Laurel Massé

Moving day

Dear readers, I am merging this blog with my new website at www.laurelmasse.com. All the posts and comments have danced over to the new venue. There will be some further tuning, as there always is, and so this blog will stay up for a little while, but from now on, the pieces I've written here and those I'll be writing in the future, as well as information about my concerts and recordings, teaching and preaching, and everything else that forms part of my eccentric career will be available at www.laurelmasse.com.

Thanks are due to Typepad, for the simplicity and elegance its platform offers to a novice blogger. It was a great place to begin.

Still Christmas, so...

Ten years ago, or perhaps eleven, I was part of a "Lessons and Carols" evening service with John Kirk and Trish Miller at Christ Church Ballston Spa, in upstate NY. The evening was recorded, which I had forgotten. But this morning I remembered, and so here is my favorite carol for you. Right now, it's still Christmas, and it will be until the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6. If we are heartily sick of Christmas by Christmas Day, it may be because we skip Advent and put the tree up too soon. Which is certainly what our culture screams at us to do. In my fairly solitary life, I can stick my fingers in my ears and walk past the stores with Christmas displays blaring pop carols at me. My heart aches for those of you who have to remain fully engaged with the hustle bustle even if you don't want to. And I admire you for making Christmas anyway. This is for you most of all.

03 Wexford Carol Christ Church Ballston Spa NY

One more thing: my new website is almost complete, and this blog - the whole thing! - will be moving there shortly. By "there" I mean at www.laurelmasse.com. The herding dog in me will be well pleased to have all my work in one enclosure.

 

 

 

All shall be well: Julian of Norwich

And in this vision, God showed me a little thing, the size of a hazel-nut, lying in the palm of my hand, and to my mind's eye it was as round as any ball. I looked at it and thought, 'What can this be?' And the answer came to me, 'It is all that is made.' I wondered how it could last, for it was so small I thought it might suddenly disappear. And the answer in my mind was, 'It lasts and will last forever because God loves it; and in this same way everything exists through the love of God.' In this little thing I saw three attributes: the first is that God made it, the second is that God loves it, the third is that God cares for it.  Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love

Julian was the first woman to publish a book in English (in what we now call "Middle English"). In it she tells of the visions she had in 1373. In it she describes Christ as a mother. In it she assures us that "sin is necessary, but all shall be well. All shall be well; and all manner of thing shall be well."

Today the Episcopal Church celebrates dear Julian's feast day. Eat something wondrously good, with gratitude. She would like that. Remember that C.S. Lewis said her book was dangerous. I think she would like that, too. Stories about her suggest she had a cat. I like that.

There is more information about Julian here , and here is the podcast of a talk (the transcript's there, too) given by Rev. Mimi Dixon, Presbyterian pastor, about her experiences of Julian.

This extraordinary icon was written by Mihai Cucu. This, and his other exquisite icons, can be seen here.

It was Madeleine L'Engle who introduced me to the writings of Julian; for that, and for so much more, I am always grateful.

And it is good

Happy Easter! Yes, still! Easter lasts fifty days in the church calendar, and will not end this year until (counts on fingers) June 8th! 

I re-enter the world of bloggery with this offering to you all. Draw sweet water from the well, make yourself a cup of tea, and settle in to listen to some extraordinary music. I want - I fervently desire! - to sing in a performance of this work. Watch the video, and you'll hear and see why.

 

Vespers for St. Hildegard was created by British composer Stevie Wishart, who wove in passages from Hildegard of Bingen's music. I especially love the groundedness - as in both feet firmly planted on God's green earth - of the singing. I long ago grew weary of celestial fluttering soprano renditions of Hildegard's music, even though they were often beautiful. Hildegard was a mystic, yes, a nun, a writer, and composer and painter... and an herbalist who had had her hands in the dirt caring for plants and soil. It is that side of her that I've been longing for. Here are highly skilled yet unmannered, low-pitched, strong voices of women with real bodies. I am in earthy bliss.

Thank you, Terri Windling, for introducing me to this music. If I could draw like you can, I would send you a picture of me with mud on my feet, and a smile on my face and musical notes swirling all around me.

 

Have a beer with St. Brigid and God!

 Brid agus Muire dhuit!

Today is the feast day of St. Brigid of Kildare, to whom I have a special devotion. Patron saint of poets and brewers, of healers and midwives (and, along with Patrick and Columba, of Ireland itself), she was strong and gentle, prayerful and practical. St. Brigid worked miracles: my favorite is the healing of a blind Sister so that she could see the beauty of a sunset. To ease the thirst of lepers, she once turned a tub of bathwater into a tub of excellent beer. She was called Mary's Nurse, meaning that she helped Mary with the infant Jesus (a Time Lord!). Like so many of the great saints, she was as earthy and real as soil and water, and as wild as fire and air.

