Uncategorized

Artificial intelligence has now crossed a threshold that many musicians hoped would remain hypothetical for a little while longer. AI-generated artists are appearing on Billboard charts, earning streams, signing deals, and in some cases fooling listeners entirely. Projects like Xania Monet and Breaking Rust have already charted on Billboard and streaming platforms, signaling that AI music is no longer a novelty confined to internet experiments.

As someone whose life has been shaped by rehearsals, choirs, worship services, theater pits, classrooms, and live stages, I do not support the use of AI to create music. I understand the appeal of efficiency. I understand the fascination with technology. But music is one of the few remaining art forms that depends not only on sound, but on humanity itself. Music is memory, breath, imperfection, risk, and lived experience. A machine can imitate style, but it cannot suffer, rejoice, mourn, love, believe, or wrestle with meaning.

What troubles me most is not necessarily the technology itself, but the growing willingness to replace artistic labor with algorithmic convenience. AI-generated music is often defended as “just another tool,” but there is a meaningful difference between using technology to assist creativity and allowing technology to become the creator. A microphone amplifies a singer. Recording software edits a performance. A synthesizer expands a palette of sounds. Those technologies still depend on a human being making artistic decisions. Generative AI, however, attempts to bypass the deeply human process altogether.

At the same time, I cannot deny reality. AI music is here, and it will likely continue growing. Billboard itself has documented the increasing presence of AI-generated artists on the charts, and major conversations are now happening throughout the music industry about what authenticity even means in the streaming era. We are entering a moment where listeners may genuinely struggle to distinguish between human-created and machine-generated recordings.

Ironically, I believe this development may strengthen live music rather than destroy it.

For decades, recorded music has steadily become more polished, corrected, compressed, edited, and detached from the physical reality of performance. Entire generations have grown accustomed to hearing music that could never actually happen on a stage. AI may push that trend so far that audiences begin craving the exact opposite: authenticity. They will want to know a human being is truly singing. They will want to hear breaths between phrases, imperfections in pitch, spontaneous interaction, unrehearsed moments, and the energy that exists only in a room full of living people.

I see this every week in my work at the Gaslight Theatre. In many ways, the Gaslight Theatre understands something Silicon Valley never will: audiences are not looking for perfection nearly as much as they are looking for humanity. The entire experience of melodrama theater depends on human unpredictability. Audiences are not simply attending to hear songs or watch a polished production. They come for the improvisation, the occasional mistakes, the cast interactions, the ad-libs, the audience participation, and the feeling that anything could happen at any moment. Some of the loudest laughter and strongest audience reactions come from moments no AI could ever predict or replicate. The imperfections are not flaws in the performance; they are often the very thing that makes the performance memorable.

In many ways, the enduring success of the Gaslight model reveals something important about audiences today. Even in an age dominated by streaming algorithms and digital entertainment, people still pack theaters to watch live human beings create something together in real time. They want spontaneity. They want risk. They want to feel connected to performers who are visibly and emotionally present in the room with them. That desire for authenticity may become even stronger as AI-generated entertainment becomes more common.

A live concert offers something AI can never fully replicate: presence. No algorithm can recreate the communal experience of hundreds of people singing together at a concert, the tension before a downbeat, or the electricity of a performer responding to the audience in real time. Music has always been deeply social. Even in an increasingly digital culture, people still crave gathering around shared human experiences. In fact, the more artificial media becomes, the more valuable authentic presence will become.

That means artists should stop thinking of live performance as secondary to streaming success. In the coming years, live performance may become the primary marker of legitimacy. Artists who build genuine communities around concerts, local performances, touring ensembles, and interactive experiences will likely have a stronger long-term future than artists chasing algorithmic virality alone.

Musicians can prepare for this shift in practical ways. First, artists need to become exceptional live performers. Audiences are no longer paying simply to hear songs; they are paying to experience personality, storytelling, connection, and artistry in real time. Strong stage presence, audience engagement, thoughtful programming, and emotional honesty matter more than ever.

