A Mirror to the Human Condition

Music, Language and Meaning in the Sacred

Cantatas of J. S. Bach

T. M. Lovell
 All rights reserved
 T. M. Lovell, 2011

The right of T. M. Lovell to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with
Section 77 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

ISBN 978–1–4467–4201–3
For Bill
 CONTENTS

Introduction 7

Chapter 1 Almighty and Invisible 19

Chapter 2 The Human Face of God 45

Chapter 3 Faith Within: Costs and Benefits 71

Chapter 4 Faith in Practice 97

Chapter 5 The Divine Mafioso: Persecution and Protection 123

Chapter 6 The Devil’s Work: Destruction and Disorder 149

Chapter 7 Death and After: What is Heaven? 175

Chapter 8 Ears for Eyes: The Theatre of the Imagination 199

Chapter 9 A Music-Loving God 227

Postscript What Makes a Good Performance? 253

Bibliography 265
 Introduction

In those days also people loved, envied, sought truth and virtue and were carried away by
passion.
Tolstoy: War and Peace

Why should we listen to J. S. Bach’s sacred cantatas? How might these works speak to us today?
This book explores their overarching themes, gives a fresh account of their musico-verbal
meaning, and argues for their enduring value and relevance.

To pigeon-hole others according to civilizational or religious categories is lazy thinking and

creates harmful and unnecessary barriers.∗ Equally simplistic assumptions can be made in terms
of former eras, by regarding the mentalities of different historical epochs as mutually
untranslatable, the exclusive property of alien, distant worlds; voices from the past can be shut
out by the parochialism of the present. This type of compartmentalising has an unfortunate effect
on the perception of Bach’s sacred cantatas. Though they are the product of a certain Western
musical and religious culture, this does not mean that they speak exclusively to or for any
defined community. The three centuries that separate them from the present are in any case a
mere blip in the ten thousand years of recorded human history. The cantatas belong to the world,
and much of the philosophy of life that they embody is common property. They have, so to
speak, their own ethnic clothing in terms of musical and verbal conventions; this does not mean
we should overlook their links with other ways, past and present, of interpreting the human
condition.

Bach may be widely loved and revered as a pre-eminent figure in Western music, yet of his vast
output only a modest proportion is regularly performed and enjoyed. The sacred cantatas as a
whole represent the largest single category of his work, yet their subject matter, function and
format can seem remote from twenty-first century ways of thinking. On the whole, these works
have become the province of specialists, restricted to the current ghetto of “early music”. The
richness, variety and beauty of their music appeal to lovers of the Baroque style, but finding a
way to relate emotionally or indeed rationally to their religious context is generally avoided, as if
discovering any common ground would be to endorse the entire world view of an eighteenth-
century German Lutheran. As the preoccupations they reflect are felt to be outmoded, they are
relegated to history’s theme-park. Mannered performances – combining brittle self-
consciousness, mechanical rhythm, and exaggerated phrasing – smooth a coat of varnish over
the authentic passion, the complex light and shade, and the fierce sincerity of the original. The
ideological framework in which notions of good and bad were once so securely located can be
viewed from a safe distance as a quaint and somewhat embarrassing relic.

Another (and essentially similar) way to miss the point of the cantatas is to busy oneself
exclusively in technical detail. Bach’s boundless musical sophistication, his enormous repertoire
of style and structure, create an academic pleasure-garden. The trees and plants can be labelled
and categorised as a self-contained project, without reference to the habitat that makes sense of
their mutual co-existence. Intellectual groundwork is an essential preliminary to understanding
Bach’s full aesthetic purpose, but his art can only be fully appreciated in its human context; he
∗
See Amartya Sen: Identity and Violence
composed his cantatas not to provide treats for scholars and analysts, but to help promote an
understanding of divine law (as he and his librettists saw it) and a desire to live life in a certain
frame of mind. Thus Bach wrote this music to amplify and illuminate a particular view of
existence. The arias and choruses (though not so much the recitatives) can be enjoyed without
understanding the words, for their melody and harmony alone. But when a composition is
created in response to a text, the combined impact of words and music is more than the sum of
its parts. The words (however lacking in literary merit) now reveal the invisible, inner burden of
feeling which generated them; in turn, music, which deals in a barely-definable currency of the
emotions, is given a precise focus, directing all its persuasive power towards a specific target.

The beliefs that are expounded in Bach’s sacred cantatas reflect a certain development of
Christian religious thought, inspired by the ideas of Martin Luther in the first half of the
sixteenth century. The impetus for his attempt to reform the medieval Catholic Church was (as
he saw it) to restore the original purity and intensity of the Christian religion. His intention was
to abolish the ranks of intermediaries who seemingly occupied a space between the human and
the divine. There could be no half-way house between the believer and God, no array of saints
with the power to intercede on the sinner’s behalf, and no hierarchy of human spirituality that
accorded the clergy a privileged status above the lay public. Nothing must be allowed to blur the
perception of the unbridgeable gulf between a perfect God and a degenerate race of mortals.
Human unworthiness was absolute, intrinsic to the mortal state, and irremediable by human
activity, no matter how well-meant. Desolate and humble, each believer should mentally
prostrate himself before God and cry for mercy in the full consciousness that it was undeserved.
In this approach lay the only source of hope, for God would surely honour his promise to save
for all eternity those who implicitly trust and obey his Word.∗

Where might the divine Word be found? The Bible is the written source of the belief system on
which all the varieties of Christianity are based. Luther was initially hopeful that with access to
the Holy Book (which implied, of course, the availability of versions in the vernacular) everyone
could find the way to God. However, Luther was also convinced that God’s Word, although
divinely inspired, must be sifted from the ambiguities and uncertainties of human language.
Even with the essential precondition of faith, the true meaning of certain passages in the Bible
could only be revealed with the help of much thought and mental concentration; as a
professional theologian, Luther himself used the tools of humanist scholarship in interpreting the
Hebrew and Greek of the Old and New Testaments respectively. It soon became clear that it
would take more than widespread individual access to the Bible to create a new spiritual
community united in its beliefs. Thus, as time went by, the clergy began to take on an elevated,
specialised role as teachers and elucidators of the Word of God. The work of this new caste of
ecclesiastical professionals was not merely encouraged but positively demanded by the secular
authorities as an aid to social conformity.

The pulpit was an ideal medium for expounding and publicising religious doctrine. During the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the preacher became an increasingly important weapon in
the Lutheran Church’s battle for faith and obedience. The public was regularly (and lengthily)
reminded of its duty to honour and submit to God and the authorities that he had ordained to rule

∗
Following the conventional practice of Luther’s, Bach’s, and succeeding generations, male pronouns are used here
to refer to God.
on earth, to live life in constant preparation for death, and never for one moment to lose a sense
of individual sinfulness. So far, so sombre. There was, however, another aspect of the message:
individual life with all its pain, misery and uncertainty was somehow part of a glorious and
beneficent eternal plan. A supremely powerful being cherished those who believed in his reality
and cosmic purpose – the resurrection of Christ after his death on the cross was regarded as a
token that God will grant his earthly followers an eternal future of heavenly bliss. This vision
was to sustain hope amidst the hardships of existence in the physical world, for the mortal
condition is only temporary, and the demands of the flesh may be discounted.

