Zweig on Erasmus v Luther, Shortt on God

He always gets to the dramatic heart of things in his 'popular' biographies, does Stefan Zweig. The polarities clearly chime with his own divided soul in one way or another. His Erasmus study, not easy to get hold of these days, is both more brief and more reserved than the Marie Antoinette quasi-novel I read a couple of months ago. It even takes rather a long time to get over the faint whiff of the platitudinous in setting up Erasmus's virtues and flaws, his 'ambiguities and contradictions,' but once Martin Luther appears on the scene we know we're into material which would make an exciting screenplay.

'I must insist,' writes Zweig, 'on the facts that Erasmus of Rotterdam was, of all the writers and creators in the West, the first conscious European, the first to fight on behalf of peace, the ablest champion of the humanities and of a spiritual ideal'. But the 'universal language' he expressed himself in was Latin, and he remained an elitist, neither understanding of the ordinary people nor aware that the path of Enlightenment which he took could be upturned by the barbarism that lurks in human nature.

You feel Zweig is talking a bit about himself and his times here; and his knowledge of Freud convinced him that there was no steady progress in humanity. For both himself and Erasmus, 'an aristocracy of the spirit' could be swept aside, and not just by the unlettered:

An educated man, a civilized man - and herein we see the tragical failure in their [the humanists'] reasoning - was no longer capable of resorting to gory violence, and when once the educated, the cultivated, and civilized got the upper hand, chaos and brute force would inevitably disappear, and war and persecution of opinions would become anachronisms. In their overevaluation of the effects of civilization, the humanists failed to take account of the basic impulses and their untamable strength; in their facile optimism they overlooked the terrible and well-nigh insoluble problem of mass hatred and the vast and passionate psychoses of mankind.

The representative of that, for Zweig, was Luther (Cranach's portrait of him in 1529 pictured above), 'an emanation of the dark, daimonic forces of the Germanic peoples'. Erasmus and he were opposite poles: 'the conciliatory temperament as opposed to the fanatical, cosmopolitanism against nationalism, evolution versus revolution'.

At the midway point of the biography, Luther in all his crude vigour and energy - his study in the Wartburg above Eisenach, snapped on last year's unforgettable Bach pilgrimage, pictured above -  takes centre-stage: a potential force for the good, flawed by intemperance and irrationalism, sure that 'my confidence is God', 'a cheerful and friendly father and house-master' who 'as soon as battle was joined...was transformed, becoming a werewolf raging with uncouth and unjustifiable scorn and fury', a 'hot and mighty hater' who never 'put in a word to save an enemy condemned to death'.

There are dramatic points of no return and moments where if Erasmus had become more involved and Luther less intransigent, Europe would have been spared the tide of blood.

Even when the battle was joined, Erasmus, the peacemaker, went a long way to meet his opponent. He took occasion to warn his contemporaries not to place too great importance on such discussions, but, rather, 'to ask themselves if it is right to set the whole world in a conflagration for the sake of a few paradoxical conceptions' [the chief issue over which Erasmus and Luther had locked horns was the one of predestination].If only Luther would yield but the fraction of an inch, would take but one step to meet him, this intellectual squabble would end in peace and harmony. But could Erasmus hope for compromise from the most iron-minded man of that century, from a man who in matters of belief and conviction would not, even if tied to the stake, sacrifice a jot or tittle of his principles, who, born fanatic that he was, would prefer death or the destruction of the world to giving up the tiniest and most indifferent paragraph of his doctrines?

 For Erasmus, even the refuge of Basel where he had found true acceptance and tolerance and where he would be buried

was not immune from Reformation fever. That beautiful city is once again a centre of enlightenment and harmony, more outward looking than other Swiss centres of excellence; our trip there first put me properly on the Erasmus trail.

Yet Zweig's epilogue carries the grain of hope at the bottom of Pandora's box, in his argument that 'no thought that is the outcome of the fusion of clear thinking with high moral energy can wholly disappear':

An idea which does not take on material shape is not necessarily a conquered idea or a false idea; it may represent a need which, though its gratification be postponed, is and remains a need...Those ideals only which have failed to put on concrete form are capable of everlasting resurrection.