Second, artists should lean into locality and community. AI-generated music thrives in anonymous digital spaces, but human music thrives in relationships. Local concert series, house concerts, collaborations with community organizations, church music programs, regional theater, chamber ensembles, and independent venues all create spaces where audiences encounter real people instead of content streams. Musicians who cultivate those relationships will remain valuable regardless of technological trends.

Third, artists should document the human process behind their work. Audiences increasingly want to see rehearsal footage, songwriting sessions, recording outtakes, conversations with collaborators, and the messy reality of creation. Transparency itself may become a form of artistic credibility. In a world flooded with synthetic content, proof of humanity becomes part of the art.

Finally, musicians must remember that artistry has never been solely about efficiency. The value of music is not that it can be generated quickly. Its value lies precisely in the fact that it costs something human to make. The hours of practice, failed rehearsals, emotional vulnerability, technical discipline, and personal sacrifice are not obstacles to art. They are the very reason art matters.

I do not celebrate the rise of AI-generated artists on the charts. As a musician, educator, conductor, and scholar, it pains me to watch music increasingly treated as disposable content rather than human expression. But I also believe this moment presents an opportunity. The more synthetic our culture becomes, the more audiences may hunger for authenticity. And when that happens, the musicians who can stand on a stage, look an audience in the eye, embrace the unpredictability of live performance, and create something unmistakably human will become more valuable than ever.

One of the most repeated claims in popular church music discussions is the assertion that “many old hymns were originally bar songs” or that the church intentionally borrowed tunes from taverns and pubs in order to make worship music more familiar to ordinary people. The statement is appealing because it sounds rebellious, clever, and historically grounded. It is frequently repeated in sermons, church music workshops, and online debates as a defense for contemporary worship styles. Yet the historical evidence for this sweeping claim is remarkably thin. While a small number of hymn tunes may have connections to secular melodies, the broad narrative that churches routinely adopted drinking songs for congregational worship is largely a myth.

Part of the confusion comes from the way music functioned in earlier centuries. Before recordings, radio, or commercial copyright systems, melodies circulated freely among many different social settings. A tune might appear in a folk song, a dance collection, a theatrical work, and later in a sacred text. This does not necessarily mean the church “borrowed” a tavern song. In many cases, the tune already existed in broader musical culture long before it appeared in either a church or a pub. Folk melodies were communal property, not the exclusive possession of any one setting or institution. The English tune GREENSLEEVES (from approximately 1580), now commonly associated with the Christmas carol What Child Is This? (text from 1865), demonstrates this kind of circulation. Long before its later sacred association, the melody appeared widely in instrumental collections, ballad traditions, and popular secular settings throughout England. Its history reflects the fluid movement of melodies across society rather than a deliberate effort by the church to adopt bar music.

The claim also misunderstands the chronology of many famous hymn tunes. Some melodies now accused of being “bar songs” were actually composed for sacred or formal use first. Over time, popular culture adopted and reused these tunes in secular contexts because they were memorable and widely known. In other words, the movement of music often flowed from church to society rather than from tavern to sanctuary. This pattern was especially common in Europe and early America, where churches were among the largest and most influential musical institutions in public life. The tune OLD HUNDREDTH, now most closely associated with the Doxology, is a prime example. Originally connected to the Genevan Psalter of the sixteenth century, the melody emerged from a distinctly sacred Reformed tradition before later appearing in civic ceremonies, patriotic settings, educational contexts, and public culture far beyond the walls of the church.

One figure often pulled into this discussion is Martin Luther. It is frequently claimed that Luther took drinking songs and turned them into hymns of the Protestant Reformation. Historians, however, have found little evidence for this accusation. Luther certainly encouraged congregational singing and occasionally adapted existing melodies, but most of the tunes associated with his hymns were either newly composed, drawn from sacred chant traditions, or adapted from respectable folk music rather than tavern music. The charge that Luther filled the church with drinking songs appears to have originated more from later critics than from documented historical practice.