Depending on individual temperament, such doctrines may lead to an ascetic repudiation of the
flesh, but Luther himself took the view that the body was part of God’s creation and therefore
should (in certain contexts) be accepted as a legitimate source of pleasure. This comparatively
relaxed attitude to the senses influenced the Lutheran approach to worship. The Lutheran Church
did not insist on the sanitised rigour of the more austere branches of Protestantism. In fact, the
splendour of Lutheran services was closer to the Catholics than to the followers of the Reformed
Church of Calvin and Zwingli, whose rejection of the aesthetic dimension of worship suggests
an underlying lack of confidence in the strength of the spiritual ideal. For them, art was suspect
as a subversive distraction rather than as an inspiring foretaste of divine beauty. Luther, on the
other hand, was a great music-lover. He understood its power to mould emotional response; the
congregational hymns that he himself wrote were intended to strengthen communal belief and he
encouraged the playing of musical instruments in church. Music, conveniently, acts through the
senses without unduly rewarding the flesh.

* * * * *

Bach’s sacred cantatas, therefore, are part of a tradition which sought to engage the whole
person, co-opting mind, emotion and senses, in the worship of God. The influence of music on
mood has, of course, been recognised for aeons, from the Confucian reliance on music and
ceremony as a reflection and adjunct of social order, to the Islamic puritans who class music as a
forbidden intoxicant. Bach’s sacred cantatas are close allies of the sermon. A good preacher
entertains and persuades, and knows that the human brain cannot bear too much abstraction.
Ideas are brought to life by metaphors, and the cantatas present to the imagination an array of
suggested visual cues, lifelike roles and choreographed pageants that bridge the gap between an
invisible perfection and mortal longing. Religious ecstasy finds a ready ally in music; these
works are infused with a passion whose intensity and object – a flawless and omniscient God –
seem awkwardly remote from the cultural proprieties of today.

This distance, however, is more apparent than real. Through his own medium, a musical art of
unsurpassed subtlety, complexity and expressive power, Bach’s sacred cantatas take part in a
quest to satisfy a certain widely-felt and perennial need, part intellectual, part emotional: an
inevitably unappeasable longing for certainty, for one truth that will make sense of everything.
The earliest Greek philosophers postulated first one physical substance, then a metaphysical
reality, an imaginary world of absolutes; the religions of the book (Judaism, Christianity, Islam)
satisfied the same need in the concept of one God.∗ Since this type of mental search seems to be

∗
The Chinese, on the other hand, gave coherence to their world view through their collective identity, physically
delineated by a succession of walls, and symbolised by a divinely-endorsed emperor.
a particularly human attribute (it is unlikely that other animals spend time pondering
metaphysics or debating the origin of the universe), such a conceptual hunger is perhaps part of
our biological identity.

In the history of thought, one puzzle has haunted those who have had the time and inclination to
reflect on such things: how to reconcile the opposition of unity and diversity within the mind
itself. At the root of this problem lies a great ambivalence between curiosity and security – the
need to order what has so far been encountered, along with the urge to find out more (in other
words, the lure of novelty in its many guises). Each individual brain organises the information
that arrives from outside by creating mental structures to create a unique, symbolic picture of the
world around it. These help it to categorise and understand the present, but of necessity only in
terms of the past. There is a permanent state of creative tension between the need for a useful
and reassuring mental order and the danger of thereby losing the mental plasticity – the openness
to what is new – that defines life. The human brain loves to systematise, but in the end it cannot
systematise itself; it is affected by external encounters beyond its control. This infuriates the
taxonomist and intrigues the artist. In Plato’s cosmic blueprint, for instance, supreme value was
attached to the concept of an unchanging reality, while whatever was unpredictable (for instance,
certain poetic uses of language) was denigrated and banished from his perfect society. The
neediness of flesh and emotion was feared and despised.

Consciousness teases the human brain: an imagined mind-space offers a viewing platform from
which the self observes its own myriad shifts of role and mood. Throughout recorded history,
empires of thought – political, intellectual, social – have risen in turn to prominence, colonising
the territory of the mind until, discredited, they are usurped by new sources of authority. The
appeal of each mental system arises from the same widespread need, that the self should be
informed of its own identity and function. To be able to take the unity of this subjective self for
granted gives us a solid anchorage in our world; to be doubtful or unsure of its authentic nature
creates unease and panic, like slipping blindfold over ice. We build up a dossier of ourselves
through the reactions of others, analysing patterns of response that feed back to us a sense of
who we are. Furthermore, as social animals we live in groups that offer the security of a shared
identity. To gain access to this source of comfort, all that is required is that we assent to
communal frameworks that purport to explain why we must live as we do.

The hunger for the unchanging and certain, however, acts in opposition to the other defining
characteristic of life. Each uniquely personal narrative continues to be modified by new events
that alter our neural maps. Subjective identity is therefore always work in progress. If this
activity ceases, even though the heart is still beating, the body is regarded as the living dead, “a
human vegetable”. There is, therefore, a permanent interplay of two essential adaptive functions:
on the one hand, the need for a known, fixed self which has its place in the protective network of
the group, and on the other hand, the ability of the brain to make fresh connections in response
to the unforeseen and unpredictable.

The enduring relevance of Bach’s sacred cantatas lies in the way the music embodies and
resolves such existential conundrums. Continuity and change, stillness and movement, the
individual and the community: all are reconciled within the inventive landscape of his music. As
the supreme master of his art – his compositions had to be written almost at the speed of his
renowned improvisations – he creates an aural paradigm of human experience. The constraints
of life are fixed but not prescriptive; within them an infinite number of creative possibilities can
be discovered. This chromatic adventurer repeatedly challenges the boundaries of his harmonic
universe, but its elastic limits are never quite provoked beyond endurance, and so uncertainty,
ambiguity and confusion are always healed by a tonal homecoming. As the supreme master of
counterpoint, Bach offers endless metaphors for a world in which the individual voice is free to
have its say but where difference flourishes within (and indeed contributes to) the complex
pattern of the whole.

* * * * *

The religion that infused Bach’s life and music existed in a particular time, place and culture.
How difficult a barrier does that create for a modern listener? Two concepts – original sin, and
the Devil – are particularly troublesome to a confident, prosperous post-modernity. The doctrine
of original sin (narrated in the Old Testament through the allegory of mankind’s disobedience to
God at the beginning of time) announces that imperfection is built into the human condition;
which is to say, that whatever schemes are devised by an individual or a group to eliminate man-
made causes of misery, the result will always fall short of the original ideal. This does not seem
controversial. The unhappiness arising from human interactions – misreading of another’s
intentions, lack of imagination, jostling for power and status, and so on – can never be regulated
out of existence. It is true that the concept of original sin has often been abused, in particular as a
handy weapon to browbeat the less powerful, and it is also true that sensitive and impressionable
natures have taken it too personally. However, to be reminded of our limitations, of our capacity
for error, can only be regarded as an affront by those who claim perfectibility as an immediate
human right.

