The final chapter of Chanting the Psalms by Cynthia Bourgeault is called “Dancing before the Ark.” It is a fitting summary to what she has endeavored to teach her readers about the nature of psalm-chanting. Since I prefer not to end this extended review on a sour note, I’ll discuss the end of the chapter first.

Bourgeault concludes by speculating about whether humankind is on the verge of a new era of consciousness such as broke forth in the “axial period” of ca. 800-200 BC. Such a new consciousness would be “less grounded in the mental egoic perception that sustains our usual sense of selfhood; less dualistic and boundaried; more attuned to a new collectivity where each of us (like individual snowflakes) derive our full meaning and splendor from the whole (the snow)” (208).

In all candor, this strikes me as the sort of gobbledygook I would expect to hear on Oprah. For all the strengths of this book—and there are many—Bourgeault can sometimes sound like every negative stereotype a traditional Christian ever had of the liberal-progressive Episcopal priest that she is. I appreciate the psychological and spiritual insights she brings to the table, and I have no qualms about drawing phenomenological comparisons to similar chanting practices in other world religions, but she sounds in places like someone not entirely at home within the Christian tradition and perhaps longing for something she believes she cannot find in it. Isn’t there a story out there about a Buddhist or Hindu wise man who turned away a western spiritual seeker by telling him first to master his own spiritual tradition (i.e., Christianity) before looking elsewhere for enlightenment? And yet, Bourgeault is interested in the Dalai Lama and Sufi zikr chants, even though she gives no evidence of exploring her own tradition in terms of Christian psalmody and chanting prior to the rise of monasticism: she has literally nothing to say about the place of the psalms in the New Testament period (among either Jews or Christians), the practice of “jubilation” as an improvisational chant-form, its possible connections with “singing in the spirit,” etc. This is the chapter I would have liked to have read. It would have been far more useful in an introductory book on Christian psalmody than these speculations.

With that little bit of unpleasantness behind us, let me tell you what I liked about this chapter. Bourgeault offers an intriguing insight into the story of David dancing before the ark of the covenant (2 Sam 6) as a metaphor for the spiritual effects of psalm-chanting. David is acclaimed as the author of many of the psalms—and over the centuries tradition added even more psalms to his repertoire! While this ascription is only partly true historically, Bourgeault asserts, “it is one hundred percent true emotionally, for his spirit throbs through the songs, and this vivid incident before the ark is esentially an icon of all I’ve been saying about the psalms throughout this book” (204). She finds three points of comparison:

Passion. David in this story is passionate, and so are the psalms. They give expression to all the feelings human beings are capable of. “For nearly three thousand years,” Bourgeault writes, “the psalms have held up the mirror to the sacred reality of our human journey with all its seething untidiness…. They encourage us to engage honestly and fully with the power and profundity that is life itself. Like David, they are a life force calling us to the dance” (205).

Creativity. David’s response to God involved creativity: “When moved to the core, he doesn’t just yell and jump; he dances. The passion of his heart is transformed into a sacred art form that gives shape and direction to his emotions” (205). The psalms seem to have a “catalytic” effect, calling for a variety of creative responses, from the illuminated psalters and breviaries of the Middle Ages to the legends of seafaring Saint Brendan to the great medieval cathedrals and the continuing experimentation in the artistry of Taizé and Gouzes chant.

Vulnerability. Just as David stripped off his royal robes to dance dressed only in his loincloth, the psalms “strip away our psychological battle armor and invite (in fact, impel) us to dance naked before God, revealing our shadow and wounds: our undigested anger, self-pity, and vindictiveness, those dark places we would prefer to keep hidden” (206).

Chanting the Psalms is a valuable spiritual resource. It is a great practical introduction to Christian psalmody, and those who know more about music and music history than I do may well find it an even greater treasure. Reading it has certainly inspired me to take a fresh look at the psalms and renew my commitment to spending much time with them in my own devotions.

In the eleventh century, Saint Romuald wrote, “The psalms are your path; never leave it” (207). Bourgeault’s book unpacks a bit of what Romuald meant and invites Christians today to begin to take his lesson to heart.

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The final section of Cynthia Bourgeault’s Chanting the Psalms deals with some radically new experiments in Christian chant. In chapter 14, “Is There Chanting beyond the Psalms?” Bourgeault reminds us that classic Christian psalmody “is an art of high intelligibility requiring focused attention and a willingness to engage with the images and emotions that the psalms offer up as the working laboratory for personal transformation” (163). As such, it is fundamentally different than the chanting traditions of most other world religions in classic spiritual terminology, it is a cataphatic practice (i.e., engaging the faculties or reason, memory, feeling, etc.) rather than an apophatic one (i.e., transcending into “formless or unboundaried selfhood,” 165). In classic Christian spirituality, it is meant to lay the groundwork for contemplation by “purifying the passions and awakening the heart’s capacity to feel deeply about spiritualities” (164). It is not intended to evoke the contemplative state itself.