Similarly, the Wesleyan revival in eighteenth-century England is often cited as another example of pub melodies entering the church. Yet Charles Wesley and John Wesley generally paired their hymn texts with established sacred tunes or newly composed melodies intended for worship. While Methodism embraced accessible music and vigorous congregational participation, there is little evidence that the Wesleys intentionally raided taverns for melodies. In fact, many early Methodist leaders were deeply concerned about maintaining moral and spiritual seriousness in worship music.

Another source of misunderstanding lies in the term “secular.” Modern listeners often imagine a sharp divide between sacred and secular music, but earlier societies did not always organize music in that way. A melody used for a folk dance could later appear in a sacred anthem without scandal because tunes themselves were not considered morally fixed objects. The moral meaning of music was shaped more by its text, context, and performance than by the melody alone. Thus, the occasional overlap between sacred and secular repertories should not be interpreted as deliberate attempts to smuggle drinking culture into worship.

Ironically, there is strong evidence that taverns, theaters, and popular entertainment venues frequently borrowed from church music because hymns were among the most familiar melodies in society. Congregational singing gave people a shared musical vocabulary. A tune learned in church on Sunday could easily reappear in political songs, patriotic music, folk ballads, or comedic stage productions during the week. This direction of influence is often ignored in modern retellings of the “bar song hymn” myth because it disrupts the more dramatic narrative that churches succeeded by imitating popular culture.

The persistence of this myth today often reveals more about current debates than about historical reality. The story is commonly used to justify stylistic innovation in worship by suggesting that the church has always copied popular music trends. Yet history is more nuanced. Churches throughout the centuries have certainly adapted musical languages familiar to their communities, but they have also cultivated distinct musical traditions meant to elevate worship and support theology. Sacred music has never been merely an imitation of entertainment culture.

Ultimately, the history of hymnody is far richer and more complex than the simplistic claim that “old hymns were once pub songs.” A few isolated examples of crossover certainly exist, as they do in nearly every musical tradition. However, the widespread assertion that churches routinely pulled melodies out of bars in order to attract worshippers is historically exaggerated and often backwards. In many cases, it was secular culture that borrowed from the church’s music, not the other way around. Understanding this distinction allows for a more honest and historically grounded conversation about worship, tradition, and the evolving role of music in the life of the church.

---

Recommended Reading

Rubén González stands as one of the most elegant and influential pianists in the history of Afro-Cuban jazz. Known for his lyrical touch, rhythmic sophistication, and deep connection to traditional Cuban forms such as son, danzón, and mambo, González helped shape a piano style that bridged classical technique with street-level musical intuition. Though he spent decades performing in Cuba’s golden era of dance orchestras, his international recognition arrived later in life, introducing global audiences to the richness of Afro-Cuban musical heritage through his expressive and understated artistry.

Born in Santa Clara, Cuba, in 1919, González trained as a classical pianist before gravitating toward popular Cuban music. His work with major Cuban ensembles in the mid-twentieth century helped define the piano’s evolving role in Afro-Cuban jazz, particularly in its blending of syncopated montuno patterns with harmonic sophistication. González’s style was distinctive for its balance between rhythmic drive and melodic clarity, allowing him to accompany singers and instrumentalists while also standing out as a compelling solo voice.

Despite his stature within Cuban musical circles, González spent years outside the international spotlight after the decline of Havana’s nightlife scene in the early 1960s. By the 1990s, however, his rediscovery became one of the most remarkable musical revivals of the century. Encouraged to return to the piano after a period of relative inactivity, he demonstrated that his artistry had lost none of its warmth, agility, or emotional depth.

This resurgence culminated in his participation in the Buena Vista Social Club project, which brought together veteran Cuban musicians whose careers had flourished before the Cuban Revolution. González’s piano playing became one of the defining elements of the ensemble’s sound. His gentle yet rhythmically grounded approach supported singers and instrumentalists alike, creating a musical atmosphere that felt both intimate and timeless. His performances captured the elegance of pre-revolutionary Cuban dance halls while introducing new listeners to the expressive power of traditional son-based arrangements.