The cantatas make their own contribution to the perennial debate as to whether human nature is
intrinsically good or bad. The texts are often fiercely critical of humanity, but they can also
imply a more subtle approach that encompasses both ‘yes and no’, and ‘it depends’. There are
propensities both to good and to evil. Selfishness and indifference to the welfare of others,
status-seeking, and placing supreme value on following the herd are, for instance, all innate
tendencies to moral weakness that must be resisted. But the texts also recognise a capacity for
selflessness – the altruistic care of others, for instance, and a love of what seems to be right even
if it risks ridicule; the moral conscience is regarded as a mark of human affinity with God. There
is an inclination toward the divine in everyone which may be strengthened through faith in a
benign power beyond the self. Though no-one can become perfectly good, the religious outlook
of the cantatas promises forgiveness for those who struggle to transcend the waywardness of
personal inclination. Thus battle is a constant theme: the inner war zone of everyday life,
illustrated by Bach’s vivid musical language of torment and triumph, conflict and consolation.

The Devil is the main supporting actor in the spiritual theatre of the cantatas, inciter of human
weakness and embodiment of all that is opposed to the goodness of God. He represents a
destructive condition of wildness and disorder, not to be confused with a romanticised vision of
the preconditions for creativity, but rather inflicting upon people a helpless subjection to the
fluctuating desires of the moment. Thus the Devil condemns humanity to a debased and
incessant parody of childhood, and a dependence on shifting appearances. In the religious
narrative of the cantatas, the only defence against this ancient enemy is faith in God – the
cultivation of an inner source of values independent of the hurly-burly, the clamour and
contradiction of the outside world.

A positive feature of this type of thinking is that faith is part of a process rather than a foolproof
way of settling specific questions of right and wrong. The value of the ideal is that it remains just
so – an aspiration that turns the whole of life into a challenge to do better.∗ The problems start
when perfection becomes prescription, when religious belief metamorphoses into secular
ideology. Although the Judeo-Christian sacred writings which are the foundation of the cantata
texts supposedly contain a revelation of divine truth, original sin and the workings of the Devil
make it impossible for the human race ever to create heaven on earth. The attempt must
constantly be made, but with a humility spectacularly lacking in certain political agencies that,
intending to redeem the world, have visited it with new levels of misery and devastation.

The theology of the cantata texts should not present an obstacle to engagement with the music.
The two cannot be separated; the most constructive approach is to regard this whole brilliant
corpus as an artistic and imaginative resource that has relevance for us as never before. Its terms
of reference extend far beyond sectarian limits. It is beside the point to deplore religion on the
grounds that its precepts can be abused to justify gross acts of cruelty, aggression and
intolerance. Hypocrisy can be found anywhere. Religion has to be taken seriously (though not
always at its own valuation), for it has carved out a particular type of space in which the human
mind considers certain fundamental questions about itself: why we must feel pain and die, how
we can find fulfilment, how we balance our own wishes with the wishes of others, and if there
are universal laws or patterns which give meaning to the subjective experience of life.

Some people are happier dealing with this sort of speculation in purely philosophical terms;
paradoxically, the weightless purity of abstract reasoning appears to invest their conclusions
with a more solid authority. As a species, however, we have a long history of clothing our
deepest concerns in imaginary guises, whether we call the format myth, allegory, literature or
religion. To engage with the music and words of Bach’s sacred cantatas is not to confine oneself
to a narrow field of vision. Their texts offer an interpretation of one of the great monotheistic
religions that have become part of global culture. Its doctrines may not hold a monopoly of truth
or virtue, but neither are they without meaning for us, for they evidently reflect a widespread
need for belief in a better world and the ultimate triumph of justice and kindness.

As for the music, like all great art its complexity and skill are demonstrable and not simply a
matter of opinion. As a balancing act between the formal and the free, the structured and the
unexpected, it exemplifies the package that life offers us, take it or leave it. Our freedom can
never be boundless, but meanwhile, there is much to do with what we have. This is the case that
Bach’s music makes, passionately and untiringly. There is no opposition between technique and
spontaneity, between painstaking skill and the creative imagination. His particular gift is to
create a purely psychological theatre, exposing the risks and tensions, the fears and hopes, the
triumphalism, grief and joy of the invisible protagonists of the mind. The composer lifts us from
the physical present, drawing us into an aural universe that mirrors our own experience of the

∗
As Dominic Lieven observes (in Russia against Napoleon) about his ancestor, Major-General Christoph von
Lieven: “he was a convinced Lutheran, with all that religion’s stress on duty, hard work and obedience”.
world in its complex intermingling of the orderly and the unexpected. Absorbed in this private
drama, we live more intensely in minutes that would otherwise have passed by unremarked; the
linear progression of time has been interrupted and enriched. Bach tells us that zest in life can be
created from within, from our own resources, and that we can hold on to this even with the
knowledge that one day we must die.
 Chapter Seven

Death and After: What is Heaven?

At the heart of religious belief is the mystery of life and death. Unlike other animals (as we
suppose), humans know that one day they must die. We try to make an opening in that particular
brick wall by imagining our existence prolonged in another, parallel world, accessible to the
living only in dreams and prayers. While Christianity is not the only belief system to convert
finality into opportunity, the transformation of death from blight to blessing is one of its great
attractions. Accordingly, the cantatas constantly look towards our end not as the annulment of all
hope but as a transitional point where limits dissolve into an eternal future of transfigured bliss.
They invite us into a parallel world – an artistic space in which to confront death openly and to
defuse its power to shock and dismay.

Yet the subject remains troublesome. Rather than offering comfortable certainty, it inspires
music of painful longing and febrile ecstasy. The fascination and horror with which the
individual imagines his own annihilation reaches far beyond merely reconciling the self to the
extinction of a separate, unique consciousness. Preparation for the right sort of ending becomes
the most important goal of life, its constant preoccupation. To twenty-first-century sensibility
this may seem unhealthy and depressing, a tiresome way of undermining the enjoyment of the
present. Yet perhaps it is no more than the obverse of contemporary Western attitudes. There is
arguably as much anxiety as ever surrounding the idea of death, although it is manifested
differently. The prosperous world ages in a perpetual fantasy of youth. Change can be
worshipped for its own sake; the self and its surroundings must be constantly reinvented to avoid
any suggestion of stillness and the premonition of decay. The price paid for this treadmill of
renewal is a restlessness that becomes an end in itself, irrespective of its social cost. Death is
unwelcome in polite society, unsavoury and taboo, yet grotesquely mesmerising.

