The Light of Faith in Sound, Part III: In Peace and Joy I Now Depart

If you have read the first two essays in this three-part series, you have been introduced to the life and endeavors of J.S. Bach, whose music is one of the greatest heritages of Western civilization, but also of the Lutheran Church. After contextualizing Bach as a theologian and liturgical composer in Parts I and II, it is time now to examine three of his works based on Luther's chorale Mit Fried und Freud ich fahr dahin ("In Peace and Joy I Now Depart", LSB #938). This will provide salient examples of his rich imagination and his typical ways of interpreting the Lutheran chorale canon.

Mit Fried und Freud is one of Luther's most uniquely touching hymns. It is a poetic paraphrase of the Song of Simeon (Nunc Dimittis) which typically follows the Eucharist in the Divine Service and is a common canticle in the order of Vespers. It is typically sung on the Feast of Purification (Candlemas) during the Epiphany season, a date which commemorates the presentation of the infant Christ at the temple. This is a stark, haunting modal tune which well conveys both the shadowy mystery and the joyful serenity of the passage in St. Matthew's gospel. These are the final words of a frail old man whose soul has been filled with indescribable peace and joy, for he has encountered the promised Savior in the flesh. However, Luther's moving paraphrase and solemn melody is appropriate for a variety of contexts in which the congregation would be assured that "death is but a slumber" for the redeemed. Here is Bach's simple four-part setting of the hymn: whether or not you are familiar with it, have a listen to get it in your ears.

Before we look at a couple of cantatas, we will listen to a setting written for Bach's "home" instrument, the organ. Mit Fried und Freud is the eighteenth piece in the Orgelbüchlein ("Little Organ Book"), which is incomplete but still contains 44 magnificent settings of chorales from the entire church year. These pieces are the aural equivalent of Dürer's biblical woodcuts: in miniature, compact form they unfurl a dazzling wealth of complexity while illustrating the theological concepts at hand with remarkable precision and emotion. An examination of the Orgelbüchlein is thus an excellent gateway to an appreciation of Bach's way with chorales. Each setting in the collection is characterized by a signature rhythmic motif—a brief kernel that undergirds the entire piece and which can usually be related to an idea in the first verse of the hymn text. On paper it sounds as if an incessant motif that sounds in every measure of a piece would be repetitive and unimaginative, but Bach embroiders an incredible diversity of expression into the unchanging fabric of the whole.

Here Bach writes a stream of three-note motifs, with the last note slightly longer than the other two, to guide the tune along. It is very easy to hear in this the faltering, affliction-racked steps of the old man. Yet his pained walking is not purposeless: he knows that Christ, even this very infant, has entered into his suffering in order to transfigure it and allow him to rest securely in His arms. Under this constant motif in the left hand we hear a secondary motif in the pedal line that by turns rises and falls, enhancing the atmosphere of quiet yet determined striving toward an immeasurably important outcome. In the top voice in the right hand is sounded the chorale melody. An interesting and involving way to become acquainted with these pieces is to sing along with the familiar words of the hymn's first verse: this can help to clarify some of Bach's exquisite word-painting. Initially, this is not very hard, as we hear the tune in simple, unadorned fashion in single notes on top of the musical texture, with the restless motion running beneath it. But by the time we reach the third line of the chorale, the melody is no longer so straightforward. Bach has begun to surround it with an ever more copious wreath of ornamentations: trills, sixteenth-note flourishes, and other elaborations that swell to a passionate peak in the final line. It is as if the natural hesitancy of departing this world has become salved as the hymn proceeds, and the riches of Christ's merit have cloaked our beings in glorious, ornamented refinement. Somehow, the tension of the piece escalates slowly throughout its duration while simultaneously the mood becomes more ecstatic and shot through with longing for eternal repose. The final note of the hymn is followed by a harmonic resolution from an aching point of dissonance, and is crowned with a threefold utterance of that ubiquitous three-note motif: a sort of Trinitarian blessing at the end of the canticle, just as is customary to sing in the Service.

Bach's organ preludes can offer valuable insight into how he tended to view the theological and emotional resonances of each chorale in the Lutheran canon. As we have already seen, the emotion flows from the theology; the listener is moved by Bach's representation of the truths already inherent in Simeon's song. This, after all, is the purpose of any good hymn. We continue to witness this one-of-a-kind gift for the marriage of the doctrinal and the aesthetic in the cantatas. The BWV 125 cantata is titled after our hymn in question: Mit Fried und Freud, and was composed for performance on the Feast of Purification on February 2, 1725. This means that it was part of Bach's remarkable undertaking to write a cantata for every week of the entire church year in 1724-1725. Though we will only look at the opening movement of this cantata and the next one, you are highly encouraged to listen through the entire works along with the text, as they are both among the finest of cantatas.

