General Blog

As we approach the Resurrection in Lamb of God, it is worth remembering that this moment has been prepared for musically from the very beginning.

One of the most profound compositional decisions in this oratorio is the use of the solo cello as the voice of Jesus. Jesus is represented instrumentally rather than with a solo voice like the rest of the characters in this setting of the story. His “voice” is melodic, lyrical, and intimate. It weaves through scenes, sometimes beneath the choir, sometimes emerging with clarity, and sometimes almost hidden.

Before we ever reach the Resurrection, we have learned to recognize Him by sound.

The cello often enters with a warm, singing tone, expressive and almost vocal in quality. It doesn’t dominate. It invites. It pleads. It comforts. In Gethsemane, it feels heavy and yearning. In moments of teaching, it feels steady and compassionate. At the Crucifixion, it becomes strained, exposed, and almost fragile.

And then, after “It is finished,” the cello stops.

That absence is one of the most powerful musical moments in the entire work.
There is no dramatic announcement. No orchestral explosion.
Just absence.

And that absence mirrors the theological reality of Holy Saturday:
the silence of heaven, the confusion of disciples, the ache of grief.

It is in that silence that we enter the Resurrection narrative.

And who enters first?

The women.

In the Gospels, particularly Luke 24, we read:
“Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen.”

In the oratorio, when the choir sings this text, Antha mana bakya anti? (Woman, why weepest thou?), notice the musical shift. The harmony brightens. There is lift. There is vertical space. Rhythms become more energized. The orchestration opens up. It feels like light entering a sealed room. There is hope.

But what I love is that the Resurrection in this work does not begin with triumph. It begins with devotion.

The women come to the tomb not expecting a miracle, but intending to finish a burial.

They come with spices, with love, and with grief.

And heaven entrusts them with the first proclamation of Easter.

That is not incidental.

In a first century world where women’s testimony was not legally valid in many settings, God chooses them as the first witnesses of the most important event in human history.

The first Resurrection sermon was preached to women.

In Gardner’s setting, that truth is amplified by texture. Often, the women’s voices are clear, present, and emotionally forward. There is vulnerability in the lines. The music allows space for sorrow before it moves into revelation.

Then we come to one of the most intimate scenes in the entire oratorio:
Mary at the tomb.

She is weeping.

The music reflects that grief. Harmonies may feel suspended. Phrases may feel unresolved. There is a sense of searching. The orchestra supports but does not overwhelm. It feels small, personal, and almost fragile.

And then the cello returns.

Not with fanfare.

Not with brass.

Not with percussion.

The voice of Jesus comes back the same way He ministered throughout the work: personally.

When Christ says, “Mary,” the music does not shout. It recognizes.

The cello line is often lyrical and direct. It does not argue. It does not defend. It simply calls. And Mary knows that sound.

That moment teaches us something profound about Resurrection theology.

The Resurrection was not first revealed through spectacle, but through relationship.

Jesus could have appeared first to Pilate, to Caiaphas, or to Rome.

Instead, He appears to a grieving woman in a garden.

Musically, Gardner reinforces that intimacy. The cello line feels familiar. It is the same voice we have heard all along. The same melodic identity. The same timbre. The same heart.

The Resurrection is not the introduction of a new Christ.

It is the return of the same Christ, alive.

For us as performers, that continuity matters. When the cello returns, the audience may not consciously think, “Ah, the thematic motif has reappeared.” But they feel it. They recognize it.

Just like Mary did.

There is also something beautiful in how the choir functions in the Resurrection. Earlier in the work, the choir can represent crowds, sometimes faithful and sometimes hostile. They cry “Hosanna.” They cry “Crucify Him.”

But in the Resurrection, the choral sound often becomes unified proclamation.
No longer divided. No longer chaotic.

“He is risen.”

The music itself feels reconciled.

Another subtle but powerful aspect is harmonic resolution. Throughout the Passion narrative, we feel tension: minor tonalities, suspensions that delay resolution, melodic lines that ache. In the Resurrection, those tensions begin to release. Cadences feel earned. Light breaks through harmonically.

It is as if the music itself has been holding its breath and finally…exhales.

Let’s return to the women for a moment.

Mary Magdalene becomes, in many Christian traditions, the “apostle to the apostles,” the one sent to tell the others.

What does she carry?

Not just information.

But encounter.

She does not say, “The angel told me something interesting.”

She says, “I have seen the Lord.”

As we rehearse this section, we are not simply preparing notes and rhythms. We are stepping into that same role.

We become witnesses.

The cello may represent Christ’s voice, but the choir and orchestra represent those who respond to it, those who carry it forward.

Here is what moves me most:

Mary heard Him because she lingered.

She stayed when others left.

She wept. She searched. She remained.

And in that lingering, she recognized His voice.

As musicians, we are invited to linger as well.

To not rush the phrasing.

To not gloss over the silence.

To let the absence after the Crucifixion truly feel empty.

To let the return of the cello truly feel like breath returning to a body.

If we allow ourselves to experience that arc, not just technically but spiritually, then when we perform it, the audience will not just hear music.

They will feel Resurrection.

The women at the tomb teach us that devotion precedes revelation.

The cello teaches us that Christ’s voice is consistent, even through death.

And the Resurrection teaches us that silence is not the end of the story.

“He is not here, but is risen.”

May we play and sing in a way that helps others recognize His voice when it returns.

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This devotional was offered at the Lamb of God (TICAO) choral rehearsal on Sunday, March 8, 2026, International Women’s Day.

The distinction between “traditional” and “contemporary” music in the church is often presented as self-evident, as though these categories were timeless, objective, and universally agreed upon. In practice, however, the line between traditional and contemporary worship music is remarkably fluid. What one generation experiences as new, disruptive, or innovative is frequently absorbed by the next generation as familiar, stable, and even sacred. The debate, therefore, is less about music itself and more about memory, identity, and cultural comfort.