In this as in other areas the cantatas do not shy away from the intractable problems of existence.
Yet the solution proposed by faith is full of contradiction. The desire for everlasting life rests on
the premise – derived from observable human inclination – that existence is a self-evident good.
Nevertheless, it is this very attachment to life that believers are urged to reject through a studied
reversal of instinct, a contrived repudiation of the very basis of being. The cost of such a strategy
for defusing the fear of death is to discard the value of life as it is lived now. Yet if life is
considered so entirely repugnant, how did the wish to prolong it arise in the first place? There is
a second difficulty: only an unbearable level of pain, physical or mental, can make death truly
seem a release, yet it is psychologically impossible for the sufferer to regard such a condition as
a blessing, even though the promise of heaven depends on dying in a positive frame of mind. No
wonder the cantata texts agonise over how best to take leave of this world.

There is always an underlying ambivalence that gives the prospect of death in the cantatas a
universal, disturbing resonance. Bach’s music explores the mystery from various perspectives,
such as fear, nervousness, serenity, even enthusiasm; ignoring it is never an option. This
constant preoccupation is reflected in the title of BWV 156: Ich steh mit einem Fuß im Grabe (“I
stand with one foot in the grave”). It was written in Leipzig, probably in 1729, for the third
Sunday after Epiphany. In the day’s gospel reading (Mt. 8: 1-13), thanks to the faith of the
individuals concerned, Christ heals a leper and the dying servant of a Roman centurion. The
theological relevance of this is its depiction of a model of perfect trust. If God in his mercy
chooses to prolong life and health, then so be it; but the Lutheran believer, aware of the close
connection between mortality, disease and sinful human nature accepts that the body must die.
Whether this happens sooner or later can only be left to God; one must be willing to go at the
moment of his choosing. As Picander’s text encourages the relaxation of the mind’s bond with
physical life, so the musical response is one of calm renunciation, indicated by the slow tempi
and falling melodic motifs of the first two movements. The mood is deeply serious but not
anguished. There is no hint of panic, but a serene hope of the ultimate prize – the granting of an
eternal refuge to the soul.

The wordless eloquence of the cantata’s prelude encapsulates its entire programme. In an
adaptation of a movement from an instrumental concerto, the lyricism of the solo oboe part
evokes the blend of sadness, sweetness and longing with which the soul, encased in the body,
contemplates the inevitable. Here, as throughout the rest of the work, Bach requires the dark
timbre of a continuo violone (the lowest instrument in his string ensemble); above its steady,
solemn descent the oboe melody rises and falls in a regular pattern of melodic sighs.
Acquiescence in whatever God has ordained is implied in the fading resolution of the phrase on
to the weak beat. The gentle languor of triplet semiquavers suggests the plasticity of the human
will as it bends to the constraints of mortality, and the emotional vulnerability of the oboe part is
protected by an orderliness of rhythm and phrase.

* * * * *

Four cantatas composed for the sixteenth Sunday after Trinity demonstrate a number of
strategies for coming to terms with anxiety about death. The gospel reading for the day is the
account of the miracle at the city of Nain (Lk. 7: 11-17). It tells how the body of a youth, the
only son of a widow, was being brought out for burial; Christ took pity on the mother and
restored the man to life. Such an act of compassion may seem to endorse the value of our present
existence, but the theology of the cantatas interpreted the story rather as an affirmation of the life
to come, an allegory of the resurrection that Christ promises to every believer. The earliest of the
group composed for this day is BWV 161, Komm, du süße Todesstunde (“Come, sweet hour of
death”), composed in Weimar to one of Salomon Franck’s 1715 collection of cantata texts. As
the title suggests, it conquers dread by turning it inside out – refashioning it as a passionate
desire for what one most fears.

The highly charged language portrays death as a quasi-erotic event. Bach’s setting contains
important parts for two solo recorders (transverse flutes in a later version) cast in a variety of
roles: sensuous, funereal and Elysian. In the opening alto aria their contribution is languishing
and tender. The words allude to the Old Testament legend of the lion that Samson killed with his
bare hands. The animal’s carcase – the symbol of death – became host to a swarm of bees which
duly produced honey. As putrefaction is transformed into life-enhancing delight, the vocal
melody clings to “the lion’s mouth”; the music lingers over the kisses which the soul of the
believer intends to bestow on the Saviour, luxuriating in delayed melodic fulfilment. But while
responding to the amorous idea of death presented in the text Bach also introduces a plainer,
though no less expressive strand of melody. He uses the right-hand keyboard of the organ to
remind us of a hymn, Herzlich tut mich verlangen (“My heart is filled with longing”) whose
words – a prayer to die without fear – would have been well known to his listeners.

The emotional temperature increases in the next two movements. The poetic conceits of the
tenor recitative are somewhat overwrought, with a heavy-handed accumulation of paradoxes to
convince us that life is a sham (“World! your pleasures are burdens! To me, your sweetness is as
detestable as poison! Your joyful light is my comet of bad omen, and where one picks roses
there are countless thorns to torment the soul! Pale death is my rosy dawn” etc.). But Bach’s
setting honours the passionate sincerity behind the melodrama. For the Christian the end truly is
the beginning, the return to paradise. The climactic longing for death melts into melodic ecstasy
and a vision of heaven.

With the promise of such bliss, how can the believer be other than impatient? In the following
aria (also for tenor) death counts for nothing compared with the ache to be with Christ. The
music sighs and yearns, driven by the soul’s restlessness (note the wandering from key to key in
the instrumental preamble). In the central section, even as the voice accepts that the body will be
turned to dust the melodic line anticipates the renewal of life, climbing upwards in denial of the
grave. The glory to come (“my soul’s pure lustre will shine like the angels”) is then revealed in
the rapturous length of a vocal phrase leading at last to C major – the key that in the cantatas so
often evokes the radiance and security of God’s perfect realm.

Similarly, in BWV 95, Christus, der ist mein Leben (“Christ, he is my life”), the mind leapfrogs
its own mortality to reach the soul’s promised land. Composed in 1723, it incorporates verses
from four different chorales into a narrative of utter revulsion from the world. Its nervous energy
appears to be fuelled more by loathing of what is than from love of what will be; the ascetic, the
disappointed idealist, embraces death as a protest against the imperfections of life. Yet through
changes of pace and mood, Bach turns disgust into positive excitement. Driven by a fervent hope
of the betterment that can only be found in heaven, BWV 95 counts the minutes to the believer’s
last moment. In the fifth movement we hear the clock ticking and faltering, its mechanism
depicted by the pizzicato strings that accompany the tenor voice: “Ah, strike soon, blessed hour,
the very last chime! Come, make an end of my woe, the day of death that I sigh for!”

