John Rutter and the Leap of Faith
April 26, 2020
“But Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for such is the kingdom of God. Assuredly I say to you, whoever does not receive the Kingdom of God as a little child will by no means enter it.”
Mark 10:14-15 NKJV
By the end of March, I had been sent home to finish my medical treatment, still self-quarantined but free to roam around my one-bedroom retirement home behind the bigger house where my son-in-law and daughter live with their family of three little boys. As my confinement began to loosen up, my daughters entertained me by sending daily videos of my 5 little grandchildren. One in particular, held my attention. In it, the three boys – the twins, 2 ½ year old Philip and Francis, and their Kuya, 8-year old Andrew, are playing to the sounds of the ancient child’s game rhyme known as “Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?” In the childlike delight more aptly described in Filipino as tuwa, the twins establish their own version of the simple lilting rhythms of traditional antiphony:
Philip : Philip (took) the cookie from the cookie jar.
Philip : Who me?
Francis : It’s you!
Philip : Not me!
Andrew : Then who?
After the first cycle of call and response, the twins are uncertain as to how to proceed. They fumble, enter simultaneously, hesitate, then try to restart the rhythmic cycle:
Francis : Philip…
Philip : I…
Francis : Philip…
Philip : It’s you…
Francis : Philip…(took) the cookie jar.
At this point, Kuya steps in, authoritatively trying to reestablish order and rhythm. Francis responds. Philip joins his kuya in the next line:
Andrew : Francis took the cookie from the cookie jar.
Francis : What me?
Philip/Andrew: Yes you.
There is a slight pause, while Francis contemplates what to do. Suddenly shifting in tone, the rhyme has become, to him, an accusation regarding the unseen cookie of their imaginings that must be seriously addressed. His studied response breaks the rhythmic order of things:
Francis : (slowly and quietly) Uhm…no.
Laughter ensues from the adults in the room. The twins struggle to regain sonic balance in the face of this challenge to order from within. As they continue, the twins grasp at familiar rhythmic motives and themes:
Francis : What me?... (undecipherable)
Philip : (undecipherable)…the cookie jar
Finally, Francis cuts through the confusion with a loud and assured exclamation, effectively bringing the play to a happy conclusion:
Francis: “Wow, the cookie jar is Awesome!”
Philip: (raising both arms and making a little jump)“Yay!”
This 46-second fragment of child’s play somehow stuck in my mind as I considered the conundrum that is John Rutter, church music composer and conductor extraordinaire. I have been an admirer of both him and his music since the early 1990s, when I sat in on one of the mammoth music reading sessions for choristers and choir directors he regularly conducts. Charming, gracious, engaging, reachable, he exudes a personality identical to that of his music, which is mostly written for the Christian church.
Since then, I have regularly taught his music to my children’s choir as well as the choirs of my home church. His is a music of affirmation. In the last few weeks, shaken and troubled, I have seen to it that it is the first thing I hear as I wake up to in the morning and rise to face the world. It is the music of Eden, with its pure vision of the world as God intended. One hears the delighted echoes of childlike faith, the voices of, “little children…(who)…praise you perfectly.”[1] Clear skies, running water, fruit and flower, family and friends and a God that gives us all this bounty are joined to the flowing rhythms, melodies and harmonies that run through his repertoire of song. His settings to the beautiful texts of Psalms and Scripture passages from the King James Bible, sections of traditional Catechisms, books of common prayer, poems from Sunday School and traditional folk blessings tumble from him in a flood and put themselves at the disposal of the choir conductor who gratefully receives them as material most appropriate for the voracious appetites of audiences and congregations eager for a quieter, more substantial music than that churned out by the contemporary Christian pop/rock music industry.
It is disconcerting, to put it mildly, to learn that the composer considers himself merely a, “friend, fellow traveler, and agnostic supporter of the Christian faith.” His candid confession, which serves as a counterpoint to the musical evidence, is an, “uhm…no,” in the equation.
