We have just uncovered and explored one of the most intricate and elegant examples of musical encryption I have encountered.             And while we may be moved by Bach’s message and even find it fascinating to observe how he articulates it, perhaps some may wonder what practical benefits the presentation of such in-depth analysis might have for those who aren’t music theorists. After all, couldn’t Bach’s theological message be summed up in a paragraph, and isn’t that the extent of what is relevant to most readers? I would say not: I do believe that any reader can benefit spiritually from such an exploration of how Bach communicates his message. 

 

            Firstly, I think it enables and encourages us simply to be awed by the sheer marvel that is Bach’s music, in the same way that we are awed by the spectacle of Niagara Falls or the Alps and marvel at the Creator who should endow our little earth with such beauty. After all, Bach’s music is, in my experience, a potent catalyst for worship in most people: it seems in fact almost to compel it from even the most reluctant, who, not knowing what to worship, effectively end up worshipping Bach himself. And if even such misaligned sails can propel the recalcitrant ship to worship, how much more so when we allow the full wind of Bach’s gospel message to fill our sails and point us headlong toward the One who is Himself the logos that holds this broken world together in the promise of glorious reconciliation!

 

            But true admiration is not passive. On the one hand, of course, alleged admiration that does not compel pursuit is like alleged faith in Christ that does not follow him: it’s a proverbial three-sided square. But admiration compels pursuit precisely because it recognizes that there are riches to be discovered and understood beyond what we immediately grasp: it requires us—and makes us desirous—to actively cultivate an appreciation of the admired object. Bach is an excellent case in point: his music immediately strikes us with a beauty and complexity that promises—faithfully—to richly reward further delving.

 

            Secondly, the dedication and care which Bach invested in creating art to the glory of God—which we can fathom only by actually encountering what he produced— amounts to a mandate to future generations, even as Joshua was commanded to set up stones as a memorial to the Lord, so that “when your children ask in time to come, ‘What do those stones mean to you?’ then you shall tell them…” (Joshua 4:6-7). The witness of any generation is significantly impaired if it fails to raise monuments to the Lord that will invite the inquiry of posterity. This is especially true in our subjectivist, postmodern society, in which art has a special communicative impact that didacticism or even logical persuasion does not. Of course, not everyone is a Bach or a Rembrandt or a Dostoevsky, and in my experience our historically-oriented self-consciousness as a culture has tended to inhibit creativity through comparison with the giants of the past (I am speaking to myself as well.) But this need not be so, and it should not be so. Of course we want to be excellent for the Lord, and it is understandable if we are reluctant to create something for fear it will not be excellent. But God demands only the best that He has given us; he never scolds the servant who turned two talents into four for failing to match the servant who had been given five to begin with.[1] But when we allow comparison to quench the creative overflow of our hearts, we bear dangerous resemblance to the servant who refused to invest his one talent because he feared men more than his Master. 

 

            What about those whose gifting lies in areas outside the arts and crafts? After all, we certainly need not all be amateur (much less professional) writers or musicians or woodworkers. But an understanding of culture—particularly those works that were created to give glory to God—is an important way to be equipped for sharing the gospel, since Christian art, as with any art, provides a forum for discussion and meaningful engagement with the world. For example, I was recently discussing my findings on this very Bach concerto in a music theory seminar—which itself was a wonderful opportunity to share the gospel in the context of objective analysis that wouldn’t trigger the innate postmodern horror of “preaching” in my listeners—and one of my colleagues commented on how heartwarming it was that Bach could see a spiritual dimension even in “secular” day-to-day life, by semi-implicit contrast with “religion,” which is all about stamping out anything that doesn’t reek of the most explicit piety. Suddenly I found myself literally invited to explain in a nutshell the nature of the gospel as opposed to “religion,” the specific teachings, emphases and tone of the Bible, etc. How many people shudder at what they consider to be the “religious” notion of a sovereign God, yet are moved with awe and even a kind of devotion by the figure of Prospero; and how many protest the “imposition” of a loving God on the fatally misaligned heart of man, while throwing themselves upon art in the attempt to have their emotions and even their very wills overwhelmed! As we see with Paul before the Aereopagus,[2] art and culture can be wonderful means of cutting through all the “religious” baggage by showing people how aspects of art with which they can identify point toward realities of who God is, who we are, what we’re searching for, and the good news of God’s gracious redemption. And for those who may have understandably dismissed “religion” as a pale and superficial escape from reality, perhaps an encounter with the historical Jesus, the living Son of God as He is presented to us in Scripture, will confront them with realities of a firmness and depth they have sought but never known, and which make the masses’ opiate of materialism seem poor indeed.

           

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