There is perhaps more psychological credibility in the work written for the following year: BWV
8, Liebster Gott, wenn werd ich sterben (“Dear God, when shall I die?), which acknowledges
that some are fearful and need reassurance. Its text was adapted from a hymn by Caspar
Neumann (1648-1715). This multi-faceted priest and theologian from Breslau (now Wroclaw in
Poland) was also a poet and statistician with, appropriately enough, a particular interest in
mortality rates.∗ In the opening movement, Bach encloses a four-part setting of the first verse of
the chorale within a vivid orchestral depiction of its subject matter, namely the passage of time
and the unpredictable limit of one’s lifespan. The soft, relentless beat of muted strings underpins
the plaintive dialogue of two oboes, while a strong bass line (Bach specifies that it should be
doubled) tolls slowly and insistently. In the second bar, twenty-four high, repeated notes on the

∗
The melody of the hymn would also have had a particular significance for Bach’s congregation, for it had been
created by Daniel Vetter, organist at Leipzig’s Nikolaikirche until his death in 1721. He was well known for his
popular four-part arrangements of traditional hymns, designed for playing on a keyboard at home.
flute arrive from nowhere, stopping as suddenly as they began. This mechanical motif, without
phrasing or dynamics – the unexpected ringing of the church bell to announce a death – recurs
throughout the movement. Furthermore, just before the voices enter there is an abrupt void, a
brief absence of sound. The musical message is clear: we must be prepared for life to be
extinguished at any moment.

The succeeding movements show the believer coming to terms with what must be. First, a tenor
aria asks what is the point of being horrified when the last hour strikes, since it is an unavoidable
part of the human condition. Reason, however, cannot banish fear. Pizzicato quavers in the bass
beat time for a restless oboe solo, full of sorrow and longing. The voice takes up the instrumental
melody, its high pitch adding to the impression of anguish and strain. Again, we hear time
ticking inexorably away in the mechanical-sounding staccato quavers of “when my last hour
strikes”. The ease with which Bach slips from verbal to musical idea is constantly in evidence.
As “my body bends daily towards earth”, so the pitch of the musical phrase descends through
almost the entire vocal range, while a great stream of notes illustrates the “many thousands” who
have already found their resting place in the earth.

The alto recitative is an intimate yet curiously opaque meditation. It articulates the worst fears of
the soul through a series of questions. Can the sinful self really hope for anything beyond the
grave, and what will happen to all those we have left behind? The mind’s eye sees itself as an
onlooker at its own funeral, and there is an increasing sense of disorientation as the harmonies
move further and further away from the home key at the unbearable thought of family
dissolution (“where will my loved ones in their sorrow be separated or scattered?”). Yet by a
mysterious process, familiar to the cantatas, extreme anxiety is the precursor (the catalyst,
perhaps) of a renewed faith. The musical marker of this psychological shift is the dance-like
character of an extrovert bass aria. The believer brushes aside previous doubts: “Go away, you
crazy, useless worries!”

Like the Pied Piper (no funereal aura surrounds the brilliant flute obbligato) Jesus is calling the
faithful to follow him to a glorious new life, leaving behind a world which possesses nothing of
value. The insistent repetition of “Who would not go?” – with its unspoken corollary “you’d be
mad not to” – sweeps away all reservations. This music makes no distinction between the
religious and the secular; as the embodiment of playful physical energy, it brings the sacred into
the realm of the living, breathing everyday. The final phrase of the vocal part leaves a sense of
unfinished business. Death need not be feared, because it is a call to join the Saviour in heaven –
but happily the call has not yet come.

The last of this group of cantatas is BWV 27, Wer weiss, wie nahe mir mein Ende (“Who knows
how near my end might be?”). Although it was composed in Leipzig in 1726, it shows how the
medieval alertness to the presence of death remained intact in the Lutheran thinking of Bach’s
time. Life becomes a kind of high-wire act, the permanent sense of its imminent end giving
intensity to every moment. The battle is always to balance gloom with hope. Although BWV 27
begins with anguish and vulnerability, by the third movement it becomes almost bizarrely
cheerful. As we have seen, the Christian’s most difficult task is to convince himself that his last
moments will be a positive experience, unsullied by those negative thoughts that might weaken
his chance of heaven. Thus in this alto aria the unknown librettist turns the Grim Reaper into an
agreeable house-guest: “Welcome, I will say, when death steps up to my bed. I will follow
joyfully when he calls, into the tomb. I will take all my afflictions with me”. The domesticated
figure of death is welcomed by the Christian soul as an intimate friend. To a sparkling keyboard
accompaniment, the two apparently perform a nimble pas de deux, with the voice expressing
only delight at the encounter.∗

* * * * *

Even so, persuading anyone to give up life with a light heart is problematic. Implicit in the
doctrine of original sin is the notion of death as punishment – a deprivation of something
infinitely precious. How, then, can it simultaneously be regarded as a good thing? Bringing
together these opposite poles of perception is the task of BWV 114, Ach, lieben Christen, seid
getrost (“Ah, dear Christians, be comforted”). Written in 1724, this cantata is based on a chorale
by the sixteenth-century Protestant theologian Johannes Gigas. His verses are heavy with human
unworthiness, an appropriate subject for the seventeenth Sunday after Trinity with its gospel
reading (Lk. 14: 1-11) on the need for humility.

BWV 114 begins with a notable discrepancy, both verbal and musical, between its stated intent
to console and its stance of accusation. Although the first line of the hymn seems kindly enough
(“Ah, dear Christians, be comforted”) the answer to its question “why are you so despairing?”
soon becomes obvious: we are all – rightly – under sentence of death (“Since the Lord afflicts us,
let us say from our hearts that we have deserved our punishment; everyone must confess this, no
one can exclude himself”). Bach sets his four-part arrangement of the chorale against an
instrumental background whose tension allows no rest. This music never strays from the point; it
is tightly constructed around a small number of ideas, such as short rhythmic surges and jabbing
repeated notes. Partnered by the horn, the soprano declamation of the chorale melody gains
power and authority, while the expressive lower vocal parts reveal the mind’s underlying unease.

What follows is a spectacularly disturbing tenor aria. It encompasses the two extremes of the
Lutheran position, according to which we are both imprisoned and free. The outer sections of the
aria are a musical metaphor for the limitations of physical existence and the torment that this
causes. Above a static bass line the wailing of a flute enlarges upon the soul’s misery.
Melodically wild, yet harmonically tethered, instrument and voice can find no way forward:
“Where, in this vale of tears, can there be a refuge for my spirit?” In the middle of the aria, mood
and style suddenly wheel around from negativity to febrile joy: “I shall turn in my weakness only
to the fatherly hands of Jesus, otherwise I am at my wit’s end”. Where before there was
mourning and howls of despair, now there is brightness and briskness, with rhythmically neat
passagework for the flute. The pitch of the vocal phrases rises in excitement; instead of stasis
there is a new sense of progression as the music embarks on a journey through a number of
different keys.

The next two movements continue to promote a reversal of instinctive attitudes towards life and
death. We learn in a bass recitative that human existence – rotten with moral deficiency – is in

∗
Yet at the end of BWV 111, Was mein Gott will, das g’scheh allzeit (“Whatever my God wills, let that be done
always”) the soul is much more troubled. A soprano recitative shudders at the gruesome scene “when devil, death
and sin make war on me, and the pillow of my deathbed must become a battlefield”.
any case doomed. Our general wickedness and our arrogance in supposing ourselves the equal of
God has brought the supreme punishment upon us. Our only recourse is to bow to it and thus by
transcending fear to transcend death itself: “then you will come out of this sinful corruption to
innocence and to glory”. A solo soprano expresses the soul’s hope in the third verse of the
chorale. It looks to the cycle of nature for a helpful analogy: “No grain of wheat produces fruit
unless it falls into the earth; so must our earthly body turn to dust and ashes before reaching the
glory which you, Christ, have prepared for us”. With repeated small stirrings in the continuo
(resurrection as germination) Bach projects our thoughts to an imagined afterlife.