The opening movement of BWV 125 is a classic example of a chorale fantasia: a composition for choir and orchestra that is clearly constructed around a hymn melody, but with much variation and elaboration. This chorus begins, as most do, with an orchestral introduction that prepares the way for the themes that are about to be developed. Immediately, many connections can be made to the organ prelude we just heard. The atmosphere is similarly dark and haunting, with a restless sense of forward motion impelled by churning, stumbling rhythms. The orchestra's main thematic idea is passed around in "scraps" that are taken up by strings, oboe, and flute—a representation of Simeon's broken physical state. But this is complemented by a robust triple meter that has strong connotations of the sarabande—a slow, dignified courtly dance (and of course there are Trinitarian implications here as well!). Trust in the promises of Christ is enough to allow us to depart with an inward dancing joy even as our bodies fail. Many have noted that this chorus bears a striking resemblance to the famous opening chorus of the great St. Matthew Passion—which may not be intentional, but if it were, there is a clear connection to the sense of impending death in the subject matter. The Passion's chorus prepares the listener to hear of the hideous, sublime, sacred drama that is the atoning death of Christ; that of the cantata prepares the listener for their own death.

When the choir enters, the Nunc Dimittis melody once again resides in the soprano voice, making it easy to recognize. The other sections of the choir weave imitative filigrees around the sopranos in the gentle dance rhythms of the orchestra. The key to appreciating a chorale fantasia is to listen for the interplay of elements: the alternation of choral and orchestral sections, hymn tune with elaborations, bright major with dark minor tonalities, the layering of choral and instrumental sounds, results in a dramatic dialogue that is just as much spiritual theater as pure theology. We see this at an even higher pitch when we reach the line commonly translated as soft reposing. The texture suddenly dies away, the choir sings softly, and the music dies away into a stunning unexpected harmonic turn that sounds eerily like being lowered into a grave (a similar moment of tone-painting can be heard at the conclusion of the Crucifixus in the B Minor Mass). Similarly, the long held notes on And death is but a slumber communicate a sense of infinity, but it comes across as a gently comforting, bittersweet moment of assurance rather than a gloomy fear of the unknown. What else might be expected from a Lutheran view of death?

Bach's last Nunc Dimittis setting we will look at is found in the first movement of his cantata BWV 95, Christus, der ist mein Leben. This one hails from the middle of the Trinity season in 1723, his first year as Thomaskantor in Leipzig. Like BWV 125, this work is a deeply moving examination of what it means to live and die in Christ. The opening chorus takes quite a different form than the polyphonic fantasia structure of 125. In fact, its form is sui generis among the cantatas. It commences with a lovely, lyrical, upbeat orchestral introduction beaming with warmth and splendor. Again we witness Bach's favored approach of building an emotional universe from rhythmic motifs. This time, the gently skipping theme conjures up a boundless contentment in the glories of the life of faith. When the voices enter to sing Melchior Vulpius's simple, well-known hymn of trust Christus, der ist mein Leben (found in recent hymnals as "For Me to Live is Jesus" and "Abide in Grace, Lord Jesus"), they do so in simple homophonic fashion, just like a hymnal setting. The congregation would probably have smiled to hear such a pleasant, frolicking treatment of this beloved hymn, although its frequent use as a funeral hymn might also have stirred up intimations of grief. Accordingly, things quickly take a turn, as dark harmonies intrude on For me to die is gain and the music abruptly cuts off at the all-too-human fear of leaving this world. But all quickly returns to normal as the stanza is completed.

The connection of this to the Nunc Dimittis hymn is clear. After all, the Vulpius hymn also contains the thought of "departing in peace" despite the fear and weakness of our earthly condition. This is why, in an almost unprecedented move, Bach made the bold choice to transition into Mit Fried und Freud in the same movement. He accomplishes this with yet another formal invention: the insertion of a dramatic passage for tenor soloist, who delivers a sort of operatic song-speech about his "wretched flesh" and "fully wasted members.../to earth returning/into her lap to offer./My dying song e'en now is made;/Ah, I today would sing it!" This "dying song" is indeed Luther's tune, and it is quite different from the other two settings we have looked at. Whereas those are racked with a deep sorrow, there is barely a trace of anguish remaining here, as the prospect of departing becomes a whirling, breathless dance augmented by the addition of a horn to the instrumentation. Through Christ we become prepared to fall asleep in peace. The whooping, exalting horn turns the quiet song of resignation into a welcome home party for the Christian soul that cannot even be broken up by another rhetorical pause on soft reposing. The insertion of a chorale into such a radically different context is in fact a common Bachian trope. Witness, for example, the unusually somber and lamenting treatment of what is usually a jolly New Year's hymn in the Orgelbüchlein (Das alte Jahr vergangen ist), and the conclusion to the Christmas Oratorio, which pits the contemplative Passion chorale O Sacred Head Now Wounded against an exuberant celebratory backdrop to anticipate the ultimate outcome of the Christ Child's life. In this we see a recognition of Lutheran paradox: the holding of equal truths in proportion according to what God has told us. Yes, we are both saints and sinners. Yes, Christ is both Lord of Glory and meek, suffering servant who reveals Himself in weakness. Yes, the elements on the holy Table are both true bread and wine and true body and blood of our Lord. Yes, death is both unnatural and a perfectly natural resting place for the final resurrection. Language falls short of articulating such verities. But perhaps music comes just  that much closer to speaking into our beings the perfect reconciliation of attributes which our fallen minds cannot comprehend.