The following 10th century poem has been attributed to her:

I'd like to give a lake of beer to God.
I'd love the heavenly
Host to be tippling there
For all eternity.

I'd love the men of Heaven to live with me,
To dance and sing.
If they wanted, I'd put at their disposal
Vats of suffering.

White cups of love I'd give them
With a heart and a half;
Sweet pitchers of mercy I'd offer
To every man.

I'd make Heaven a cheerful spot
Because the happy heart is true.
I'd make the men contented for their own sake.
I'd like Jesus to love me too.

I'd like the people of heaven to gather
From all the parishes around.
I'd give a special welcome to the women,
The three Marys of great renown.

I'd sit with the men, the women and God
There by the lake of beer.
We'd be drinking good health forever
And every drop would be a prayer.

 

In my mind's ear, I can hear this woman laughing, and singing, her voice husky, her eyes shining. How could I keep from loving her?

For my solo album, Feather and Bone, I adapted traditional prayers collected by Alexander Carmichael in Scotland in the 1800s and composed Radiant Flame of Gold, a prayer to Brigid. Here is the track, with the sorely-missed Layne Redmond, and Tommy B on frame drums. I pray it in my times of trouble, and for others in theirs: Download 09 Radiant Flame of Gold

I am under the shielding of good Brigid each day,

I am under the shielding of good Brigid each night.

I am under the keeping of the nurse of Mary

Each early and late, every dawn, every light.

 

To learn more about St. Brigid, start here. To purchase Feather and Bone, send me a Facebook message here.

 

Now and forever, books!

 

Thanks to Susie Deane for showing me this, and thanks to friends who loan me books, to librarians, and to independent booksellers everywhere.

Just before Christmas

It has been a long time since I last wrote here. I have been thinking, and contemplating, and busily writing things on paper. That, coupled with the temporary inconvenience of not having internet access, kept me relatively quiet. ME! Can you imagine?

And now it's the day before before Christmas. I am at home waiting for the UPS driver and a package, and for the U.S. Post Office delivery person who does not always put my mail in the correct mailbox, while Mrs. Peel sleeps blissfully and elegantly on the radiator.

All day yesterday, rain tapped at the windows. It was like Christmas in Los Angeles, as I remember it: yuletide rains, warm temperatures, aqua and coral decorations on trees sprayed with fake snow. My friend Howard took me to see a huge poinsettia tree and I suddenly understood why I had never been able to keep my Christmas poinsettia alive: mine was just bunch of twigs stuffed into a beribboned pot. Christmas in L.A. was an experience not of Christmas Past or Christmas Present, but of Christmas Other because it looked so different from what I had grown up with. Christmas under palm trees! How odd it seemed!

And yet, how much more like the first Christmas than our nordic pines and our Dickensian feasts, and Clement Clarke Moore's poem, which does not even mention Jesus (though Moore was a religious scholar, and so how odd that seems, too).

We have not evolved a whole lot since Mary bore that baby. We still wage war and are victims of war, we still oppress and are oppressed. We still have major vision problems - can't see the poor until they are troublesome, for instance, can't see the person behind the skin. And heavens, we are easily distracted by ducks and mileys and penguin santas.

But underneath that, at the same time, we love. The heart is made for love. We are called to love every year, every day, every moment. The media may spin the season, commerce may manipulate our guilt and our desire to please, fellow Christians may tell us we're doing Christmas all wrong, atheists may accuse us of stupidity for doing it at all, and all of that noise distracts us from the not-always-easy but actually quite short to-do list we were given by Jesus: love God, love your neighbor.

Yes, we're flawed. Yes, we mess up. Yes, we don't always do it right. But we return to it, to the task at hand, and there are moments, moments, and shining, and sudden onsets of joy. This Love has no expiry date. And that is good news.

May your days be merry and bright.

 

 

 

 

Still bustling the hedgerow

I just love this, love everything about it.

And it touches my personal history. Let me see... singing Zeppelin tunes in a band in high school in 1969, check. Met Robert Plant at a party in the mid-70s, and had a pleasant chat about singing harmony, affirmative. Loved Heart from the very first listen, and watched them blow The Eagles off the stage somewhere in California in 1980, yea and verily.

Finally, one must never underestimate the power of a great big stealth choir.

Enjoy!

 

Open the gates

Some people are scandalized by the abuse of power in the church. Some people are scandalized by gay clergy. Some are affronted by female clergy and by the very idea of female bishops. And some don't want homeless folks coming into a church.

A few days ago, I ran into something that scandalizes me: a locked church. It was 8:20 AM. Fresh from a four-day retreat at a monastery, I went to a nearby church for Morning Prayer (Monday through Saturday at 8:30 AM, followed by Eucharist at 9, as the sign on the door says). I have been there before. Daily services are something of a luxury in these times - what a gift to have them available in a small town! But on this morning, the door was locked. I knocked. "Knock and it shall be opened," I breathed, and waited. Then I rang the electronic door bell (though I do not know a bell verse). I heard it chiming inside.

