Theology, Worship, and the Arts Blog #5
Both the Missa Caput by Johannes Ockenghem and the Missa Dunelmi by James MacMillan allow the worshiper to encounter God through liturgical music. Each composition points to the reality of Christ’s sacrifice on the altar and provides a way for the spiritual senses to perceive the invisible mystery of the liturgy; the styles of the compositions, however, affect the way one understands worship and self. The Caput presents time as both eternal and finite, while the Dunelmi presents time as cyclical; the Caput’s unified harmonies provide resolution, while the Dunelmi’s moments of silence provide release. In each mass, humanities cries out to God in song and awaits His response — we need only listen.
One of the distinguishing qualities of the Caput Mass, including the Missa Caput composed by Johannes Ockenghem, is the imagery associated with the piece — that of Christ, Mary, or the Saints crushing the head of Satan in the form of a dragon. When one listens to the Missa Caput, there is indeed a sense of impending drama — a swelling of voice and emotion leading us towards the unknown climax. While this climax may be understood as the dragon’s defeat, it also signifies the anticipation of Christ’s triumph over sin and death, for “the enjoyment is not in the expectation of some event but in pure expectation,” (Theology, Music and Time 54). While contemplating and anticipating Christ’s sacrifice in the mass, it becomes clear that our understanding of time does not align with God’s time. While humanity mourns the passing of time and memories “slipping into the increasingly distant and irrecoverable past,” God anticipates the salvation of humanity and remembers that it is not a singular occurrence, but an eternal triumph that will never cease to be celebrated in the heavenly liturgy (Theology, Music and Time 61). The human person, therefore, realizes the irrationality of our relationship with time and that the swelling voices, quickening rhythm, and heightening emotion of Ockenghem’s composition should mirror our anticipation of the ultimate climax — participation in the Eternal Liturgy.
While listening to Ockenghem’s Missa Caput, one cannot help but notice the extraordinary harmonies achieved by the choir performing the piece, most notably at the conclusion of the Kyrie, Credo, Sanctus, and Agnus Dei. At the conclusion of these hymns, the chorus comes together in one haunting, solemn, unified note — blending together so perfectly that one voice is indistinguishable from another. This harmony poses a sharp contrast to the symphonic opera, which “glorified the solo voice as never before,” (Sacred Treasure 135). Instead of glorifying the singer or composer, the Missa Caput turns the focus of worship towards God alone. These moments of harmony are ultimately moments of resolution, finishing each of Ockenghem’s compositions like the ‘amen’ at the end of a prayer; they may be considered (by my non-musically inclined ears) a “cadence,” or “a wave of equilibrium — tension — resolution,” (Theology, Music and Time 45). Ockenghem’s Missa Caput therefore presents the mass as an act of worship existing in time which must eventually end. While this may seem to conflict with the previous description of the mass as an Eternal Liturgy, the two can exist simultaneously; after all, the Eternal Liturgy is manifested physically in the thousands of masses which take place on earth every day, each with its own temporal beginning and end.
Concerning the human understanding of music and time, theologian Jeremy S. Begbie writes that “to share in music is to find a temporality in which — at least to some extent — past, present, and future have been made to interweave fruitfully,” (Music, time and eternity 150). This interweaving of time is demonstrated in the musical aesthetic of composer James MacMillan, whose Missa Dunelmi provides a lens through which the listener can understand oneself in the context of divine time; MacMillan focuses “on the three days of crucifixion and resurrection” and “feels compelled, primarily for theological reasons, to integrate conflict into his work (Music, time and eternity 150). This conflict comes in the form of cacophony, of layering of voices that is simultaneously harmonic and discordant. In the Gloria of his Missa Dunelmi, MacMillan begins with a clear, dominant male voice proclaiming, “Gloria in excelsis Deo.” A complex layering of voices then ensues, to the point where the words of the Gloria are no longer distinguishable. Both deep, masculine and high-pitched, angelic voices fade in and out; they build in intensity and volume like waves crashing over the listener with increasing power. MacMillan’s use of repetition and gradually increasing volume call to mind the cyclical suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Just as the listener struggles to distinguish past from future, so does one struggle to separate suffering from resurrection. MacMillan’s melding and layering of voices reminds us that to rejoice with Christ, we must also die with him — one cannot be separated from the other.
The materiality of MacMillan’s Missa Dunelmi is manifested not only in its moments of tension and conflict, but also in its moments of release. One such moment is found in the prolonged pause between the Sanctus and Benedictus; this silence is indeed “silence that aims at divine transcendence,” which “does not constitute the interruption or suspension of the initial You but its consummation,” (Wounded Speech 27). While MacMillan’s intentional silence may simply be intended for the elevation of the Host during Transubstantiation, it also communicates to the listener that in worship, we both raise our voices to God and listen for His response. In the holy mass, God’s response to our worship is complete, tangible self-gift. The pauses and breaks in MacMillan’s composition cannot exist without music’s real presence in the material world. Similarly, the absence of music at the moment of the Consecration counterintuitively draws our attention to the miracle taking place and makes real Christ’s sacrifice on the altar.
