Me, Jame Erb, and the Nature of God

I struggle with religion. Not faith; I see that as a kind of higher purpose, or touchstones that help me be my best self. When I need to be both strong and just, I find my inner Princess Leia or ask what Atticus Finch would do. Most religions want to be a touchstone, but I’ve found it’s usually for their own purposes.

I was in my car recently when I heard a radio piece on Chanticleer – a professional all male chorus doing mind-blowing vocal arrangements on songs spanning millennia and hundreds of world cultures. The song that made me pull over was ‘Oh, Shenandoah.’ There’s nothing remarkable about the tune itself, but I recognized the arrangement: It was based on a lush SSAATTBB version by James Erb and I’d performed it back in high school. We switched ours up a little, giving the third verse to one of our star soloists – a 17-year old Richard Zeller who went on to become one of America’s most celebrated concert/operatic baritones. He brought tears to my eyes every time we performed it; I still get goosebumps all these millions of years later. When done correctly, I think this is one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written for the human voice.

Seems like an oversell, right? This is just a rusty little wagon wheel of a folk song about longing for home. But James Erb created something truly magical. From a high unison soprano entrance, he gently layers vocal parts one on another, allowing them to get richer and more complex as the song moves along. The whole thing culminates in a gorgeous recap of the first verse in a three-part rondo style. The now familiar lyrics and melody come echoing down the valley between the sopranos, mezzos and altos, with the men’s voices in unbroken pedal tones, the strong current of the river beneath us. By the end of your tour through the valley, voices of both the sky and water converge on a unison high E. The path of this mighty river now a single vanishing point on the horizon. Kills me. Every. Damned. Time.

The same thing happens when I hear the Yale Whiffenpoofs (yes, that’s really their name) perform their version of ‘O Holy Night.’ It’s always been one of my favorite Christmas carols. I love how it starts so simple and reverent, but then things get big and we’re eventually commanded to ‘FAAAAAAALLLL on your KNEEEEEEEES!!! O HEEEEEEEEEEEEEAR the angel VOOOOOooices – O NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGGHT deVIIIIIIIIINE!!’ Very stirring. Then I heard the Yale fellas sing it like a sweet little prayer, done softly as if they didn’t want to wake the baby.

Man (*sob*).

I’m really not a crier! But as I’ve gotten older, I get clobbered by a kind of sensory overload. It’s not just about music, but there often seems to be music involved in these shuddering bouts of wonder: the Broadway production of ‘The Lion King,’ watching my first live Cirque du Soleil show, every time I go to the ballet. It also happens when I go to the Dale Chihuly ‘Gardens In Glass’ installation up in Seattle. It’s a… creativity onslaught. I’m punched in the chest with a sense of our own majesty. Look at the amazing things we can do. Cue the involuntary gushing of the eyeballs.

So what inspired the Wiffenpoofers to perform a song in just that way? What caused us to melt sand and figure out how to bend and shape and color that molten stuff, first into useful tools, then into inexplicable works of art? Why do dancers push themselves beyond the limit of pain and endurance for the sake of creating shapes in air? How did Mr. Erb come up with that voicing and those particular notes in that specific arrangement? What is it about those voices making sounds in just that way that makes me start sobbing uncontrollably? I don’t know, but I think that’s me bumping up against God. Or at least how I think of it.

See, I don’t really believe in God. But I do believe in GOOD. I believe in the goodness that lives in every one of us, and that it’s enough to rework the fabric of the world. I believe in the power TO rather than the power OVER. The power to create something beautiful. The power to elevate each other to a state of shared wonder, even if it’s only for a few minutes.

I think God is our own unmitigated joy. And for [St.] Pete’s sake, how easy is it to believe in joy? It’s way easier than worshiping some grandfatherly Zeus Santa Claus PowerRanger dude on a big shiny throne who seems to delight in moving the goal posts, setting up terms and conditions, and making us beg and promise and plead our case nonstop. (For an all-knowing, all-powerful being, He behaves a lot like Lucy from the Peanuts comics.) I don’t think God’s hole up in a church waiting to be metered out by some elite procurers of grace. In fact, I’m pretty sure men made that up so they could charge admission. God’s certainly not in an archaic book that makes no sense and is constantly contradicting itself.

Nope. God is there between our own lines, in and all around those notes that get written and sung, in artists needing to express something extraordinary, in the tiny articulations of a surgeon saving a life, or in giving someone a sandwich with no expectation of a return. God is right here in our willingness to be good to one another. And look, I don’t have to wait for Sunday to experience God again. I can hit rewind and there it is: that amazing, magical collection of perfect things strung together in a way that makes me happy.

There’s also no Satan or any kind of external force for evil. We don’t need any help being bad. It’s a natural state for some people, usually driven by the only true evil forces in the world: Our own fear and greed. Fear of not having enough, of uncertainty, of being less-than, greed for more money, more power, more love.