Nothing. I was early. Maybe people arrive closer to the last minute on Saturdays.

I returned to my car and waited, listening to birds singing, watching cars roll by, cleaning the inside of my windshield, and then rang again. Nothing. Maybe the sign is wrong. Maybe something has happened in the parish since I was last here. I decided to go home. Then, with the church bell ringing above my head - ghost hands pulling a ghost rope, perhaps - I started the engine and drove away.

Locked churches seem rather gospel-contrary. Yet, many are locked until just before Sunday services, and relocked just afterward. I don't think there is a church in this town that is not locked every day but Sunday. In fact, I know of only one church in the area (an Episcopal church, as it happens) that is always open, always unlocked. There may be others, but that is the one I know, and it is not in the big city. It's not even in a town, really. It is more of a wayside chapel between places on a map. But that door is never ever locked. It is not a wealthy parish, and I cannot help but wonder if that helps keep the door open; that, and the rector's compelling vision of the Kingdom.
 
When we lock our churches, what exactly are we protecting? God? Jesus? Because perhaps there are things they can't handle? No. We're protecting stuff. Our blessed stuff. Our Holy Accessories. We are giving stuff room at the inn, and telling people there is no room for them because of the stuff. No resting here, move along. You might mess up our stuff. You might steal our stuff.

Meanwhile, except when we are here to use our stuff, the door is shut. In winter, the heating system is keeping the stuff from getting cold. Outside on the street, the homeless can freeze to death. How do we get in? How do we reach out?

In fairness, it's not just the churches. I know of universities that are walled like medieval cities. On one side of the wall is the wisdom of the ages, and uncountable wealth. On the other side, the hungry, the mentally-ill, the drug-addled, the just plain mean. The wall is maybe a foot thick. Only 12 inches of stone stand between there-but-for-the-grace-of-god (and of course my own endeavors/talents/inheritance/hard work/appearance/righteousness) me, and you, o lazy bum, defiler of Stuff.  

I have seen robbed and trashed churches. I have seen the pain on parishioners' faces when, out of sheer malice, treasured objects have been defaced beyond recognition. In some churches, even the visible presence of security staff does not prevent loss. The first time I attended noontime eucharist at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, I set my purse on the chair next to me as I closed my eyes in prayer; when I opened them again a moment later, it was gone, and the man who had been sitting behind me was walking very quickly toward the exit. And I have, we all have, things in our homes that we love dearly, and we do lock our doors and windows.

Even so, locked churches feel wrong to me. But I don't have a solution. Just an ache. We really do need to let God make all things new.

To the Christians in the House

I once had a manager who thought he was John Galt. Or at least a John Galt. Even though I adored him, I knew he wasn't. And when he went on to embezzle a substantial sum, it bore out my literary instinct.

I knew, though, who he was talking about because I had read Atlas Shrugged as a younger girl. So much younger, in fact, that my mother had taken the book away from me, saying, "You don't need to read that. You're selfish enough already." But I eventually read through to the end.

So when Ayn Rand's writings came back into public notice with the advent of and media attention to the Tea Party and the Libertarians and Paul Ryan's Randian Catholicism (an oxymoron), I did not have to run out to buy the book to understand that there would be trouble ahead for women, immigrants, and the poor from anyone who followed her precepts. Which are horribly, horribly selfish precepts, and idolatrous, and about as far as one can get from the teachings of Jesus.

A group of Christian faith leaders (Faithful Filibuster) gathers every day Congress is in session across the street from the Capitol  building to read scripture out loud, especially the 2000 verses that tell us how to care for the poor. This is both a protest, and a public education service. Obviously there are a few folks in the government who have clean forgotten that the Bible has any use other than as a weapon with which to bludgeon people.

Those same forgetful folks have also forgotten their Ayn Rand. For it is not, in Atlas Shrugged, the heroic capitalists alone who bring down the government, and with it, the entire culture. It is the giddy, greedy, cruel Wesley Mouches, out for themselves.

You have changed the rules in the House so as to prevent any change in direction. You bark about the Constitution. You would edit out the uncomfortable bits of Jesus' words. Show me how you are not a Mouch.

Listen up, House. You dance yourselves into a tunnel of an ever-shrinking width. It is not the narrow path to heaven. It is a death trap. You will soon lose the ability to turn around. You are worshipping power, and money, and individualism. You are throwing other people's children into the fires of Moloch, in the belief that wealth and particular interests will take care of you if you legislate the sacrifice of others. They will not take care of you. They will use you, and devour you, and fail you, and forget you. They are false idols.

Relent. Repent. Come back into the daylight. Help save our country by saving its people. The Lord, which you claim to proclaim, said to love God, and love our neighbor, to heal the sick, and raise the dead. 

It's time to take Him seriously. It is time to turn around. Come back to your senses. We need you. Come back to us.