells asked us to show our appreciation for Thomas, and there erupted a standing ovation like none I had ever witnessed!  Thomas, in the style of a true minister, would not, could not take a bow.  Obviously moved by this outpouring of  love and appreciation, he stood with right hand over heart.  It seemed that he may have even been a bit uncomfortable by the demonstration.  At one point he raised his hands, both index fingers pointing upward.  Had we been at a baseball, football or basketball game, the raised fingers would most likely be followed by a chant:  WE'RE NUMBER ONE!  WE'RE NUMBER ONE!  


Not so in the instant case.  When I saw the ascending fingers, I knew instantaneously Thomas was thinking soli deo gloria -- to God alone be the glory.   Soli deo gloria has been T's tagline since before I knew him.  And from my observations, it is the way he has lived his life of ministry.  Time and again, whether Bach to Broadway or King David or Elijah or My Eternal King -- going over and over . . .  and over and over . . . and over . . . whatever section of music, pesky phrase, or that single vowel that is just not right . . . over and over . . . it was not about getting it just right to justify it being dubbed excellent, but getting in just right to give glory and honor to God by giving Him our very best.  


T's got things in proper perspective:  God gave us His very best, and we should give Him no less.


Thank you, Thomas, for knowing, and showing the real importance of music ministry done well.


Soli deo gloria
To God -- and God alone -- be the glory.