Am I my brother's keeper?

When I was a smarty pants 12 year old pain in the rear, my mom asked me "Where is your sister?" My sister is three and a half years younger than I. At age 12 this seemed like an infinite chasm and I felt keenly the unjustness of having any responsibility for her whatsoever. "Am I my brother's keeper?" I replied, thinking that a Biblical quote would be reproof proof. My mom gave me a stern look. "The answer to that question is 'yes,'" she said.

And so it is. In the book of Genesis in the Bible God asks Cain, "Where is your brother Abel?" Cain has a slight problem here, he has just killed Abel out of jealousy and rage, those old excuses. So he answers the question with a question, "Am I my brother's keeper?" God, being God, is not fooled for even a minute and soon Cain is in some pretty hot water. Cain's failure to understand that he is indeed his brother's keeper is the root of his problem. A keeper loves those over whom he watches. He has their best interests at heart. He rejoices in their success and mourns with their sorrows. Think of a shepherd with his sheep. Or a dog or cat lover with his pets. We have become very good at being keepers of animals that we love.

Alas, we are less adept at being keepers of each other. As I watch the trial of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev unfold, I ask myself, "Who is his keeper?" The defense would have us believe that his older brother, Tamerlan, was his keeper, and did a poor job of it. In an attempt to save Dzhokhar's life they are arguing that Tamerlan did most of the dirty work, came up with the plan, stuffed Dzhokhar full of propaganda, and encouraged mindless devotion to his cause. This may or may not be true, I wouldn't know. One thing is certain, Dzhokhar needed a better keeper.

This brings to mind another great Bible story, this one in the New Testament. Once again someone asks a question, "Who is my neighbor?" and Jesus responds with a story about a kind man, who, although of a different race and a despised nationality, goes out of his way to save another man's life. He was a good keeper to a person with whom he had no prior relationship.

Johann Sebastian Bach summarized the situation perfectly in his beautiful cantata, "Ihr, die ihr euch von Christo nennet." The baritone recitative translates, in part, "We hear, indeed, what Love itself says: Whoever embraces his neighbor with mercy shall receive mercy as his judgment. However we heed this not at all! Our neighbor's sighs can still be heard." I don't know about you, but I am in need of mercy, from friends I have offended, from family members with whom I have been short-tempered, even from perfect strangers of whom I thought poorly.

As a part of humanity, we are all each other's keepers. I am Dzhokhar Tsarnaev's keeper, and so are you, and so is the farm hand in the trailer up the road, and so is my hairdresser, and so is the rest of mankind. And as his keepers, we need to let him live. If there is any chance at all that he could improve his life, make a positive contribution to the world no matter how small, redeem even marginally his terrible actions, then we need to give it to him. Let's have mercy, mercy for a boy who was poorly kept.

A young Dzhokhar Tsarnaev

No, Lucy, you canna do the show!

So says Ricky Ricardo, repeatedly, to his wife Lucy in the classic television show, I Love Lucy. Lucy considers herself to be talented and desires very much to be a part of her musician husband's nightclub act. Ricky, however, is quite aware of his wife's zany antics and refuses her requests. Appropriate scheming and hilarity always ensue, resulting in a most entertaining bit of TV.

In real life we are often told, "You canna do the show!" And it doesn't really matter how much we want it. Years ago I taught music at a small state university. We had a handful of talented music majors. The rest were in the program so we could fatten our ranks and justify the existence of a tiny music department. When I realized students were going deeply into debt for a useless degree, my conscience compelled me to speak. I told a new vocal performance major, "You should change majors. You will never work in the music profession. In fact, you will not be accepted into any graduate voice program." To my utter surprise, instead of expressing gratitude at my honesty, she burst into tears and said, "It's my right to major in whatever I want," then promptly went to the president of the university and complained about me. Two things were readily apparent; number one, one of us didn't understand the constitution very well, number two, the other one of us was going to have a very short academic career. You decide which was which.

Life doesn't owe us anything. We are fed a constant diet of feel-good platitudes, such as "Follow your dreams." Or "Do what you love." Or "If you want it, you can achieve it." There's certainly nothing wrong with dreaming. If you want to be an outstanding science teacher, good for you! But if you want to be the next Broadway star, great opera singer, comedian, or host of the Tonight Show, your chances of being told, "You canna do the show!" have become a near certainty. The odds are not in your favor, however talented you may be.

I have learned that it is a far, far better thing to follow life's path for you, love what you are given, and want what you have. For years my dream was to win the Pulitzer Prize for music. But life intervened. Instead of composing the next great symphony, I found myself composing songs for children, such as What a Girl! from my children's opera Tom Sawyer. Instead of winning the Pulitzer Prize I won "Parent Volunteer of the Year" for the Clovis, New Mexico school district. Instead of performing for hundreds at Carnegie Hall I taught hundreds of piano lessons in Fayetteville, North Carolina.

The 2014 Pulitzer Prize for Music went to John Luther Adams, a fine and accomplished composer. Have you heard of him? Hundreds of school children in Clovis have never heard of him, either. But they know Mrs. Duke, and they have sung her music, and will hopefully go on into adulthood loving music because of her work. Jamie Baum received the Guggenheim Award for music composition in 2014. Do you know her music? Dozens of piano students in Fayetteville don't, either. But they know Miss Charis and her passion for music and will hopefully share that passion with their children someday.

