Death’s Promise, Beethoven, and Jesus
I remember a master class I was in with the inimitable Professor Guy Duckworth of the University of Colorado. Also in the master class were three other musician colleagues . The class was held at Ohio University in Athens. Moments before my lesson, I received word by telephone that a little nine-year-old girl from our congregation in Colorado had just died of leukemia.
She had had a long, brave battle with it. In fact, her parents a few weeks back had stood at her hospital room door, discussing with the doctor what kind of aggressive treatment they should pursue, possibly to prolong her life. Her father told me that during a lull in the conversation, he suddenly heard a little voice from Jennifer's bed, "Daddy, don't I get a say in it?" "Of course, sweetheart," he replied tenderly. "What do you want to do?" She said earnestly and quietly, "I want to die and go to be with Jesus." So the parents agreed to limit the treatment and allow her to go. I heard of Jennifer's death just before walking into my lesson. Although my emotions were stirred and raw, I managed to compose myself enough to walk into the lesson.
It was a group master class type of lesson before an audience of about 40 mostly pianists. The performing among the students in the class was spectacular. The first performer had learned a Mozart sonata on his lap, of all things, on the long drive out from Colorado. One of the other colleagues was a tenor who sang a Beethoven song (it may have been from Leonore). It seemed to speak of the meadows of heaven, the Elysian fields. The third performer played the first movement of Beethoven's transcendent Sonata Op. 110 in Ab. It was beautiful!
Finally, I played. My piece was the final movement of Beethoven's Sonata in E Major, Op. 109, a theme and variations. I started the lesson feeling that, for me, the theme was a portrayal of Jesus' empty tomb, just after sunup, when the dew is still on the shrubs and a chill is in the air, and no one is at present about. Perhaps, I thought while playing, a lone bird's song greets the sun as it gradually illuminates and warms the stone and the tomb against the mountainside. As the piece continues, the light increasingly glows, and the feelings I associate with Christ's work for us begin to dawn and grow. I played beautifully, if I may say so, and without interruption from the teacher or my colleagues. The movement ends in a transcendent glow of sound with a quiet return of the original theme.
The teacher turned to the audience as he usually did at the conclusion of the master class. He asked for comments. To my surprise, I heard audience members, atheists, agnostics, and believers alike, speaking of "death's promise" and "resurrection" and the "hope of eternal life." I had told no one of the news I had heard about Jennifer; nor did anyone know about the metaphor I used when performing the 109. The response to my wordless performance was eerie and awesome!
The hope of eternal life resides deep within our souls. The resurrection of Jesus answers the hope in the most satisfying way! This sonata has always remained for me my Jennifer Sonata.
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