The international success of the Buena Vista Social Club recording and subsequent performances owed much to the involvement of American guitarist and producer Ry Cooder. Cooder helped assemble the group, facilitated the recording sessions in Havana, and played a key role in bringing these musicians to worldwide attention. Rather than overshadowing the Cuban artists, his work emphasized authenticity and respect for their traditions, allowing performers like González to shine on their own terms. The project became both a preservation effort and a cultural bridge, connecting generations and continents through shared musical appreciation.

My own introduction to the Buena Vista Social Club came unexpectedly during my high school Spanish I class with my teacher, Carrie Witter. Her decision to incorporate Cuban music into the classroom opened a door that traditional language exercises never could. Listening to these recordings gave me a sense of cultural immersion that helped make the language come alive, and it is no exaggeration to say that this musical exposure played a meaningful role in helping me successfully complete the course. More importantly, it sparked a lasting appreciation for Cuban music that continues today.

That early encounter with the music became even more meaningful years later when I had the opportunity to visit Havana in 2018 while working on the Carnival Paradise. Walking through the streets of the city whose musical traditions had produced artists like Rubén González felt like stepping into the living context behind the recordings I had first heard in the classroom. The rhythms, architecture, and atmosphere reinforced how deeply place and culture shape musical expression and deepened my appreciation for the musical legacy preserved in the Buena Vista Social Club recordings.

Rubén González’s legacy endures not only through his recordings but through the renewed global interest in Afro-Cuban jazz that the Buena Vista Social Club project helped inspire. One example of his continuing influence in my own teaching is that his piece “Mandinga” has been included in the required listening for the MUS 112A Group Piano class at Cochise College since I began teaching the course in January. Introducing students to González’s playing in this way helps connect them with authentic Afro-Cuban piano style while reinforcing the historical importance of his work. For listeners and students alike, his music represents both a personal musical discovery and a connection to a broader story of preservation, collaboration, and cultural celebration.

---

Recently, I had the pleasure of joining host Finley Woolston on The Choral Tradition, broadcast on Public Radio East’s Classical Station, for a conversation about choral music and the many ways it connects singers and listeners across traditions, seasons, and communities.

During the program, we explored a selection of recordings that highlight both sacred repertoire and expressive contemporary arranging, featuring ensembles and singers from my work with the University of Arizona and the Tucson Interfaith Choir and Orchestra:

• I Walked Today Where Jesus Walked (arr. Brandon Stewart), Tucson Interfaith Choir
• Winter by Tori Amos (arr. Fiona Lander), University of Arizona Treble Glee, with Jazz Caley and Kieryn Zizzo, soloists
• Ave verum corpus by William Byrd, University of Arizona Recital Choir
• Abendlied by Felix Mendelssohn, University of Arizona Treble Glee
• Kiddush by Kurt Weill, University of Arizona Recital Choir, with Dane Carten, soloist

Together, these selections reflect a wide expressive landscape including pilgrimage and devotion, memory and stillness, Renaissance clarity, Romantic warmth, and the rich cultural voice of twentieth century sacred art song. It was a joy to share the stories behind these pieces and the ensembles who brought them to life.

I am grateful to Finley Woolston and the team at Public Radio East for the opportunity to talk about this music and the communities that make it possible. I hope you enjoy listening to the conversation as much as I enjoyed being part of it.

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.

---

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.

The beloved Advent hymn O Come, O Come, Emmanuel is far older than its familiar nineteenth-century English form. Its origins lie in the medieval “O Antiphons,” the sequence of chants sung in the final seven days of Advent beginning at least as early as the eighth century. These ancient antiphons, such as O Sapientia, O Adonai, and O Radix Jesse, invoke Christ through vivid titles drawn from Scripture. In The Carols of Christmas, Andrew Gant notes that the hymn’s plainchant roots carried a sense of mystery, antiquity, and linguistic richness that captivated generations of writers, including one who would later reshape the landscape of modern fantasy: J. R. R. Tolkien.