If you've been told, "You canna do the show!" let go and accept the new road. I have no Pulitzer Prize, but I still won.

Lucille Ball and Ricky Ricardo

Can I get some wabi-sabi with that?

I know this will come as a complete shock to many of you, but I am not perfect.  I can be vain, proud, foolish, and quite impatient with my fellow human kind.  I have many physical imperfections as well, scars, lumps, and all the stretch marks that accompany giving birth to three children.  I try hard, but mostly fail, at being more empathetic.  I eat healthy foods and run four days a week, but still weigh more than I did in college and will never achieve a thigh gap.  There are days that I arise, look at myself in the mirror, and ask, "What is so wrong with me?"

Nothing that a little wabi-sabi can't fix.  Wabi-sabi is the Japanese aesthetic that finds beauty in imperfection and accepts the natural cycles of decay and death.  Wabi-sabi acknowledges that cracks and crevices give character, that weathering and withering bring grace, that rust and rot are earned through life's experiences.  I find this idea refreshing, liberating even.  Our culture is consumed with a desperate hair dye and face lift fueled attempt to claim the fountain of youth.  What would happen if we chose to abandon that futile pursuit and instead embraced the imperfections of life?

Modest Petrovich Mussorgsky, born in 1839 in Russia, was a gifted, passionate composer of tremendous influence and stature.  Mussorgsky was introduced into the artistic life of St. Petersburg where he became a part of "The Mighty Five," a group of composers who were dedicated to celebrating and promoting Russian music.  Mussorgsky pursued this by composing music that embraced every day events in Russian life.  Listen to this charming Hopak, a popular Cossack dance.  Sadly Mussorgsky fell victim to the most terrible of Russian artistic cliches, alcoholism and poverty.  After years of steady decline in health, bouts of depression, extreme destitution, and alcoholic seizures, he died at the age of 42, leaving most of his compositions unfinished and unedited.

So what do we do with this imperfect man?  Do we bury his music in a trunk, saying, "Too bad it's not finished, but hey, not our fault, he was a drunken bum?"  Thankfully his friends realized his worth, flawed as he was, and saved his legacy.  Rimsky-Korsakov re-orchestrated and finished the ever-popular Night on Bald Mountain.  The opera Khovanshchina was finished and edited by Rimsky-Korsakov, Shostakovitch, Stravinsky, and Ravel.  And of course we all enjoy the superb Ravel orchestration of Pictures at an Exhibition.  Mussorgsky's great talent continues to inspire because his wise colleagues refused to throw away a broken human being.

It's time for me to go running.  I'm going to rejoice in every fumbling step, in every tired mile, in every twinge of my aging knee, that I have attained some character and grace and that my beauty lies not in being perfect, but in being one who has lived.

Having a hamburger for lunch?  Wouldn't you like some wabi-sabi with that?

Modest Mussorgsky

Wabi-sabi

I am not Charlie

I am not French.  I often don't understand satire.  I'm a terrible artist and I don't read or look at cartoons much.  I compose music but it's not remotely political or subversive.  I certainly haven't lost my life for a cause about which I feel strongly.  I am not Charlie.

In the wake of the recent tragedy in France I have read many opinions on the matter.  I've read that free speech is important, we should unite in defending it.  I agree.  I've read that we should respect other religions more.  I agree.  I've read that the Western world is waging a terrible war upon Muslims everywhere and we are deceiving ourselves if we think we are innocent.  I agree.  There seem to be no easy answers, no quick fix for these entrenched problems that divide us.  How can something as simple as a cartoon make any difference at all when hatred is so strong?

Arvo Pärt was born in Estonia in 1935 and thus grew up in the Soviet Union.  He played the oboe and percussion in the army band then went on to study composition at the Tallinn Conservatory.  Although he had artistic success, he soon became a target of the Soviet cultural police who did not appreciate his "avant-garde bourgeois music." The performance of his 1968 choral work Credo, which proclaims in the Latin text "I believe in Jesus Christ," outraged the atheist officials.  A huge scandal ensued.  Officers in the Estonian Philharmonic organization were fired.  The conductor Neeme Järvi only managed to hang onto his job because there was no one to replace him.  Pärt's commissions dried up and he found it difficult to work for the next eight years.

What's most compelling about this story is that the Credo itself was Pärt's commentary on hate, the very hate it spawned.  The piece opens with musical quotes from a famous prelude by Johann Sebastian Bach.  It is calm, serene, and lovely.  Then a wild cacophony of sound interrupts and nearly destroys the prelude.  But the peace is victorious and the prelude returns at the end.  As Pärt explains in an interview for the New York Times, "It was my deep conviction that the words of Christ, 'You have heard an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, but I say unto you, do not resist evil, go with love to your enemies,'  this was a theological musical form.  Love destroyed the hate:  Not destroyed, the hate collapsed itself when it met the love.  A convulsion."

I am an idealist.  I believe the arts; visual, theater, music, dance, literature, and yes, cartoons, can change the world.  And when the arts are combined with love, they become the most powerful tools we have.  I am not Charlie.  But I am a member of the human race, and as a member of that race I mourn the loss of any who die in a tragic and untimely way.  If you are a member of the human race (and Vulcans are welcome, too!), join me in going with love to our enemies.  Hate collapses when it meets love. Let's have a convulsion.

Arvo Pärt