Where, then, does that leave those of us who do not have the time, resources, or inclination to join a monastery in order to devote ourselves to the rigorous discipline that traditional psalmody requires? One solution, explored in great detail in chapters 7-13, is in the direction of simplification: opting for simple, uncomplicated psalm tones or for an increasing use of refrains for the choral parts. Even in simplified settings, however, psalm chanting takes a great deal of diligence.

Another, far more radical, option is presented in the chapters to follow. This option is more of a fundamental revision of the spirituality of Christian chant, bringing it more in line with how chant functions in other religious traditions: as “a primarily apophatic practice intended to transcend ego consciousness rather than purify it” (168). In chapters 15-17, Bourgeault briefly describes four current experiments in just this sort of Christian chanting.

Chapter 15 deals with perhaps the most widely known example of the revision of the spirituality of Christian chant, “Taizé Chant.” Bourgeault defines the chant tradition of the Taizé Community as a form of “ostinato chant” which has been elevated to a whole new art form. As she describes it,

A traditional ostinato is a simple tune or harmonic progression repeated continuously throughout a composition. Typically, it’s found in the bass line (usually played instrumentally by an organ or a cello); its major purpose is to serve as the harmonic foundation for a more complex musical expansion in the upper voices. Like a cinder block foundation, it is useful but not terribly appealing in itself.

But Berthier’s use of the ostinato form [at Taizé] essentially stood tradition on its head. In Taizé chant, the ostinato becomes the center of interest, the main place where both the action and its deeper meaning unfold. The entire congregation sings the simple, repetitive melody (usually in two- or four-voice harmony or in canon), while optional vocal and instrumental soloists add the musical variety and expansion. (171-72)

Chapter 16, “Songs of the Presence,” describes a form of spontaneous, improvisational singing based, as at Taizé, on the repetition of a simple text: “Rather like a flock of birds all swooping together in flight, this is an experiment in spontaneous presence to a guiding intelligence deeper than the mind” (184). This form of chant has been popularized by Lynn Bauman, director of the Praxis Retreat and Learning Center in Elwood, Texas. According to Bourgeault,

Like Taizé chant, this new body of chants works on the principle of repetition. A short phrase or sentence is sung continuously, creating the ostinato chant effect of drawing the prayer deeper. Unlike Taizé, however, the Songs of the Presence are intentionally improvisational. The chant tune is a simple melody set within an implicit harmonic pattern. The full realization of the chant’s potential depends on each group hearing the harmonic possibilities and unfolding them spontaneously in the synergy of the moment. Every chant is its own unique and unrepeatable event. (186)

This strikes me as in some ways similar to the ancient practice of jubilation, and I wish Bourgeault had helped connect the dots between the two forms of improvised singing.

Finally, in chapter 17, Bourgeault deals briefly with “Iona Chant and Gouzes Chant.” While chapters 15 and 16 dealt with experiments in a more apophatic approach to chanting, in the approaches discussed here, we are firmly back in cataphatic territory.

“Iona chant” is, technically speaking, a misnomer, as the Protestant Iona Community understands its music to be songs, not chants. Still, this new musical genre has an obvious contemplative spirit. Bourgeault describes it as follows:

Iona chant tends to be much more rhythmic than Taizé, in keeping with its African and Latino influences. Dotted and syncopated rhythms abound, and frequent use is made of a call-and-response format, both between cantor and congregation and within the musical voice parts themselves…. While the songs are not primarily contemplative in their intent, they have earned a place in the hearts of contemporary contemplatives because of their profound musical and mystical beauty (195-96)

Finally, Gouzes chant is classic psalmody, yet in a distinctly different form. Gouzes chant originated in France within the Fraternités monastiques de Jérusalem (FMJ), one of the fastest growing young monastic orders in Europe. The form takes its name from André Gouzes, a Dominican priest and composer. Again, I’ll let Bourgeault describe this form of chant in her own words:

On a first hearing, Gouzes chant can sound deceptively straightforward, as if the choir is merely singing simple harmonic progressions. But one soon realizes that these “simple” progressions do not emanate from a northern European harmonic base (as with Taizé). Instead, they echo the modal system of Byzantine chant and the pentatonic flavor of much of Near Eastern and Islamic chant; in fact, they sometimes echo them simultaneously, for Gouzes can marry these two distinct musical color palettes with astonishing effectiveness. The most striking musical signature of Gouzes chant is that the voice parts tend to operate in close harmony, with frequent accidentals and dissonances. (199)

Gouzes chant is still largely a Francophone phenomenon, but its “musical genius” is already well attested in Europe.

Next: Part 12

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