A Reply by Tripp Hudgins

This makes all the hell too much sense. Now, how do I overcome it?

Someone come and finish my dissertation. was originally published in Sonic Theology on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

On Mandolins, Sunshine, and Prayer

I live in Berkeley, Calif. in an old building that used to be a monastery for a couple of different orders over the years. For the past decade, it’s been an intentional community for seminarians and doctoral students at the Graduate Theological Union. All Souls Episcopal Parish owns it. We residents participate in the life of the parish in various ways (preaching, teaching, making music, leading retreats, etc.) to off-set the subsidy. Given the need we students have for community and the insane cost of living in Berkeley (studio apartments starting at $2500/mo), the arrangement is almost perfect.

I say “almost” because the building is an albatross around the neck of the parish. Originally constructed in 1904, it is a ramshackle collection of additions, old wiring, ancient plumbing, and nary a 90 degree angle in the joint. It has survived fires and earthquakes, but like any creature that survives such things and lives for more than a century, it bears the marks of it all. It was also neglected by the monastics whose resources could not meet the general upkeep needs of the building.

Peeling paint is my favorite part. I try to keep my four-year-old son from eating it as he peels it off the siding. Varying degrees of success there.

People have asked if it were not a crack house or a meth den. There’s an air of intentional neglect. I like to say, “No. It’s just an old monastery. So…same/same?” That usually invites a strained and confused giggle stopping the conversation.

Here’s the good news: The building will be razed to the ground sometime in the next year or two. The paperwork has been filed and all the hoops are being jumped through. All Souls and a not-for-profit who specializes in such work are going to build affordable housing for seniors and retirees. The building will be comprised of studio apartments, a space for support staff to stay, offices for the parish, and a large apartment to serve as a rectory. It’ll meet LEED standards, too. It’s a great project and I could not be more pleased for and proud of my parish.

Here is the bad news: The building will be razed to the ground in the next year or two. Yes, it’s the same news. Yes, it cuts both ways.

This morning as I sat in my folding chair and played little tunes on my mandolin while watching the sun come over the hill, I imagined a future without this kitchen, this view, this sunshine, and opportunities to noodle on the mandolin here. I was sad imagining such a thing, but it’s coming. I am grieving the loss as much as I am celebrating what is a great project.

I have always tried to find places wherever I have lived where I can sit quietly, gaze outside, and play music. This kitchen has been my favorite place thus far. This old chair from Chicago has been with me for two decades. The mandolin, too. It’s just that kind of thing, you know?

These practices get into our bones. They shore us up when nothing else will. They help clear the mind and restore the soul. They give my heart room to breathe.

Now, of course, wherever we live next, I will find a place to play. I will find a way to practice.

For now, however, I’m giving myself room to mourn what will come to pass sooner than I would like.

The Sounds of Mourning was originally published in Sonic Theology on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

By Tripp Hudgins, often ungrateful church musician

Music is persnickety stuff. I mean, not on it’s own (if there’s such a thing, but I digress), but as a human practice embedded in culture with all of a culture’s morass of ambiguous meaning making. Music is persnickety. We church musicians wrestle with this reality every week, but I wonder if we don’t have the best tools yet to do the work we have been given to do.

Do we blithely “choose music” for folx as if it were not embedded in complex and complicated ways into the souls of each person present? Perhaps we have a helpful guide that assists us in pairing musics with the lectionary readings of the day. Maybe there’s a worship team or liturgical arts committee that weighs in. There could be a musically gifted priest or pastor who likes to chime in with their favorites as well. There are as many variables as there are people and communities…and then some!

How might we bring into our best practices the reality that even Foo Fighter’s front man Dave Grohl understands to be true? People sing songs for myriad reasons. They make meanings that musicians (clergy, staff, etc.) cannot control. “If there are 65.000 people there, they are singing along for 65,000 different reasons.” quipped Grohl. Why is this so hard for us to address or come to terms with in some generative way?

We church musicians wrestle with this reality every week, but I wonder if we don’t have the best tools yet to do the work we have been given to do.

Dave’s solution to the conundrum is simple gratitude. Gratitude. He’s just glad people are there at all. He’s glad that the music he and his bandmates have offered the world has connected with so many people. Gratitude.

Is gratitude something you struggle with as a church musician? Are you grateful that people rise and sing? Is this your first step or are you stuck on how they slow your carefully considered tempi down when they join in with the organ or band?

I know I struggle with finding a posture of gratitude as a church musician. Maybe it’s just me, but I doubt it. Is this a struggle for you?

I’m spending a lot of time with Dave Grohl as I work through my dissertation. He has a musicologist’s heart. He considers such things as meaning-making and responds with gratitude.