Yet the required confidence in the possibility of heaven must never slip into a sense of
entitlement. That would be a sign of spiritual arrogance and an instant disqualifier of admission
to paradise. Faith that there can be life after death is a necessary but not sufficient condition of
reunion with God, who will make his own decision on the fate of each soul. All one can do is to
maintain one’s faith and modestly wait to be called. The Day of Judgement will be a terrible
ordeal, for which one cantata at least offers reassurance. BWV 162, Ach, ich sehe, itzt, da ich zur
Hochzeit gehe (“Ah! I see now that I go to the heavenly wedding”) is a musically small-scale
meditation, written in Weimar in 1716 for the twentieth Sunday after Trinity in 1716. It is a
response to the parable of the wedding feast (Mt. 22: 1-14), which compares heaven to a banquet
to which all are invited. Some refuse, and not all of those who accept comply with the dress
code. In such a case, the host’s welcome darkens to anger; the disrespectful guest is seized and
cast into the outer darkness. Salomon Franck’s spiritually intimate libretto frets about cutting a
poor figure at the critical moment. The believer fervently prays to be able to pass the test upon
which everything – “heaven, hell, life, death” – depends. There is a strong sense of human
inadequacy, but the terror of being judged and found wanting is eventually laid to rest: faith in
Christ will ensure that the soul’s shoddy garments (sinful human nature) are replaced by the
radiant white clothing of divine goodness, so that it may take its seat at the heavenly table.

* * * * *

If heaven in the cantatas is the supreme aspiration of the soul, what kind of a place should we
suppose it to be? What kind of longings does it satisfy? The best analogy is perhaps the idea of
homecoming. The physical features of home differ according to taste and personal history, but
the common element is the satisfaction of a hunger for an ideal place where the self is
unconditionally loved, and liberated at last from all hostility, weariness and pain. The dream is
universal, but it conflicts oddly with the capacity for change and movement that is a defining
quality of a living creature. In the longing for the ultimate homeland of heaven, the deepest
human desire, it might seem, is for a life that has shed its characteristic and exhausting variety.
The effort becomes too much and the mind craves an impossibility: to take a moment of the
purest happiness and graft it permanently on to the calm, unconscious heartbeat of existence.
Heaven represents a transformed mode of being that appears now and again to the conscious self
in elusive flashes of insight.∗ One of the functions of Bach’s sacred music is to prolong these
intimations of an altered reality by giving them intensity and duration through the medium of
music.

∗
For the impatient and the desperate there are chemical shortcuts to a temporary heaven. The drawbacks of this route
are well known.
Taking various elements from the cantatas we can piece together a collage of Bach’s paradise.
The vision they offer of the life to come is naturally the apotheosis of Christian values on earth.
It is not the warrior’s reward that awaits – the armour-clad machismo of Valhalla. As our place
of safety, heaven is often envisaged as an unspoiled rustic landscape where the soul might roam
in peace under the care of Christ the Good Shepherd. The countryside – the idealised innocence
of nature – is the symbol of a world removed from the convolutions and restrictions of political
and social life. Furthermore, the calm of Bach’s Elysium promises a respite from self-torment: a
psychological bonus at any time or place, and especially welcome to a religious mentality that
continually probes its own imperfection.

The cantatas use traditional musical signposts to imply the pastoral backdrop of heaven. The
sound of the shepherd’s pipe, the drone of the bagpipe, uncomplicated melodies and gently
rocking rhythms offer a foretaste of the delights that will one day compensate the soul for its
endurance and self-discipline on earth. BWV 140, Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme (“Wake up,
the voice calls us”) describes the mystic marriage of the soul with Christ at the end of time.∗ It
ends with a celebration of the heavenly union; the lovers’ song of mutual delight is preceded and
accompanied by a light-hearted oboe solo. It begins with an assumed melodic naivety, but
continues with a tirelessly decorative stream of sound which turns it into a virtuoso showcase.
Bach’s art is never more sophisticated than when it pretends to be simple.

The lively style of this movement reminds us of another important feature of life in the hereafter.
It may bring transcendent calm, but it is not passive or static; there is more to do than admire the
view. There is to be a great deal of music and dancing. The idea of the dance – its rhythms,
forms, energy and grace – pervades Bach’s music, and nowhere more so than in the portrayal of
paradise. Its affinity with the life of the spirit is easy to understand, for in dancing the body
seems to skim the ground, untouched by gravity. BWV 112, Der Herr ist mein getreuer Hirt
(“The Lord is my faithful shepherd”) is based on Psalm 23. Written in 1731, this serenely
beautiful work was the last of the cantatas that Bach composed for the second Sunday after
Easter. It is inspired by the image of a Christ who shepherds the human soul through the
dangerous terrain of life to reach at last the green pastures of eternity. There God will have a
banquet waiting; a soprano and tenor duo skips for joy in a bright-eyed bourrée.

Is there a hint of triumphalism in the opening words of this aria, taken from the Old Testament
psalm: “You prepare for me a table before my enemies everywhere”? Is the redeemed soul’s
pleasure to be enhanced by the thought of its former tormentors looking on with envy? There is
some evidence in the cantatas that gloating will not be part of the experience. Apart from the fact
that such an attitude to others would be contrary to Christian teaching, the prevailing spirituality
of the afterlife does not need to re-create human social relationships. The individual will be
entirely focused on God; one vertical connection will replace the myriad horizontal networks that
link one to another on earth. Insofar as there is a sense of community in Bach’s heaven, it arises
from a joint absorption in worship. Singing God’s praises will be the constant occupation of the
resurrected soul. The soprano aria of BWV 25, Es ist nichts Gesundes an meinem Leibe (“There
is nothing wholesome in my body”)∗, looks forward to being enrolled in the angelic choir. Again,

∗
See also Chapter Two
∗
See also Chapter Two
the style is dance-like (an elegant passepied); three recorders paint a delicate, Arcadian
backcloth.

Precisely because heaven is a domain of peace, it liberates the energy that would otherwise be
engaged in hatred and conflict. BWV 58, Ach Gott, wie manches Herzeleid (“Ah God, how much
heartache”) was composed for the first Sunday after New Year in 1727; its title is the first line of
a hymn written by Martin Moller, the sixteenth-century German pastor and religious mystic.
Short, but deeply moving, the cantata is cast as a dialogue between the suffering soul (the
soprano voice) and its comforter (sung by the bass). The theme is life as exile – a type of despair
familiar to downtrodden, sensitive or outcast individuals everywhere. In this work the soul gains
the strength to endure present sorrow thanks to God’s assurance of a better world to come. At the
thought of the “other land”, the recitative style of the penultimate movement flows into a death-
wish of rapturous melodic beauty: “Ah, if it could only happen today that I might see my Eden.”

