The Rich Symbolism of Gregorian Chant
Like a great and ancient tree, whose roots appear above ground but whose ultimate source is unseen, the origins of Gregorian chant are shrouded in the lightsome darkness of late antiquity. The composers of these inventive melodies were influenced by Hebrew, Greek, and Roman music. Immersed in Scripture and the natural world much more fully than we moderns, their sense for symbolism, suggestion, and artistic subtlety allowed them to create rich and beautiful chants for the then-young Christian Liturgy.
In this article, I will showcase examples of the musical symbolism found in a few particular chants to illustrate the wonderful cross-references and nuances often embedded in the music. Thus, the reader will be better prepared to look for them on his own in other chants.
It is unsurprising that the most developed chants are those of the Mass. While a huge number of short antiphons exist for the Divine Office, the Mass Propers—the Introit, Gradual or Tract, Alleluia, Offertory, and Communion antiphons—represent the fullest flowering of the Gregorian genius. It was in the propers that the music was given full rein to come into its own as a musical commentary upon the sacred text.
It goes without saying that the composers of Gregorian chant were fluent in Latin: what might not occur to us is the way that this influenced their composition. As we can see with most of the romance languages that stem from it (French is an exception), the beauty of Latin lives or dies in its accents. In fact, the meaning of certain words changes depending on which syllable receives the accent. When the monks and clerics of late antiquity developed these haunting tunes, they ensured that the notes were chosen with the purpose of accentuating the words to which they were fitted. Indeed, the chant is always in service of clearly articulating the text. Not only that, but great care was taken to bring out consonants, phrases, and sentences.
The chants for Sexagesima Sunday display both scriptural mystagogy and musical virtuosity, providing good examples of what I have mentioned above.
Open to the Communion antiphon [left]. Each accent of the Latin words has been adorned with a larger neume (or grouping of notes) so that the inflection of the word is easier to enunciate. The second “i” of introibo (the accented syllable) receives five notes compared to one or two for the other syllables. Ascendant musical figures accompany six other primary accented syllables in other words of the antiphon. The highest notes also tell a tale of meaning, occurring on the phrase “altar of God”: very appropriate for a chant meant to be sung while the sacrifice of the altar is being received and consumed.
The Gradual and Tract are exquisite works of melismatic art. In technical language (or “chant-speak,” if you prefer), a melisma refers to a long series of notes sung on a single syllable, as opposed to a “syllabic” or “neumatic” chant, where each syllable gets just one or two notes. Generally, the extent to which a chant is melismatic has to do with its function in the liturgy: syllabic chants suit processions, while melismatic ones function as a space for meditation.
The Introit and Communion chants both serve as processional music: for the entrance into the church (quite a long journey in a large Roman basilica where many of these chants probably reached their final form) and for the procession of faithful receiving communion. The chants are short and memorable: you can sing them as a refrain to psalm verses while processing.
Conversely, there is little or no liturgical action during the Gradual and Alleluia (or Tract which replaces it during Lent), both of which serve as spaces for meditation on the readings. Since they are sung by the schola rather than the whole choir of clerics (as in a monastery or canonry), these meditative chants can afford to be more complex.
The Gradual and Tract of Sexagesima Sunday are no exception. The Tract, Commovisti [right], opens low and surges upward, describing how the Lord of Hosts moves and troubles the earth so that the elect of God might be liberated from evil-doers. On the word conturbasti (confound, disturb, confuse) the music ascends to the note “Do” (Do in the solfege system: C in the alphabetic scale) and repeats it over and over, like someone being shaken—or disturbed.
The larger liturgical context is, of course, preparation for Lent. The readings at Matins for that Sunday tell the story of Noah and the ark: a story in which the Lord shakes the earth with the flood to ultimately liberate it for repopulation by His beloved Noah. The Tract’s text is from Psalm 59 and also speaks of evildoers fleeing from the face of God’s bow—or in the Latin of the tract a facie arcus. This ought to call to mind another similar-sounding word, arca—Noah’s ark, as well as the arcus of the rainbow which sealed God’s covenant never to conturbare the earth again. The whole chant is filled with repeated “Do” notes again, as well as bobbing and diving sub-melodies. Perhaps an oblique sound reference to Noah bobbing on the deep and the wicked being swept away in terror?
The Offertory contains similar word painting: we pray that our feet be not moved, and on the phrase non moveantur the music hovers between just two notes as if someone is firmly digging his feet into the ground.
So far we have seen two main levels on which the chant is speaking to us: textually and with the technique of “word painting.” Another is musical cross-references—for example, when the tune of the Easter Vigil Alleluia is used as part of the Introit for Laetare Sunday, promising Paschal hope amid the momentary brightening of that Lenten Sunday.
A more obscure, if equally fascinating instance, is a melody used repeatedly for divine office antiphons during Passiontide. For example, three of the five antiphons for Lauds (in the monastic office) use the same melody on Passion Sunday: Numquid redditur is one of them [right]. The melody is short and punchy, rising rhythmically before descending again. Where is it from? Why does it show up all of a sudden during Passiontide on so many antiphons?
One theory has it that this particular tune is derived from ancient Roman theater: it was used to let the audience know that something significant and dramatic was about to happen in the play. Liturgically, what is around the corner? The most important and dramatic event of the whole story—the “true myth” as Tolkien calls the Passion and Resurrection. From ancient Roman jingle to Divine Office tune—don’t let anyone ever tell you Gregorian chant is dull!
While some today find Gregorian chant dreary, this is a result of its not being studied and performed well, together with much ignorance about the nature and purpose of music in the liturgy. Careful study of Chant’s artistry, both textual and musical, along with careful performance, is necessary for the delicate yet rich beauty of the chant to be revealed.
I hope that these few examples, drawn from just two Sundays, will motivate you to look more closely for the beauties hidden beneath the square notes.
Here are three tips to gain a better understanding of the Chant: 1. Study the text: know what it stands in relation to, what surrounds it, both in the liturgy, the Divine Office, and (if it is a scriptural text) where it occurs in Scripture. 2. Study the notes: what shape do they make on the page? Do they go up or down? Are there lots of repeated notes: might they suggest plodding, shaking, or stability? Are there big jumps? They could indicate judgment, terror, joy, man’s cry rising up, or God’s help descending. 3. Listen to excellent chanters singing the music. Monasteries such as Norcia, Le Barroux, and Solesmes have published excellent recordings that will reveal subtleties that looking at ink on a page will never uncover.
The large and delicate repertoire of Gregorian chant is a deep well of artistic and spiritual insight. Cultivating your attention to how it works can only increase the delight it holds for you.