I have much to learn from him.

Photo Credit: Richard Johnson/NME

Dave Grohl: A Musician’s Gratitude. was originally published in Sonic Theology on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

By Tripp Hudgins, woke up cantankerous this morning

I’m tired of being sweet and gentle, of being the one with the smile, to say that everything with me is fine and all is well and ain’t it a beautiful day? I’m not talking about the loss of optimism or hope. Hell, no. I love that shit. Give me more of it. I’m talking about the fiction I wear so often as to not offend others with my actual thoughts, emotions, or spiritual state.

Why the fuck would I say that now? Well, because it’s Advent and I’m irked that so many of us Jesusy sorts fall into the nostalgia trap so easily. We too want the gentle babe, meek and mild, a gentle or even genteel Mary with Joseph silently supportive beside her. We want it all to be pain free when Hope is born within our midst. But it just isn’t so. Advent teaches us that God’s hope is a kick in the teeth to much which we hold dear. The eschaton is cold and dirty and dangerous. The entrance of the Kingdom, its revelation, is risky. It’s seriously fucked up. Of course the shepherds are afraid. They get it!

Look hard at why you are afraid when the angels show up singing. Sit with that shit. Let it suck. And then, only then, will the song begin to heal you.

“Holy shit, Silas! It’s the angels! We’re so fucked.” …but in Hebrew or Aramaic. Now, of course, the angels say “Fear not!” Sure. Great. This is not, however, a general reminder to all creation. No, this is just a message to the shepherds gathered there. The angels are saying, “Hey, we’re not here for you.” Or maybe, “Silas, give Joshua his money back. Stop being an asshole.” But the angelic chorus is not here to frighten the poor. Instead, Herod should be on guard. Rome should be on guard. Those charging interest, failing to live into the ethos of the Jubilee, oppressing others, ignoring the ill and the injured, and treating poverty as if it were a prejorative state should be on guard. The privileged should be on guard. I should be on guard. Maybe you too should be on guard. All we love and understand is about to collapse. That’s Advent.

But that’s not the Advent we celebrate. For example, this year is the 200th anniversary of the composition of “Silent Night.” I fucking love this song. I know all the verses. I can play it on my guitar. I weep when we play it on Christmas Eve and the candles are lit around the sanctuary. I’m there. I get it. Yet, what would make this work liturgically is if somewhere in the middle of the congregation’s singing several guard dogs were released into the sanctuary. Police in riot gear would break through the doors and read a decree by some official somewhere claiming that our gathering is illegal and perhaps even treasonous. And every first born son would be taken from their parents.

Of course, this would just be playacting. We don’t actually want this to happen to us, but this would be closer to what the hell was going on in Bethlehem and the rest of Judea that season. That quiet nostalgia could not be further from the truth of what was going on.

Advent teaches us that God’s hope is a kick in the teeth to much which we hold dear.

My friend and yogi, Karin Carlson, asks, “How do we go to places of unresolved questions and fear and conflict and come out with real action? How do we go to places of discomfort and anger and fear and helplessness and hopelessness and come out with loving action?”

Well, first we have to go to those places.

What does this have to so with my wanting to put a nice face on everything? Well, it’s my attempt to circumvent the uncomfortable truth of what I am actually feeling. In the process, by not going to that place of discomfort, I actually make healing impossible. I make the Incarnation meaningless. I make loving action impossible. I may think that the nice face is a loving action, but what I discover again and again is that it is not. It’s a veneer. It’s a fiction. It is a way to avoid discomfort, anger, fear, helplessness, and hopelessness. In the process of avoiding such feelings and truths about myself, I hinder my own healing.

Here’s how Karin puts it:

“We might have uncanny insights into the source of insecurities, jealousy, and negative beliefs currently playing themselves out in our relationships, given all these holy days and dark nights and triggered triggers. This can feel raw, like we’ve been caught naked or called out. And as we tend to react to core feelings at the level of our development, not necessarily our real age, inner child shit can be outright needy.”

I say it like this: this is going to suck for a while. And that’s okay. It’s the only best way forward. Be compassionate with yourself. Look hard at why you are afraid when the angels show up singing. Sit with that shit. Let it suck. Do the work. And then, only then, will the angelic song begin to heal you.

So, this season, I am sitting in my shit. I am allowing myself to feel the raw pain and depth of the wounds I have suffered and I have caused others. I’m going to try to take off the masks I wear in the attempt to hide from the realities of the world. I will try to live again.

“Sweet and Gentle” Advent is Bullshit was originally published in Sonic Theology on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.