At its core, the traditional and contemporary divide is arbitrary. It does not arise from any clear theological boundary, nor from a consistent musical definition. Instead, it reflects shifting cultural norms, generational attachments, and unspoken assumptions about what “church music” is supposed to sound like. These assumptions often harden into labels that obscure the living, evolving nature of worship.

I was reminded of this arbitrariness a few months ago when we held a hymn-sing service at our church. We invited the congregation to submit hymn requests on index cards so that we could locate the music and project it for communal singing. Many of the cards listed specific hymn titles, often accompanied by a brief note explaining why a particular song mattered to the writer. One card, however, stood out. It was submitted anonymously and contained only two words, written in thick, blue marker and all capital letters: “TRADITIONAL MUSIC.” The letters were pressed hard into the card, and there was a faint but unmistakable edge of frustration in its tone. No titles were named, no explanation offered, just an insistence on a category, as though its meaning were obvious and universally shared. In that moment, it became clear that the traditional versus contemporary debate is rarely about repertoire alone, but about deeper questions of identity, comfort, and belonging.

One of the clearest examples of this arbitrariness is the way Gaither hymns from the 1970s and 1980s are now routinely grouped under the label “traditional.” Songs such as Because He Lives or He Touched Me were once unmistakably contemporary. They emerged from a revivalist, folk-influenced idiom that contrasted sharply with the metrical hymns of earlier centuries. Their harmonic language, emotional directness, and popular musical style initially set them apart from what many churches considered acceptable worship music.

Yet over time, these songs became familiar. Congregations learned them by heart, sang them at funerals and baptisms, and associated them with deeply meaningful moments of faith. As new musical styles entered the church, including praise bands, pop-rock worship songs, and electronic textures, the Gaither repertoire quietly migrated across the boundary into the category of “traditional.” Nothing about the music itself changed. Only the cultural context did.

This pattern is not new. One of the most beloved hymns in Christian history, Amazing Grace, was itself once a contemporary composition. When John Newton wrote it in the late eighteenth century, it did not yet have its now-famous tune and was part of a growing movement of evangelical hymnody that emphasized personal experience, emotional expression, and accessible language. This was a departure from older psalm-singing traditions that dominated earlier Protestant worship.

To many in Newton’s time, hymns like Amazing Grace represented innovation. They reflected theological and musical shifts tied to revival movements and changing social conditions. Today, however, the hymn is often held up as the epitome of “traditional” worship, so much so that its status as once-new is almost unthinkable to many churchgoers.

This example reveals an important truth. “Traditional” is not a fixed category. It is a moving target, defined retrospectively. Music becomes traditional not because of its age alone, but because it has been received, repeated, and woven into communal memory. What matters most is not when a piece was written, but whether it has become a shared language of worship.

Another layer of complexity arises when we consider geography and culture. What counts as traditional worship music in one context may sound entirely contemporary, or even foreign, in another. A pipe organ chorale might feel deeply traditional in a Midwestern mainline Protestant church, while it may feel unfamiliar or distant in a congregation shaped by gospel, global song, or oral traditions.

Likewise, musical forms rooted in African American worship, such as spirituals or gospel hymns, have often been labeled “contemporary” or “special music” in predominantly white congregations, despite having histories as long and venerable as European hymnody. These labels reveal less about the music and more about whose culture has been normalized as “tradition.”

This cultural lens helps explain why stylistic judgments are often mistaken for theological ones. When churches argue over traditional versus contemporary music, they are frequently negotiating questions of identity, belonging, and power rather than doctrine. Musical preference becomes a proxy for deeper anxieties about change, continuity, and generational influence.

A striking illustration of this dynamic can be found in the inclusion of Duke Ellington’s Come Sunday in the United Methodist Hymnal. Composed in the early 1960s as part of Ellington’s Sacred Concerts, Come Sunday emerged from the world of jazz, a genre once considered entirely unsuitable for worship in many mainline churches. Jazz, after all, was associated with nightclubs, improvisation, and cultural spaces outside ecclesial control.

And yet, Come Sunday now appears in a denominational hymnal and is often performed in settings that are explicitly labeled “traditional worship.” Sung with choir, organ, or piano, it functions liturgically in much the same way as older hymns. Its text is prayerful, its melody reverent, and its theological content unmistakably Christian.

The acceptance of Come Sunday exposes the weakness of rigid stylistic categories. Though composed in the twentieth century and rooted in a distinctly American musical idiom, it has been received as a legitimate and even dignified expression of worship. Its “traditional” status emerges not from its origin but from its adoption.

This example also highlights how tradition itself is formed. Tradition is not merely inherited. It is curated. Hymnals, worship planners, pastors, and congregations actively decide what to carry forward. In doing so, they transform once-new music into shared heritage.

Recognizing this process can free the church from unproductive binaries. Instead of asking whether a piece of music is traditional or contemporary, we might ask different questions. Does this music help the congregation pray? Does it speak truthfully about God and the human condition? Does it invite participation rather than performance?

Such questions move the conversation away from taste and toward purpose. They acknowledge that worship music has always evolved, drawing from the musical languages of its time while being shaped by theological reflection and communal discernment.

When we remember that today’s contemporary worship songs may one day be sung with the same reverence as Amazing Grace, humility becomes possible. We are reminded that we are stewards, not gatekeepers, of the church’s song.

Ultimately, the traditional and contemporary divide tells us more about ourselves than about the music we sing. By recognizing its arbitrariness, the church can reclaim a richer, more generous understanding of tradition, one that honors the past, engages the present, and remains open to the future.