When you zoom out, God and Satan end up serving the same function: They give us a reason to praise or blame something outside ourselves rather than accepting responsibility. We’ve invented superpowers battling it out over our souls as a means of insulating ourselves. Religion tries to be your only source of good feeling and a handy garbage disposal for all crappy stuff, and it comes with a price. Literally (“Hi! Annual tithing is coming due! Please fill out this form and bring it to the Rectory next week! Thx!”). It’s scary realizing that you and your choices have brought you to this point, and you are the only one who can change course going forward. No waiting for divine intervention; none of ‘the devil made me do it’ nonsense. At some point, I realized I’m the only force for good or evil, and I get to decide which way it breaks for me, every day.

What I’m gonna do is take every opportunity to be surprised by creativity. When I find something that gives me the sobs or goosebumps, I’m going to send it and link it and forward and share the shit out of it. I’m also making a deliberate effort not to pour more vitriol on fires that don’t need any more encouragement. This is hard for me. For many reasons. Knowing I probably won’t stop calling out stupidity and injustice when I see it, I’m going to work at least twice as hard at making other people happy than I do at indulging myself with that nonsense.

Because if we all did that, I think that fear and greed would lose their grip on us. And how great would that be?

Sticks and Stones

This is by far the oldest and deepest of the practical magics. However, it’s only as strong as you allow it to be. Like Tinkerbell, you need to believe it in: 

Sticks and stone may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me.

People are cruel. They say stupid shit, but it’s only sounds; noises. We assign the meaning and value. Are those words true? Do they serve any purpose other than upsetting you or making you feel small? Probably not. But here we hit a nerve; it’s the reason why this one often fails us when we really need it: We don’t always have time to put this charm in place before the curse has been thrown. Finding and using your guts is hard when there’s already a knife in them.

How do I know? I’ll tell you about Keri Wilson. We went through grade school together, often in the same class by some absurd twist of fate. She was the Alpha and Omega Mean Girl; pretty, very well dressed, a quiet, delicate little thing with perfect hair, the center of the A-Group (better known as the universe) and all the boys wanted to marry her. Or at least she thought so. I, on the other hand, was tall, clunky-chunky (bigger than most of the boys until high school), stick-straight hair except for some unfortunate cowlicks, “very social” (teacher-speak for loud and disruptive), sporting fashions a la Sears and JCPenney.

(Ask me how I know.) Because I’m wasn’t going to show them my blood, I developed this thing where I looked them square in the eye for a few seconds, judging, squinted a little and said, ‘You’re ugly,” and walked away.

Opting Out

It’s a beautiful spring day. You’re on a nice walk. There’s a dog up ahead and he drops a big steamer on the sidewalk right in your line of approach. Do you pick that shit up and make it your own? Schmeer it all over your clothes, your face and hair; maybe put some in your pocket for later so you can make jewelry with it once it dries? Of course not. It’s gross. In addition to being unhygienic, handling shit is a common indicator of psychosis. When someone drops shit in your path, don’t embrace it. Step over, go around, or -ideally- kick it off the sidewalk so no one else has to step in it. Choose not to opt in to whatever wrong nonsense someone tries to run on you.

Another method of opting out: You’re in a tug of war. On the other end of the rope is an asshole and his goal is to humiliate you. With every new insult or cruelty, he pulls you closer to that score line which will be you posting an ugly cry. Except, you never saw the signup sheet for this! [he drags you closer to the mud…] In a flash of clarity, you realize that the only way he can pull you down is if you’re holding onto the other end of the rope… so… you simply let go, and he falls on his ass like an idiot. Sure, you technically lose at tug of war, but who cares? You win at denying him the power to upset you. You’re clean and on your feet, heading for the fourth period Chemistry. Your tormentor is dirty and bruised and on his ass. All you had to do was JUST LET GO OF THE DAMN ROPE.

My mom had another little piece of magic called, “Consider the Source.” It’s a helpful sort of…equation to help you determine if this problem is really worth your time. Is the troll related to you? Do they hold any claims of friendship with you or those you love? Do they pay your bills, or are they in a position to either advance your career or end it? Would you suffer in any measurable way if they simply fell off the planet? If you answer NO to any of these, then who cares? Why do you need that person’s praise? Why are you so desperate for the good opinion of someone who’s bringing no value to your life?

All you tender-hearted, everything-matters little darlings need to think about your caring as a precious resource. Put a dollar value on it! Little brother acting like a general dickhead $2. He puts your favorite wool sweater in the dryer and shrinks it down to Barbie size? $6 + Telling Mom (and maybe putting some kitty roca in his favorite shoes, but that’s just me). One of your 2nd tier friends leaves you off of a fun Snapchat: 50 cents. Bestie does the same: $3. You have $20 worth of Shits to give today. Try to have some left at the end of the day. Go forth. Spend wisely.

If you’re still feeling butt-hurt about things someone says or does to you, remember 94% of the people who’ve been mean to you will be doomed to a long life of painful mediocrity. The only rewards they collect are measured in retweets, which have little if any measurable value. In the same way you avoided the shit and dropped the rope, you can opt out of this game as well! Go read a book or do some volunteer work.

I’m not made uncomfortable by you expressing your opinions, because I have my Sticks-n-Stones mojo properly installed. Fuck all that. Get over it. The world’s a big, crazy place, and the sooner you grow some actual skin, the happier you’re going to be.