Resurrection: is it a metaphor or a parable in Christianity? On that, and on the issue of miracles, I can't quite grapple with what my new friend the excellent Rupert Shortt has to to say in God is No Thing. In every other respect, I agree with him wholeheartedly on the essence of good Christian teaching, tolerant and respectful of other opinions, and on most of its tenets - but despite the overlap, it's still not enough to persuade me in to the fold. I like this:

An American historian and agnostic...summed up her diagnosis [of today's malaise of disrespect towards Christianity] like this: 'I've always seen Christianity as involving an encounter with the depths of experience,' she told me. 'Yet so many educated people on this continent [Europe] seem to associate it with nothing beyond the shallows.' 

I believe, like Shortt and so many scientists (and Darwin, one of the best formulators of thoughts about the existence of God in his autobiography), that 'science...explains how this or that process has taken place, but cannot say why'. Neither first causes nor what people call God are nothing. Shortt quotes Denys Turner:

'Nothing' has no process, no antecedent conditions, no random fluctuations in a vacuum, no explanatory law of emergence, and, there being nothing for 'something' to be 'out of', there can be no physics, not yet, for there is nothing yet for physics to get an explanatory grip on.

Hence the book's title, and the title of the chapter in question, 'God is no thing, but not nothing'. I believe - this is turning in to a credo - in the likelihood of a numinous world beyond the phenomenal; how could I not, being in a constant state of bewilderment at the examples of creative and performing genius in my sphere? Let me share the epitaph Kurt Vonnegut wanted for himself - can't work out from this picture whether his wish was realised:

Vonnegut and Shortt both cite the Sermon on the Mount as one of the great texts, if not the only text you need for life. They're both immensely likable beings. So even if you're a confirmed atheist, I recommend you read God is No Thing - and don't let the recommendation from hack writer A N Wilson on the cover put you off. Pleased to see it's among the best sellers already.

Bach according to Gardiner

Monday was a day for finally meeting extended deadlines after much gadding about, so I couldn't attend the Albert Hall Bach marathon brilliantly masterminded by the nearly-septuagenarian John Eliot (photographed in action above and further below by the ever-dependable Chris Christodoulou). But his Easter cantata recordings have been a constant presence in my own, much slower listening marathon this year so far, and earlier in the week we caught up with his BBC 2 documentary Bach: A Passionate Life.

The title may seem a tad lame, but JEG delivered what he promised, contradicting the image we know so well of the rather stern, bewigged 61-year-old with a wealth of fiery, inspired excerpts - and not always the expected ones - from a cornucopia of masterpieces. Gardiner's father, by the way, used to own what may have been a second version by the artist Elias Gottlob Haussmann of the famous portrait, since bought by an American.

I was not so well versed about Bach's life as to know, for instance, that he was flung into prison at the end of his Weimar time. Oh, those tyrannical patrons! At least he wasn't executed, like other musicians. We learned how his difficult, even paranoiac temperament was formed by major family bereavements in his youth (a psychologist popped up, sometimes stating the obvious). JEG's chilly ambles around snowy towns gave a good sense of each, especially Eisenach with its castle where Luther had earlier walled up.

Above all, what a difference to have a presenter who knows in depth what he's talking about (and I'm not talking about hugely irritant, self-admiring and patchily knowledgeable telly regulars like Andrew Graham-Dixon, who started out so well but has become unwatchable, in my eyes at any rate). This, though it could have extended to at least another episode, was up there with Antonio Pappano's Opera Italia - and more recently John Adams as eloquent speaker had the lion's share of Mark Kidel's also too-brief portrait.

You'd not actually know from Gardiner's demeanour here that he raises the blood pressure of many a performer (I know two who won't even let me mention his name in their presence, and there's an unsavoury joke or two floating around). He interacts keenly with talking heads from other fields, some perceptive, some less so. He brings helpful details and images to the performances with trusted musical friends, though we still never get a piece from start to finish. Kati Debretzeni gave us some phenomenal violin playing, and I liked the smiley approach of soprano Julia Doyle. There's no doubt that Bach's his God, as he should be every sentient being's.

As his extended note on the Easter set of his Bach pilgrimage reveals, Gardiner is especially passionate about the all-choral Easter Sunday cantata (let's follow Duccio altarpanels for the three celebratory days). 'Christ lag in Todesbanden', BWV 4, is a pre-Leipzig masterpiece - Bach composed it for his probationary audition at Muhlhausen in 1707 - and the first I've come across to be written entirely for choral voices. The narrative is not about the resurrected Jesus appearing to Mary Magdalene in the garden, that scene so movingly set by Adams in The Gospel According to the Other Mary. Instead Bach sets all seven verses which Luther wrote to the old hymn, dealing with the struggle that's already taken place, and so there's little of the expected Easter jubilation.