The reward of faith is immediate; we are transported to a heaven that overflows with vigour, for
BWV 58 ends with a dashing movement in the style of an instrumental concerto. The musical
character of Christ is indistinguishable in its verve and brilliance from its orchestral
surroundings. His words rally the faithful with the certainty of future happiness: “Rest assured,
you hearts, here there is fear, there glory! And the joy of that time outweighs all sorrows.”
Meanwhile, the soul intones a slow prayer (the words are an early seventeenth-century hymn by
Martin Behm): “I have before me a difficult journey that leads to you in paradise. There is my
true fatherland, for which you have shed your blood.”

* * * * *

It is essential at this point to recognise the gulf that exists between certain assumptions of our
world and the outlook of Bach’s sacred cantatas. Although the metaphor of fatherland derives
from an emotional connection to a specific physical territory, the entire programme of the
cantatas is based on the impossibility of finding a true homeland on earth. No perfect imagined
community could ever be brought about through human efforts. In contrast, we are now inclined
to think that we have an infinite capacity to mould our environment in accordance with our
desires: in short, heaven is within our grasp. For better or worse, this confidence is quite alien to
the cantatas. Certainly, the idea of heaven is clothed in optimism and joy, but it can also be
veiled in melancholy. To imagine that we could build it ourselves would be considered the
height of presumption. We are exhorted to cultivate the values of the spirit, placing the God-
given principles of brotherly love above striving for power, but our flawed nature means we can
never overcome all the ills of the world. Thus thoughts of heaven can inspire music of ineffable
sadness, for it reminds us of what is out of reach.

One of Bach’s most other-worldly cantatas is BWV 169, Gott soll allein mein Herze haben
(“God alone shall have my heart”)∗. It is a meditation on the day’s gospel reading (Mt. 22:34-
36), in which Christ identifies the first commandment – to love God with all one’s heart – as the
greatest. But what exactly does this precept entail? The unknown librettist of BWV 169 is
uncompromising: genuine love of God means renouncing the treasures and pleasures of physical
existence. To contemplate the perfection of heaven supersedes all sensual allures. Written for the
∗
See also Chapter Four: Faith in Practice
eighteenth Sunday after Trinity in 1726, BWV 169 is a solo cantata for the alto voice. In terms
of its vocal forces, therefore, it is not a showy work. But that is how it should be, for it focuses
not so much on divine glory as on the private, human experience of reaching towards God. This
is eloquently expressed in the intricacy and emotional intensity of the instrumental music, some
of which is borrowed from a work that now survives as a harpsichord concerto. Bach used its
first movement as an introduction; the brilliant style of the solo organ part especially implies the
richness of the life of the spirit.

BWV 169 seeks to convince the listener that to obey the first commandment is not renunciation
but gain – of contentment in this life and of the boon of paradise in the next. Yet it seems, in this
cantata as in many others, that one source of discontent is exchanged for another. The believer
may have succeeded in banishing envy of worldly goods, but the hunger for heaven still
torments. The fourth movement is a recitative that identifies love of God with the yearning to be
with him, leading to the logical conclusion of the next aria: a call for the death of the body and
all its desires (“Die within me, all my love of the world, that my heart, might for ever and ever
on earth practise the love of God”). From the slow movement of the concerto (see above) Bach
creates an elegy for existence, a stream of mourning for what cannot yet be. Through its gently
rocking rhythms it evokes the pastoral heaven where the believer longs to find rest. There is a
disembodied quality to the music; it hovers tonally, avoiding confirmation of the home key, the
bass never comes in at the beginning of the beat, and alternations of major and minor create
wistful patterns of light and shade. There is no anger or disgust but a transcendent melancholy.
The human soul – not quite here, not quite there – seems to have no real home.

Nonetheless, the sense of alienation is generally outweighed in the cantatas by the comfort that
the idea of heaven brings to the believer. The very concept is its own reward; by perceiving it,
we experience it, albeit briefly. BWV 30, for instance, Freue dich, erlöste Schar (“Rejoice,
redeemed flock”), is swept along by a tide of happiness which carries the listener’s thoughts to
the shores of paradise. Virtually all the music of this expansive work was taken from a secular
cantata that Bach had composed in 1737 in honour of a local landowner, Johann Christian von
Hennicke. In re-using this predominantly dance-like material to celebrate the festival of St. John
the Baptist, Bach was displaying not only economy of effort, but also demonstrating the extent
to which all his art was subordinate to a religious world-view. For him, the crossover between
the sacred and the secular was in one direction only. The divine is the expression of wholeness.
Everything, whether overtly religious or not, may be subsumed under God’s universe; but what
has once been dedicated to him cannot subsequently endure the limitations of the mundane.
While Bach’s secular music is sometimes adapted to a religious purpose, the reverse is not the
case. Thus in BWV 30 faith cannot be said to borrow its euphoria from a worldly event. Rather,
Bach restores the joy of his music to its rightful origin: faith in Christ, whose promise of
redemption is the source of all true pleasure on earth.

* * * * *

Which brings us full circle to the main subject of this chapter. The chief and undeniable benefit
of the concept of heaven is that it eases the passage from life to death. By reducing the
dissonance between the two, the Christian teaching of Bach’s sacred cantatas offers great
comfort. It holds that death is not the opponent of life but part of a larger journey whose end-
point we must take on trust. As with any great departure, preparation is all. A funeral especially
concentrates the mind on the need to live each day as if it were one’s last – to be ready to go at
any time. So it is with BWV 106, Gottes Zeit ist die allerbeste Zeit (“God’s time is the very best
time”), one of Bach’s earliest and greatest works. Although modest in scale, this cantata
(probably composed in 1707 at Mühlhausen – it is not known whose death it commemorates)
takes the listener on a complex emotional journey, from grief to hope and from anxiety to
consolation, setting all preoccupations within a context of universal law. The words are mostly
excerpts from the Old and New Testaments, collectively intended to strengthen the
understanding of death as the prelude to a new life. Working within the same key signature
throughout, Bach creates a continuous, arching tonal structure whose symmetry helps to restore
a sense of order to a world whose familiar patterns have been disrupted by loss.

BWV 106 displays the technical dazzle of a miniature epic. It covers a succession of great
human concerns with an individualized intensity that belies the short space of time allotted to
each. The music begins with a grieving introduction in which, apart from the continuo, Bach
requires only the subdued, dark sounds of two bass viols and the tremulous wailings of two
recorders. They, it seems, have barely the strength to sustain their notes, sinking in turn to the
semitone below as if clinging to each other for tenuous support, and in the process generating a
succession of fleeting discords. A four-part chorus now traverses a variety of moods. The
soprano line leads gently to a serene chordal setting of “God’s time is the very best time”. In the
following dance-like section (“In him we live, move and have our being”) the unbroken tremolo
of instruments and voices symbolises life’s unceasing activity, until it is checked by the proviso
“as long as he wills it”. At this thought there is an abrupt shift to the minor mode. The
uncertainty of the moment of God’s choosing (“we die at the right time, whenever he wills it”)
inspires slow, painful descents.