Today in the world of classical education and Christian cultural studies, the common ecumenical attitude toward Bach is that any specifically Lutheran elements in his music take second fiddle to his "universal human appeal". But it may be argued that this very aspect of universality is one which flows from a Lutheran understanding of faith. For confessional Lutheranism sees itself as "evangelical catholicism": a return to the "mere" Christianity of the pure Gospel which is disseminated through the best of culture and tradition, yet is often hidden beneath our natural tendency toward sinful excess. A study of Bach's music through the theological lens demonstrated in these essays is a vital tool for strengthening the ability of Lutheran students to appreciate both the unique gift of beautiful doctrinal and poetic hymnody that have been passed down to us, and God's gift of creative rearrangement and interpretation to artists who serve the truth by entering into the tradition. Bach also demonstrates how to best appropriate the cultural resources of one's time in service of higher things. In cultivating his "well-tempered music" soli Deo gloria, he freely borrowed from virtually all the popular musical idioms of his day from all around Europe: folk songs, courtly dances, operatic arias, archaic Renaissance polyphony, North German keyboard improvisation. There is no style or period of Western music history, before or after him, that is not represented or foreshadowed in his music. We have seen the dazzling convergence of styles and moods which he was able to conjure from one simple chorale tune. In the same way, the Christian should be emboldened to participate in culture and work with its offerings, wholly conscious of the necessity of grace to sanctify all of our doings and direct them toward their proper end.

So pivotal is Bach to the Lutheran mind that it would not be remiss to dedicate an entire semester (or more) in classical Lutheran high school and college programs to a study of this composer alone: if not a comprehensive survey of his entire body of work, at least a deep dive into his chorale-based cantatas, Passions, and organ works. Perhaps building off of prior tutorials in music theory and history, hymnody, and choral training; students would learn to recognize Bach's various compositional techniques and relate them to his overarching goals. An understanding of Bach within the broader context of humane letters and cultural trends of his time would also be crucial in such a setting. For Bach, as a composer in the Baroque style at the waning of that era and the dawn of the Enlightenment with its corresponding "Rococo" tastes in music, is one of the last truly classical figures in Western civilization before the modern age of secularism and disenchantment; one of the last great artists and intellects who completely adhered to the Scriptural understanding of God and man (James W. Gaines's Evening in the Palace of Reason is an excellent introductory study of this topic). His unabashed embrace of the chorale canon also put him at odds with the increasing move away from sacred music and polyphony and toward a lighter, simpler, more "pleasurable" style. By the time he composed his final unfinished work, the mysterious and almost mystically abstract intellectual feat The Art of Fugue, his sons C.P.E. and J.C. had already long abandoned their father's influence for the age of the galant. Bach's voice was a singular ray of light conveying the riches of the classical, medieval, and ultimately Lutheran understanding of music into an era where "pure reason" reigned supreme. And today, when we listen to his work amidst the clamors of a world that tells us there is nothing that lies beyond the surface of reality, we find that he pierces and soothes our souls with intimations of higher things.

The goodness and wholeness of Bach's music is balm to the mind, the unspeakable beauty and order of it food to the heart, and the clarion truth of its messages comfort to the soul. Though it certainly can be understood and enjoyed by anyone, the fullest dimensions of his music cannot be unlocked without a grounding in the Lutheran tradition from which he sprang and which he sought to promulgate. Bach will live as long as this current life exists, to show the world the felicitous depths and eternal hope offered by a Lutheran understanding of reality.

Davis C. Smith is an MA student at Hillsdale College's Graduate School of Classical Education. His research interests include aesthetics, hymnody and liturgics, the Western literary tradition, the intersection of Athens and Jerusalem; and the theology of Augustine, Luther, and Kierkegaard. His work has been featured by the Sigma Tau Delta Review, Voegelin View, and the Consortium for Classical Lutheran Education.