Tolkien, a philologist before he was a novelist, was deeply shaped by medieval languages, liturgy, and poetry. Among the texts that gripped his imagination was the Old English poem Crist, attributed to Cynewulf, which paraphrases and expands the imagery of the “O Antiphons.” In this poem appears the striking figure Éarendel, described as a “brightest of angels” or a radiant morning star. Tolkien first encountered the word as a young man and later wrote that it “pierced my heart,” launching decades of myth making. Gant points out that the linguistic and theological world surrounding the antiphons, including their Latin poetry, English paraphrases, and chant melodies, formed part of the imaginative soil from which Tolkien’s legendarium grew.

The resonance does not stop with Éarendel. Tolkien’s term Middle earth also reflects the cosmological language of early English Christian poetry. The Old English word middangeard, used in biblical translations and devotional verse, refers to the human world situated between heaven above and the underworld below. This worldview saturates the same medieval literary culture that preserved the “O Antiphons” and eventually produced the chant that became O Come, O Come, Emmanuel. Gant shows how such linguistic echoes, rooted in Scripture, chant, and liturgical imagination, helped Tolkien construct a mythic world that feels at once ancient and spiritually resonant.

The hymn’s plea, “O come, O Dayspring,” corresponds to the antiphon O Oriens, which proclaims Christ as the rising light shining on those in darkness. This imagery, so central to Advent, also parallels Tolkien’s lifelong fascination with light as a theological and symbolic force: the light of the Two Trees, the Silmarils, the star of Eärendil. While Tolkien did not simply borrow from the hymn, the shared wellspring of biblical prophecy, medieval poetry, and chant tradition gave him a vocabulary of light, longing, and hope. These traits shape both The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings.

Ultimately, as Gant suggests, the connection between Tolkien and O Come, O Come, Emmanuel is not one of direct adaptation but of shared inheritance. Both arise from a long Christian tradition that treasured language, prophecy, and the expectation of redemption. The same medieval world that sang the “O Antiphons” also gave young Tolkien the words that stirred his imagination and through him it gave us Middle earth itself. During Advent, when we sing this ancient hymn, we join a chorus whose imagery has inspired faithful hearts for centuries, weaving together Scripture, song, and story in a way that continues to illuminate our lives today.

During the Protestant Reformation, music became one of the most powerful ways to teach, unite, and inspire the people of God. Reformers like John Calvin believed that congregational singing was not merely decoration for worship; it was a form of prayer, theology, and discipline. To Calvin, every voice in the church should be part of the song, lifting the same text together in reverence and understanding. For that to happen, the people needed a shared songbook, one grounded in Scripture itself.

Enter Louis Bourgeois, a French composer who worked alongside Calvin in Geneva during the mid-16th century. Bourgeois took on the remarkable task of creating music for Calvin’s project, the Genevan Psalter, a collection of metrical settings of the Psalms crafted so that ordinary worshippers could sing God’s Word in their own language. He wrote many of the melodies himself, shaping them to be both beautiful and singable, music that was reverent, accessible, and distinctly Reformed in character.

The Genevan Psalter, completed in 1562, became one of the most influential hymnbooks in history. Its melodies traveled across Europe, inspiring countless translations and adaptations. In Scotland, it became the foundation of the Scottish Psalter; in England, it shaped the singing tradition of the Reformed Church. The Psalter embodied Calvin’s vision of “the people’s song,” a worship where the congregation itself became the choir.

Bourgeois’s work was not without controversy. His revisions were sometimes seen as too bold, and at one point he was even jailed briefly for altering tunes without permission. Yet his devotion to clarity and singability set the tone for generations of sacred music. His most famous tune, “Old 100th,” remains one of the most beloved hymn melodies today. When we sing psalms and hymns together, we continue a legacy that stretches back to Calvin’s Geneva, a reminder that worship is not a performance but a shared act of faith uniting head, heart, and voice in praise.