Flesh and Spirit, Part 5
August 01, 2011
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
So what might be the significance of the two prominent extra-musical “themes” of this piece (symmetry and the concept of solo)? Could their respective significances by interrelated? Bach gives us a clue that they are by heralding them both side-by-side at the very outset of the piece. Looking at a score of this concerto, the first instruction given is a musical clef for each instrument, which differs according to the instrument. The second mark, and the first which is universal among all the instruments, is the key signature: a sole flat that defines the key of d minor. There is our solo-- immediately.[1] The very next thing to follow is the unison statement of the opening theme, which consists of two symmetrical note-gestures: d’ e’ f’ e’ d’, and a’ d” a’. This should strike us in the same way as the prologue (dramatikos) of a classical drama, or a Biblical prophecy, announcing events which will be seen to unfold inexorably in time as the story progresses, on the one hand developing a grand, paradoxical tension with temporal humanity’s assumption of the open-endedness of the future, and on the other hand creating an awesome sense of sovereignty. But I have alluded to the prevalence of this technique throughout literary history, and obviously this sovereignty is ascribed to different sources: fate, the gods, the LORD. The question raised by the very use of such technique, then, is: Who is sovereign?
I think Bach answers this question even while asking it: what is clearly “prophesied” in the opening measure is the reflexive symmetry that characterizes the entire piece. But as we have already noted, reflexive symmetry is not a common musical device for Bach, which is why such deliberate recurrence of it should cause us suspect that it is meant to symbolize something. While symmetry may not be a favorite technique of Bach’s musical heritage, it most certainly is a favorite technique of his beloved Biblical writings: both Hebrew and Greek Scriptures make extensive use of symmetrical “chiastic” structure as both a poetic and rhetorical device. And since this technique became called after the Greek letter “chi,” or χ, Christians came to use it as a Christological symbol, both because its representative letter resembles the shape of a cross, and because the Greek “Christus” begins with the letter χ.
As a Lutheran living and working in the wake of the Protestant Reformation, Bach would have been very familiar with the so-called “five solas” that articulate the essence of Reformation theology: solus Christus, Christ alone; sola gratia, grace alone; sola fide, faith alone; sola Scriptura, Scripture alone; soli Deo Gloria, glory to God alone. The question of the relationship between the solo and the chiastic elements becomes clear; and if it were not clear enough, note that when Bach juxtaposes the two ideas at the beginning (in the key signature and the theme), the order is: solo, chiasm. But what Bach is articulating seems to go even beyond the solus Christus that one typically finds in statements of the “five solas:” the Italian term designating the idea to which Bach seems so clearly to be alluding—solo—also appears in the Latin language and, significantly, was often used in connection with the very doctrine in question, solus Christus, shifting it to the ablative tense ,which denotes cause or agency (solo Christo, or “by Christ alone.”) It is scarcely conceivable that a composer could more clearly articulate the sole sufficiency and total efficacy of the finished work of Christ without resorting to verbal communication.
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Whenever we discover a message as clearly and intricately articulated as is “solo Christo” in this concerto, the temptation is to stop and congratulate ourselves, assuming we have reached our destination. But once again, Bach defies our expectations, and a recollection of the literary function of chiastic structure leads us still deeper into this concerto. Traditionally, the middle of a chiasm expresses the heart of the message being conveyed. A famous example is the opening of the Gospel of John:[2]
A “In the BEGINNING
B was the WORD
B and the WORD
C was with GOD,
C and GOD [nominative] was
B the WORD [subject].
B HE [i.e. the Word] was
A in the BEGINNING with God” (1:1-2).
John’s shocking claim[3] is cleverly underscored by the literary structure itself, which places the crux of the statement, the divinity of the Christ, at its center. Likewise, the largest-scale palindrome in the d-minor concerto is the A-B-A structure among the three movements, at the heart of which is, of course, the second. While there are many interesting features to this second movement, there is one that is particularly gripping and most unusual: at measure 28, there is an abrupt change from a c-minor chord to a dominant A-major. Bach underscores this radical change of tonality by having the solo voice enter directly on an unprepared ninth (b-flat”), creating an especially pungent dissonance. This jarring juxtaposition of c minor with A-major effectively changes the tonal course of the movement and creates the sense of severance with what has come before, heightened by the dissonant minor ninth on the A-major. What is particularly interesting, then, is that this occurs directly between the second and third of six statements of the ostinato; that is, at the one-third mark of the movement: this wrenching blow effectively severs one third of the movement. The parallel with Christ, as one of a triune Godhead, cut off on behalf of fallen humanity, seems inescapable. And surely it cannot be coincidence that going from the c-minor chord into the A-major—at the very point of “severance”— the bass has the notes g, A (that is, sol, la: “sola”)! Lest there be any lingering doubt as to the intentionality of what Bach is doing, it should be noted that the second movement of the first “Brandenburg” concerto (BWV 1046) contains a strikingly similar gesture: precisely one-third of the way into the movement, Bach uses an ambiguous diminished chord to modulate starkly from c minor to a minor—again the interval of a minor third (which itself seems significant, the Son being a third of the Godhead and “minor” in the sense of being a Son to the Father.)
If this is indeed the heart of the chiasm Bach seeks to create, then it seems as though his message is not merely theological but missional as well. We have noted that the third movement features the most complex and precise symmetry of the three, with the second movement being somewhat more general and the first merely hinting at the concept. What we find as we move through the concerto, then, is a progression towards the “cross.” It is as though Bach is exhorting the listener in the words of his own St. John Passion: “Run—where?—to Golgotha!”[4]
This destination of Golgotha is aptly depicted in the music. The structure of the third movement is beautiful in its clarity. But Bach could easily have made it “perfect” in the sense of incorporating every musical event into its palindromic structure, rather than curiously omitting five. I think the fact that there are five “imperfections” is significant. In Bach’s tradition, six was a number of wholeness and completion. In fact, Bach often grouped his compositions into sixes: there are six Brandenburg concertos, six harpsichord concertos, six sonatas/partitas for violin, six sonatas for violin and cembalo, six cello suites, six French suites, six English suites, etc. Five is one short of that “perfect” number. It is as if Bach were showing that the flaws of this world are great, but not so great as to be irredeemable, for nothing is impossible with God. And a remarkably insightful picture of redemption is exactly what we see here, because the five “imperfections,” while not ceasing to be imperfections in the context of the third movement, become caught up in a greater purpose in being made to correspond with beautiful clarity to events in the first movement, and the resulting structure is actually more beautiful, more perfect in a sense, than if everything had been tied up neatly within the third movement. What a beautiful tribute to a God who sovereignly works within this fallen world in such a way that, though evil never ceases to be evil, He uses it to bring about good in accordance with his perfect, unthwartable plan for the redemption of a world that, though fallen from glory, is the more glorious for having fallen and been redeemed! And so, while Bach urges us to run to the cross, it is not our running that has the last word but rather the gracious redemption of our God, in whose good and omnipotent hands we rest secure.
[1] We must not forget that Bach is very careful in his choice of keys, which often carry symbolic significance. One famous example is found in the St. John Passion when the crowd shouts, “Let him be crucified!” The key is f-sharp minor, having three sharps in the key signature that recall the three crosses on the hill of crucifixion.
[2] This diagram reflects the word structure of the original Greek, which differs slightly from English translations
[3] quite as shocking as similar claims made by Zechariah half a millennium before Jesus! cf. Zechariah 2:10-11, 12:10-11 with 13:1.
[4] “Eilt”—“wohin?”—“nach Golgotha!”