Rutter cannot begin to think of:
a world without any churches or space for religious thought or contemplation, or based only on material values,…(for it)…would be a hell….I think that just the statement it (the church) makes about how man should not live by bread alone, is immensely important; music is a part of that because it is useless in a literal sense, you don’t have to have music to survive, yet it has always been there; imagining a world without it is impossible, as is a world without faith…”[2]
However, he continues:
what slightly began to sow the seeds of religious doubt was seeing the absolute certainty of religious adherents in America, and some of the harm that the certainty could lead to; I started by thinking there must be many paths to God…I don’t find it helpful …to say that you have to have a personal relationship with Jesus; numerous of my religious friends say that if you are not born again and if Jesus is not your personal friend, then you are not a true Christian…[3]
Rutter takes solace in the world of a childhood rooted in the tradition of the Church of England. He still draws meaning from these experiences, as evidenced in his texts. He believes that world no longer exists but he continues to cling to these childhood memories. He confesses that his differences with organized religion seem to have arisen from troubling experiences with believers in America where he was confronted by a restricting requirement of the conversion experience[4] as the only acceptable route to faith. This, coupled with an aggressive set of conversion techniques adapted by American fundamentalist groups in the late 20th century seem to have started him off on the road to doubt.
My mind and body resonate to his words. After all, I am not a fourth-generation member of the Protestant faith, for nothing. As a child, I had been told stories of my great great grandmother, Cesarea de la Cruz, hiding smuggled copies of the Bible[5] in the kisame (space between the ceiling and roof) of her home in Paco[1]; of my great grandfather, Guillermo Zarco Jr., crossing battle zones in Filipino-American War in the first decade of the 20th century to evangelize in the Southern Tagalog region and of the same Lolo Momoy translating the traditional hymns into the Tagalog language so the early converts could understand the ideas behind them; of my grandfather, Pablo Zarco, sitting at the organ in their home, leading a small group of believers in the singing of hymns, even as the Battle of Manila raged around them in 1945. And of course, always before me were the models of my parents, Manuel and Flora Zarco Rivera, whose unshakeable faith and corresponding lives in support of that faith caused me never to waver in my own.
Confronted and sometimes waylaid by the efforts of earnest and over-eager volunteers of campus-based, American-supported student organizations in the 1960’s and early ‘70’s to question the authenticity of my Christian faith, I realized that I was never given the occasion to be “born again.” I have often wondered why the faith acquired in early childhood and nurtured by family and community was not considered a similarly acceptable gift to be received with equally great joy. Faced by their demands that I come to believe in Jesus Christ in a blinding-flash moment, I have always asked, “is it not possible to come to Christ slowly, gradually, one step at a time?” After all, Paul’s road was not the only acceptable path for even the leaders of the early church-in-formation to take. What about James, who grew up with his Kuya Jesus; who learned the rhythms and cadences of faith from his parents and siblings at home; who was strengthened by the influences of his neighborhood synagogue in his youth; and who was thrust into the position of prominence as the leader of the Jerusalem church only after his older brother’s death and Peter’s departure? What about Peter who lived with Jesus throughout his ministry; who spent years learning from him at his side; who failed him, was forgiven by him, but became the rock on whom the church was built? Jesus had worked slowly and patiently with Peter and after many fits and starts, failure, repentance and forgiveness, he became the post-resurrection leader of the church, responsible for some of its most revolutionary directions.
My sympathy for Rutter’s position as a church musician deepens. I recognize that he knows his territory well. I agree with many of the principles he sets for music intended for God’s glory.[6] And I cannot repress my exclamation of assent for his music.
But in the matter of faith, I still wonder. Brian Nixon[7], asking the question, “Can Rutter’s music be considered Christian music?” has answered the question in the affirmative. One of his three reasons is that the music gives evidence of what he calls, “common grace.” Nixon contends that God extends His grace to all mankind, regardless of their faith and that this can indeed, be sensed on a most basic human level. The intrinsic beauty of the natural world and the pleasures of human companionship and friendship belong to this category of gifts and they are not exclusive to Christians and Christian societies. They are enjoyed by all and reminders of his loving kindness. This is to be distinguished from “saving grace,” which comes with the individual’s acceptance of Jesus Christ and His offer of salvation. Saving grace also comes with acceptance of the believer and his or her sustained obedience and faith in the Christ. Rutter’s music is acceptable as Christian music and appropriate for church use because, among other reasons, it exemplifies our belief in God’s common grace.
