Big Bang

Looking back, is there an event you recall - something that hindsight suggests was a pivotal moment in your life, even though you didn't know it then?  This is what I remember.
                                                   
     Scientists tell us the universe began about 13 billion years ago. Our world was just a small place in a black hole where there was so much gravitational pressure that, one day, it began expanding so fast that it blew wide open. And here we sit! Our brains can hardly comprehend how we got here, let alone what we're supposed to be doing.
     When I first heard the words, Big Bang theory, I knew it didn't occur 13 billion years ago. I can tell scientists a thing or two because I was there. It happened in 1949 in a small town in western New York state about 11:30 the third Sunday morning in September.
     Sunlight slanted through the vast Tiffany stained glass windows in the First Presbyterian Church. My eight-year old sister and I sat knee-to-knee between our parents on the velvet-covered pew cushion. The minister stood on the elevated platform behind his lectern in the chancel area where he had just concluded the prayer after the sermon. It was pin-drop quiet.
     THUD, gada, gada,THUD, gada, gada.
     What was that? Heads swiveled; parishioners whispered. I giggled and looked at my sister. We scrunched together in shared mirth, then slid off our seats onto the carpet.
     “Shush,” Mother hissed as Daddy, the silent disciplinarian, glared. We couldn't contain ourselves, laughing out loud, our arms squeezing our middles, trying to halt the spasms of hilarity. Necks twisted in our direction as we mentally propelled ourselves down Alice's rabbit hole.
     A few days later as the family sat eating supper around the kitchen table, Daddy related a topic of conversation from the recent church board of directors' meeting.  Looking at Mom, he said, “We voted to pay for some organ lessons for Miriam.  We can't sing the hymns when she's making so many mistakes.” He paused as he took a forkful of mashed potatoes. “And that incident last Sunday – you know, everybody's talking.” Then he turned to me. “As soon as your legs are long enough, maybe you can take some pipe organ lessons.”
     Play the church organ? Hands – and feet. Wow, that would be so exciting!   I could play the hymns while everyone sang. I was already taking piano lessons, but my feet barely reached the sostenuto pedal.  As I cleaned my plate, I secretly willed my legs to grow faster.
     Scientists may differ, but I'll stick with my own Big Bang story: the day the universe captured my attention and showed me a direction in life. The day the church organist walked across the organ pedals with the stops pulled on.

 

                                                         THUD, gada, gada, THUD, gada, gada!




Talk to you next Thursday!
Donna

Batting average: 296, Salary: $20 million

     My father loved baseball. Like yesterday, I can see the car door ajar and hear the radio blaring as Dad washes his 1956 white-and-turquoise Ford Fairlane on Sunday afternoon. I can tell by his grin that the Yankees are beating the Red Sox and "All's well in the world".
     Now I live in FL and follow the Tampa Bay Rays religiously. (Is that word OK here?) I don't cheer the Yankees any more.  How could I if I'm a Rays fan? Whether at the stadium, on TV or via the Internet on mlb.tv, I rarely miss a Rays game. At this time of year before baseball resumes, I read every word about the upcoming season.  Who are the new players? How about that new AstroTurf at Tropicana Field? Is a guy who's just playing baseball, not a rocket scientist or a church organist, worth all that money? 
     Did you see how Carl Crawford, who was a Ray from 2002 - 2010, was lured to the Boston Red Sox by a seven-year, $142 million contract?  It makes me breathless even to type that large number.  It's like sightreading while simultaneously transposing a Franck chorale up a minor third. That's so much moola that I need a cardiac stabilizer device!
     Can you imagine getting millions of dollars for only hitting the baseball less than one-third of the time? That means you can miss the ball two-thirds of the time and still be a rich, entitled person. And Carl's 296 batting average last year is high. An average player hits in the neighborhood of twenty per cent of the time.
     What about church organists? What if they played a hymn and missed two-thirds of the notes? Would they still have a job?  Would they still warrant their salary, every penny of their often starvation wages without benefits? Or would the board of directors or trustees meet to deal with the situation?
     Most organists have a crazy-kind of job security.  No - they don't get fired.  Who else could play even half the notes?  No, the board of trustees or deacons or directors convenes to address the dissonance.  In my home town, the trustees voted to give the organist lessons! (Certainly the 5 - 10% of churches which pay living wages to their directors don't fit in this discussion.  That's a topic for another day.)
     So, dear friends, all you colleagues, how did we end up in a profession where we're expected to hit one hundred per cent of the notes and where any mistake is LOUD? And where we play thousands of notes every week and often hear only grumbles when our "batting average" sinks below 900? Life is unfair, but this is ridiculous!
     The rest of you: be kind to your organists.
     BTW, be sure to comment anonymously if you wish to discuss an issue in your church life. I'll be pleased to listen to you and, perhaps, be able to help.


     Talk to you next week.  Donna


P.S.  Spring Training started this week!

Always on Sunday

   Are you old enough to recall the movie, "Never on Sunday"? Before I could vote – and before my consciousness was raised, this movie struck a chord with me. Why, I'm not sure. Maybe because it was set in Greece, a place of ancient mysteries? Or was it because it was a foreign art film? Was it the earthy nature of the dialogue - so far removed from the Doris Day movies of the '50s?
   Besides images of the glamorous and fun-loving Merlina Mercouri, I recall one of the themes. You don't work on the Sabbath, especially not at the world's oldest profession. Check it out here:"Never on Sunday"   But I've always worked on Sundays - well, not at the oldest profession, but an old one. Over the years it dawned on me how stressful it is to serve as an organist-choir director, to put on live performances, and to do it every Sunday, if not several other days, too. And if you're the only organist at the church, when do you get a weekend off?
   I chuckled about that movie. Were organists and church musicians exempted from the traditional Sunday work prohibition? Of course, I recognize that ministers work, too. But I've always been the first person at church – the one who started the coffee, who practiced the tricky keyboard passages, who gathered the choir music, greeted the choristers and rehearsed them – all before the minister arrived to confer with me about worship service details.
   Now I'm at the age where Sundays are “pro-choice”, so to speak. I decide whether I want to spend Sunday at a church job - churches always need a sub or temporary musician. Unless the church in question has a particularly fine organ or choir and, true confession, they pay well (gasp!), I often elect to join my husband these days on the Renaissance Vinoy Hotel veranda (See photo) in downtown St. Petersburg near where we live. We sip our coffee and tea, read the paper, surf the Internet and watch the passing stream of humanity.
   Sometimes people recognize me and say, “Aren't you working today?” I smile and say, "No." Inwardly, I muse on that fact. I do miss playing those grand organs. But, mostly, I love my freedom. And the wonderful pipe organ music I hear in my mind sounds perfect - no wrong notes. More and more, my theme is “Never on Sunday”.