Boring Music

I had heard about a little Russian monastery in a neighborhood at the edge of Detroit, but this was my first time seeing it up close.  

At the center of the grounds that filled half a city block sat a dark and candlelit chapel. James and I slowly entered, wondering if we were doing it right. The warm light shimmered across the faces of gold leaf icons as their eyes gazed full and still. We were the only two people in the space.

As we stood awash in all of that gold and dark, we heard something moving around the corner of the icon-covered wall. There was paper rustling...and then something being adjusted. It was the sound of a man quietly preparing. And though we couldn't see him, his presence in the space was clear. Then, after a silence that lasted Lord only knows how long, he began to chant. He intoned a single note, a still river of sound slowing filled the room as each vowel in each word opened like a sun.

The chant stayed close to that resonating note for a very long time. Long enough for me to definitely lose interest. But there was something about this boring music that was unsettling. It was as if interesting me wasn't its primary reason for being. I was offended. Didn't this music know who I am? I am the One Who Shall Remain Interested.

It apparently did not. Which I found interesting.

Standing in that chapel for an hour (or more) was as dull as it was revelatory. Over time, the monotonous music began to form a space where the overlooked concerns of my life could surface. Not bound by the demands of interest, these unaddressed images, hidden thoughts, and complicated feelings floated to the forefront of my consciousness. I had never felt that type of musical freedom. There was room for whatever I wanted to bring to this experience. There was room for my emotions, and so I became emotional. There was room for me to be displeased and bored, so I got bored. And then nothing happened. And then I transcended space and time. And then I kind of fell asleep. And then I got angry and wondered when this would end. And then, I transcended space and time. And then I figured out some work plans. And then I was bored again.

As James and I left, I realized I hadn't seen the monk's face. I was so deeply directed toward God that I barely thought of the artist. And then it hit me. Whether James and I were in that chapel or not, he would be performing that song. He, in his commitment to God through his monastic vows, had planned on singing to God forever, in this life and the next, in an unbroken chain with the angels who surround God singing, "Holy Holy Holy" forever. His devotion confounded me. This monk had invited God not only into the center of his practice but into the center of who he is. I could hear it in the orientation of his voice. How deeply liberating. He was singing to God.