Just as my grandchildren delight in the cadences and lilting rhythms of the cookie jar, Rutter celebrates the common grace of God. He recognizes that nature, family and friends, music – life would not be meaningful without these gifts. Reiterating an earlier quotation:
…imagining a world without it (music) is impossible, as is a world without faith.…(It)would be a hell…
Yet, Rutter confesses his inability to sustain this vision:
King David, who wrote the words, really did believe that the Lord was his shepherd. He believed that all the time. I believe it for as long as it takes me to write the piece. It’s the duty of anyone setting a text to try and keep faith with that text, to understand it, to get it under the skin a bit, just as an actor giving a performance of Hamlet, has to get under the skin of what it feels like to be considering suicide….People tell me that there’s a spirituality there, but really that’s not for me to judge.[8]
This statement bears a striking similarity to one made by George Atwood, a clinical psychologist in an interview concerning his psychobiography of Johann Sebastian Bach:
For example, when one of my patients attempts suicide and is lying there in the ICU in critical condition, something that has unfortunately happened a number of times, I speak to the Lord and ask for His assistance. Once the patient survives, if he or she does, I promptly resume my former atheism. An atheist who turns to the Lord when he is in trouble is not a true atheist.[9]
Like my grandsons, striving to sustain their ordered play, falling in and out of a chaos of their own creation, we adults also struggle to maintain the constructs that give meaning to our horizon. Rutter recognizes the feebleness of these constructs…they pass, they change. He also realizes that such constructs can be tyrannical…they restrict both God and man so that they can make the former understandable to the latter. And the composer gets stuck there…trapped by his mortality and unable to proceed.
And this is where my grandsons do John Rutter one better - they make a leap of faith. When Francis shouts, “The Cookie Jar is awesome!” and Philip raises both arms and answers, “Yay!” in celebration of the invisible cookie and its jar, they jump, and in so doing, transcend the barrier of their inability to resolve the problems they themselves have created.
Watching this, I remember words from a much-treasured devotional:
Faith is not conjuring up, through an act of your will, a sense of certainty that something is going to happen. No, it is recognizing God’s promise as an actual fact, believing it is true, rejoicing in the knowledge of that truth, and then simply resting because God said it.[10]
And so I end, making the same leap, bringing with me the common grace of John Rutter’s music in the childhood of his faith, leaving behind the chaos of doubt of our adulthood, all the while remembering Jesus’ admonition:
“Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them, for such is the kingdom of God.”
[1] Tom Fettke, “The Majesty and Glory of Thy Name,” text paraphrased from “Psalm 8.”
[2] John Rutter, Interview with the composer by Alan MacFarlane as quoted in “Mishap,” Gransnet Forums
[3] Ibid.
[4] As described in Paul’s encounter with the Risen Christ on the road to Damascus (Acts 9:1-22)
[5] In late 19th century Roman Catholic Philippines, the possession of a Bible was considered a subversive act.
[6] In yet another interview, he confesses:
…it’s been my lot as a composer to write a great deal for students and amateurs of one kind and another…those whose technical resources are not equal to those who are full-time professionals. That brings about certain challenges….Just a few years ago, I was trying to say something, but saying it in absolutely the simplest and most pared down way I can. Complexity, almost as a self-indulgence, is something I can’t afford. In fact, I have been accused of writing simplistically. Some people say that equates to triteness, and there may be truth in that. But I feel that you should, if possible, write in a way where it’s a bit like the swan gliding over the surface of the water but paddling like mad underneath. There should be an art of concealing art. Mozart taught me that lesson many years ago. If you take apart a Mozart score, the density of inter-relationships and subtleties beneath the surface are quite extraordinary, but what you hear is an effortly flowing surface that seems like it couldn’t have been written any other way… (Interview with Bruce MacDuffie)
[7] Brian Nixon, “Composer, John Rutter: an Example of Common Grace,”[1] Jan 14, 2018, in Assist News Service
[8] Interview with Bruce MacDuffie, 1991
[9] Interview of George Attwood by Penelope Starr-Karlin (2014)
[10] L.B. Cowman (ed.), Streams in the Desert
Links to the Music:
John Rutter, “Be Thou my Vision,” album on Spotify with the Cambridge Singers, 2004