[SB] Sabbath Blessing

[Molly Wolf]

Les Barricades Mysterieux

It's a brief rondeau for keyboard by the French composer Couperin, a noodly 
little piece that always reminds me of the croodling of pigeons. It rocks 
back and forth between left and right hand, a rhythm akin to spinning or 
kneading bread. When I had a piano, I tried to learn it, discovering that 
it's written in two flats and scored entirely in the bass clef. I 
discovered too, by exploring it (however poorly), that underneath its 
apparent placidity, there is a great deal of profound and truth-filled 
emotion. But I am not a pianist; I never could get it right. Now I listen 
to Angela Hewitt getting it very right indeed, on a CD full of brief pieces 
by Couperin, all of them apparently placid and cheerful, all (on closer 
inspection) also filled with truth and emotion.

I try not to listen to it too often, much less often than I'd like to, 
because I find that if I listen to it frequently, I seem to lose it. My 
attention wanders away from it; it's become too familiar. I'm not living in 
the moment with it. The deep, faithful bass notes no longer surprise me, 
because my ear has gotten too accustomed to them. It can be a problem, with 
something you love but maybe see a little too much of.

This was the reason why, for years, churches celebrated the Eucharist only 
rarely -- four times a year in some periods, once a month in others. The 
fear was that if people experienced it too often, they'd get used to it; 
they'd take it for granted. It would become routine, ho-hum. And in fact, 
when I was younger, that did sometimes happen. The words would wash over 
me, leaving me cool and a little bored. I'd heard them too often. The story 
lacked any surprises.

But something changed, I'm not quite sure when, but a while ago. It's 
partly a matter of attentiveness, partly some sort of soul-change for which 
I can't claim responsibility. I find now that I can (almost always) manage 
to be newly attentive each time to the story: the breaking of bread, the 
sharing of wine, the moment of suffering and redemption. I can stay with 
the words, giving them real and appropriate honour, being in the moment 
with them. Not absolutely always, but often enough.

I remember that when my father was struck down by a brain bleed, I had a 
moment of acute mourning for him: he would never again be able to say the 
words of consecration, hold up the Host and then break it. His physical 
death took three months and a bit longer, but that death was the one I felt 
most acutely for him.  He could not be in that moment again, at least not 
in the same way. Maybe he'd find other moments to be in, but not that one, 
ever again.

But there's also anticipated joy: when we stand in God's presence, grace 
will be always new, always startling, always freshly delightful. I don't 
think we'll ever take it for granted or become deaf to it -- although who 
knows? maybe we'll learn to take basic grace completely for granted and 
move on to new and fresh experiences of grace, as though Couperin had 
composed infinite numbers of new rondeaux of ever greater beauty. It 
doesn't have to be either/or; it could be both/and. I may find myself being 
flabbergasted ever afresh by the mere fact of grace, and yet also move from 
experience to experience, wandering through grace-gardens of immense 
variety and singular delight.

In the meantime, I'll try to be attentive as best I can to the grace I find 
around me, the Eucharist and this little piece of music included.





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I'm about to hit some sacred cows, and they moo so badly. -- Phyllis 
Tickle, aka The Divine Miz T.