The Religious Sense at Work is a weekly limited series that explores the way our communal reading of The Religious Sense informs and illuminates our experience of work.

Recently, I stumbled upon an old fear. It was at an informal reading group for The Religious Sense, where Fr. Giussani offers a striking analogy in chapter seven: if we are trying to sail for Gibraltar, and in particular if we have the urgency of suffering, it won’t do us any good to be mesmerized by dolphins swimming in the water. No matter how captivating or elegant, they remain dancing distractions, and they risk being cheap entertainment, an emotional escape. Expanding this metaphor to a maxim: no matter how captivating an aesthetic experience, it could derail the inner compass meant to steer us Home.

Immediately I thought of my college years, where I experienced considerable turmoil regarding my potential vocation as a musician. I believed God had given me a special talent that I should cultivate, but playing more difficult classical piano pieces in order to win more awards and garner more praise – all so I could then verbally credit “the glory to God” – became quite a boring goal. I was also wary of music as an idol that would distract me from the more pressing urgency of sharing the Gospel, in words and actions. It had not crossed my mind that music could itself testify to the Kingdom of God.

Nevertheless, I was attracted to the sacred music sung by our college choirs. The lofty, transcendent sounds emanating from our formidable Gothic chapel had left an indelible impression on me, and after I joined, I was so moved by the intertwining of text with illustrative music that I would even get choked up, singing these words with conviction. And yet, I was soon troubled by the lack of faith among my peers and attempts by the clergy to censor traditional Christian liturgy. It seemed that for them, the beauty of the music mattered more than the meaning of the words. After performing in Carl Orff’s bawdy, irreverent parody Mass, I was deeply regretful and asked the music director, “Even if you only worship music as your god, how can you, as a feminist, justify singing these misogynistic texts?” The response: “Well, sometimes you have to sleep with the devil.” This was the last straw. I was scandalized and ultimately quit, seeking more secure ways to honor the Lord with music.

Yet the more trustworthy methods of Christian worship music also proved unsatisfactory. In awe of their zeal and miracle-believing faith, at one point I almost dropped all my other commitments and classes in order to follow an elite Ivy League charismatic ministry. But even as I was being prepared to be the next worship leader, I remember gazing up from our New York City skyscraper in suppressed despair. A cacophony of worshiping tongues roared over a basic four-chord electric guitar progression. The passion of my friends was undeniable, but I longed for a certain inward silence. The deadening monotony of a basic chord progression was certainly catching everyone else in waves of elevated worship, but it was drowning the musical part of my soul. Although I had left hollow Gothic tradition, I was now caught in the shallows of modern mimicry, both of which threatened to shipwreck my desire to serve God through music.

Only in discovering the faith of a few legendary composers was my hope sustained. There was Bach, whose cantatas and passion settings all trace profound paths from angst to victory, through hope and sorrow. There was Messiaen, whose oeuvre leaps out with jubilant praise, characterized by the vivid colors he heard in each chord and energized by rhythms and birdsong drawn from across the world. Yet the one who encouraged me the most in those days was Arvo Pärt. Utterly frustrated with toeing the Soviet party line and trying to keep in vogue with an avant-garde West, Pärt courageously took seven years of creative silence. He dared to dive deeply into the neglected tradition of Gregorian chant, replete with its sparse Latin and melodic syntax, seeking to renew his musical language. The eventual result was a music shimmering with “bright sadness,” with deep consolation for those in distress. AIDS patients in the ‘80s said they heard the angels; I myself heard heartfelt prayers from a man who had journeyed through much bleakness and spiritual isolation to find that peace which transcends all understanding. Such music not only healed my despair but renewed my spiritual and musical sense toward wonder and awe.

I’m touched by Pärt’s striking yet simple sense of vocation: “Sound is my word. I am convinced that sound should also speak of what the Word determines…The Word which was in the beginning.” His statement confirms a similar discovery I made, when after college I decided to study the relationship between theology and music. In a way, I was seeking the same sort of faith that anchored Pärt; how could he and others go so deep into music without committing idolatry and instead generate founts of spiritual refreshment?

I was delighted to find the writings of Maximus the Confessor, a 6th century imperial administrator-turned-monk who elaborates precisely the same line of reasoning. Because Christ the “Word” – as “Logos” in Greek – can also be understood as “Principle,” Maximus develops orthodox tradition and Scriptural interpretation to present the essential Principle of everything as precisely the Word who holds all things together. It means that by gazing and listening deeply within creation, one finds not just the abstract fingerprints of God but the personal logic of Christ Himself sustaining and speaking the mystery of each being.

I began pondering this new way of approaching music. Instead of fearing to look overboard at distracting dolphins, fearing their siren song that would guide me astray, I began to perform the equivalent task of a biologist swimming toward them with fascination, where studying and loving these creatures becomes a means toward recognizing and loving their Creator. After I learned the scientific, physical properties underlying sound waves, I was stunned that the structure of music could be so beautiful and elegant. As a vibrating frequency, a sound wave can also be divided into halves, thirds, fourths, and so one, each partial wave generating a new note and proposing a new “ratio” or musical relationship. It is these relationships that are then stretched out over time and codified by various cultures as scales or modes, the building blocks of melody and harmony.

Contrary to popular opinion, it turns out that there are objective reasons why certain consonances please us and other dissonances create a grating, unbearable torture. Waves that exist in orderly portion to each other are resonant and consonant, and those that are out-of-sync are literally out-of-tune, dissonant, and termed “destructive.” With all this in mind, it was as if I had finally emerged from a polluted night sky to see shining galaxies for the first time. Instead of requiring a holy text or context to justify the sacredness of music, I now view music with its own independent potential to reveal divine reason hidden in creation.

Furthermore, I find that precisely by engaging my rational, perceiving faculties accompanied with the intuitions of the heart, I have refined my judgment of the previous experiences. The danger of idolizing music arises not just from its possible utilization as a dead-end aesthetic escape. Such abuse ultimately kills music as well, either by humanly imposed games and agendas that have nothing to do with its objective acoustic realities or the slow death of tedium that clings to only one tradition, one scale, one chord, or one rhythm. A living pathway for music and musicians engages not just my emotions or immediate impulsive judgments but asks my heart and mind to attentively listen and appreciate the intricate relationships between each note. Combining Maximus and Pärt, one must “love each note” as a sign of the Word.

These days, my old fear has been replaced by a wide horizon of freedom. Now, when friends ask me if I like my current PhD program in this obscure, esoteric field of “music theory,” I gladly share my enjoyment. In fact, I confess, it’s the first time I’ve felt guilt-free to plunge into the study of music. Whether it involves listening for underlying compositional forms and long-distance relationships in the music of Mozart, Chopin, and Beethoven, or trying to excavate the sacred musical vocabulary buried in Ancient Chinese qin manuscripts, these studies excite me as realizations of the almost infinite potential for beauty embedded within music. I certainly keep in mind Fr. Giussani’s warning to not be mesmerized by the dolphins, but I also cherish his own vision of seeing all things as signs to the Mystery as Father (The Religious Sense, ch. 10). I am moreover buoyed by a companionship and community that values wonder and beauty in a world that often sees such pursuits as vain, impractical, or only stemming from base impulses.

Even though my current work often finds me in brick-walled classrooms or solitary libraries, I am energized when approaching such work as worship. To offer these acoustic sense perceptions and contemplations in humble, rapt wonder is the freest act of faith and sacrifice of praise. With the hope that it will help others on their journey as well, a musical offering with gratitude recognizes the Love that first moves the harmonies.

Ming Wilson, Ann Arbor, MI