E minor dominates. The composer's identity pops up as the violins leap free towards the end of the opening Sinfonia. The choral writing is stunning and extraordinarily varied. Gardiner makes much of the semitonal wail Bach fashions by altering two notes of the original hymn, and I love the 'syncopated riff' that bursts forth on the 'Halleluja's in verse one. Gardiner is right to invoke the atmospheric austerity of Bergman's The Seventh Seal as Luther narrates a time when Death held sway and Bach matches the chill (sopranos and altos, verse two). Christ's rout takes time and is splendidly physical; then in verse 5 the basses play priests, their line culminating in a long-held top D, after which exultant and dancing delights mark the victory - but still, at the end, in E minor. Here's Harnoncourt's recording on YouTube.

There's not much to say about the Easter Monday and Tuesday cantatas. Both 'Erfreut euch, ihr Herzen', BWV 66 and 'Ein Herz, das seinem Jesum lebend weiss', BWV 134, were presented as part of Bach's first Leipzig Easter of 1724. He had laboured on the mighty St John Passion for Good Friday, and revised 'Christ lag in Todesbanden' for Easter Sunday. So it is understandable if, given the jubilant tone of the continuing celebrations, he simply adapted two secular works written during his time in Cöthen under the benign (and significanly non-Lutheran) Prince Leopold.

BWV 66, for road-to-Emmaus day, was originally a birthday serenade, with the allegorical figures of Happiness and Fame transformed here into Hope and an initially craven, finally self-transcending Fear. There's plenty of brilliant, 6/8 dance music for alto and tenor. Ditto in BWV 134, its first incarnation a New Year piece of 1719, where the tenor gets another movement Gardiner describes as 'Passepied-like', and - a bit of irreverence here - amuses with the bark-like as well as Bach-like refrains of 'Auf, auf!'. Duccio shows us the day's theme of Christ appearing to the Apostles (it can't be the Last Supper because Judas is absent).

Gardiner points out the 'Brandenburg-like swagger and rhythmical elan' of Bach's midway duet (the six great concertos as well as the other major orchestral and instrumental works were also written during his happy time with the Calvinist prince, if not all specifically for Leopold, of course). 'Those years in Cöthen seem to have been the happiest in Bach's life'. Amen to that. Here's Leonhardt for 'Erfreut euch, ihr Herzen'

and Rilling for 'Ein Herz, das seinem Jesum...': far from ideal, but the only alternative had Rene Jacobs as the alto, and do you know how awful he was? Not much better as a conductor, IMO. Anyway, this also gives us Piero della Francesca's wonderful depiction of the Resurrection, which I've still to see in out-of-the-way San Sepolcro.

Our Easter music came courtesy of the choir and splendid (uncredited) organist of Chichester Cathedral. The Saturday evening service was remakable less for the mass setting and anthem -  Flor Peeters' Missa festiva and Messiaen's O sacrum convivium - than for the telescoped vigil-variation on the Orthodox darkness to light theme: we began in pitch black, the choir lit their candles, we lit ours and later the lights blazed on John Piper's fabulous altarpiece as glimpsed through the 15th century screen. The commission of the first and the replacement of the second were the work of Chichester's most inspirational dean, Walter Hussey, about whom I must write more at a later date. Photo taken, I hasten to add, after the service.

The balance of first-class contemporary artwork - if 1966 can be called 'contemporary' - with the old tuned in nicely with a sermon to which I listened for once. The theme was how the Gospels begin with elderly people -  Elizabeth, Anne, Zacharias, Simeon - waiting for a change, until by the time of the Resurrection the new generation surrounds the risen Christ.

Our hostess Themy, whom I joshingly refer to as 'a Christian in Parsee's clothing', found me some more short, clear sermons to read by a man of the greatest common sense and humility, Eric James, a major guiding light for her but sadly no longer with us. Don't misunderstand me: my agnosticism remains the same, but I warm to essential Christian wisdom when I can find it.

Sunday's Eucharist, to which we are heading in the above picture, revealed one of the best masses I've ever heard, and never knew before  - Kodaly's Missa brevis: did that man ever write a dull piece? - and a resounding triumph for the organist, who rounded off the previous movements from Vierne's Second Symphony with the dizzying jubilation of Bach's G major Prelude and Fugue. So we came full circle to the god of music again.