Yet acceptance of the inevitable is both possible and necessary. In sighing phrases the tenor –
here perhaps as the voice of age – prays for God’s help in accepting the limits of existence: “O
Lord, teach us to reflect that we must die, so that we learn wisdom”.∗ The anticipation of death
brings a surprising change of mood and tempo. We return to the bustle of the living as the bass
voice breaks in with the robustly practical advice to put one’s house in order. Without the bass
viols or contrapuntal intricacy, timbre and texture are lightened. The lively arpeggios of the
recorders turn spiritual spring cleaning into an almost physical pleasure, as if distant from
theological introspection.

The respite is brief; three lower voices sternly proclaim God’s ancient decree. There is a sense of
inescapable compulsion in the repeated rhetoric of “you must die”, for the counterpoint obeys
rigorous, deliberately old-fashioned rules. The reminder was hardly necessary. As the soul
(soprano voice) eagerly invites its fate (“Yes, come, Lord Jesus”) we understand that it is as
well-prepared as the bass solo advised, for Bach has slipped in a reference to a familiar hymn by
Melchior Vulpius: “I have settled my affairs with God”. The melody appears in the soft, low
register of the recorders. The soul calls out to the Saviour with increasingly agitated sighs of

∗
The association of the tenor sound with the vigorous romantic hero was a later operatic convention.
longing until it faints away in an elaborately erotic cadenza; a silent bar marks the moment of
death.

This human drama forms both the centre of symmetry of the cantata and its psychological pivot.
As there can be no turning back, BWV 106 follows the soul on its future path. The journey, we
may be sure, is sustained by faith; the alto voice at the beginning of the third movement speaks
for the deceased, using the passage from Psalm 31 which also inspired Christ’s dying words on
the cross: “into your hands I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God”.
Repeated ascending figures in the continuo paint the upward direction of the soul’s passage,
although the shape of the vocal phrases suggests an eventual coming down to rest, like the
alighting of a bird, into the hands of the Saviour.

We know that all will be well, for the bass voice responds with Christ’s benediction to the
repentant criminal crucified at his side: “today shalt thou be with me in paradise” – a promise
that holds good for all who die in the faith. The calm, lyrical beauty of the setting banishes all
fear. Bach makes the voice hover in the upper part of its register, bringing a radiant intensity to
the word-setting. A highly decorated vocal ascent on the word “paradise” leads to one of the
many marvels of BWV 106. At this point – the presumed moment of the encounter with Christ
in heaven – the alto line emerges from the texture, but in a musically transfigured state. We hear,
as if for the first time ever, Luther’s hymn of departure from life: “With peace and joy I travel
there”. The well-known words and melody stand out in relief against the soaring utterances of
Christ’s pledge and the gently animated commentary of the two bass viols. A blessed peace
awaits: “Death has become sleep for me”.

Faith makes one last demand, this time on the living rather than the dying. There is no need to
grieve for the soul of the departed if it is truly at rest in paradise. Mourners may struggle with
their own sense of loss, but death – whether their own or another’s – must be understood as part
of the process of God-given life. Hence BWV 106 ends with a doxology, a grand chorus of
homage to Father, Son and Holy Spirit. It is based on a melody by Sethus Calvisius, musician
and astronomer who, as it happens, had been music director at Leipzig’s Thomaskirche a century
before Bach. For this tribute to God, the instrumental forces and the key are those of the opening
of the cantata, but the mood has been transformed from mourning to celebration. Beginning with
measured dignity – a token of respect both for the solemn occasion and for divine power – the
movement, and thus the entire cantata, is crowned with a headlong assertion of life. The final
“through Jesus Christ, Amen” is no mere postscript, but a richly decorated double fugue, an
unending stream of musical energy. Yet when it has reached its endpoint, it fades away with
sudden, quiet grace.

* * * * *

This laconic musical gesture epitomises the ideal death for Bach’s believer (and, one would
imagine, for countless others of whatever ideological persuasion): a gentle slipping away as,
weary and tranquil, mind and body simultaneously release their grip on life. The biblical
paradigm appears in an episode from St. Luke’s gospel (Lk. 2: 22-32). In accordance with
custom, Christ’s parents Mary and Joseph have come to the temple at Jerusalem to dedicate their
newborn child to God. (The Church celebrates the event as the Purification of Mary, for the
ritual also marked the end of a mother’s forty days of seclusion after childbirth.) They encounter
the old man Simeon who has been prompted by the Holy Spirit to visit the temple in search of
the Messiah. He immediately recognises and embraces the infant as his Saviour. With this act his
life is accomplished, and he prays that he may now depart in peace.∗

The story is simple enough but its significance could not be greater. Independently of Christian
faith, it suggests a way to win the mind’s greatest battle: to accept death as part of the endless
cycle of existence. Consolation arises from the idea of the continuation of life, even if it is not
one’s own. For the believer, of course, there is a more personal dimension. There will be a
renewal of the self for eternity, following the example of Christ whose human birth and death is
considered compatible with his immortal nature. Through his immediate understanding of this,
Simeon was able to take his leave with unreserved joy, for he had set eyes on God. But
subsequent generations cannot easily rediscover such confidence. They have to work to convince
themselves that there is a way to transcend the grave. Hence in the heart-rendingly eloquent
BWV 125, Mit Fried und Freud ich fahr dahin (“With peace and joy I go there”) Bach’s music
is far more than a soothing advertisement for Christian doctrine. Simeon’s voice is woven into
our troubled, common experience.

Written in 1725, BWV 125 is based on Luther’s hymn paraphrasing Simeon’s response to the
sight of the Saviour (see also the account of BWV 106 above). The choral setting of the first
verse shares certain features with the opening of the St. Matthew Passion. Time signature and
key are the same, and the scoring is also similar, with the lamentation of woodwind above the
strings. But whereas the later work is assembling the mourners for a wake, in BWV 125 there is
a sense of propulsion from here to there – towards a distant, desired goal. It is almost the moment
of death, and yet there is a forward energy in the rocking octaves of the continuo, picked up at
times even by the mournful flute. Furthermore, the climbing phrases and frequent syncopations
of the instrumental parts suggest an impatient longing for the soul to be on its way. Death is
process, not stasis.

The soprano cantus firmus floats, line by line, over the ascending lilt of the other voices: “With
peace and joy I travel there according to God’s will, comforted in heart and mind”. At the third
line the vocal parts illustrate the ebbing of life: “peaceful and still” is passed softly down over
the slow-moving continuo. As the soul slips away, there is a subtle dislocation of harmony to a
distant key. Yet after a brief moment of silence, the music resumes more strongly than ever in an
assertion of faith (“as God has promised me”). For the final line (“death has become my sleep”),
voices and continuo gently diminish. Sinking, chromatic harmonies create a sound-world that
suggests the remote and alien calm of death. A repeat of the opening ritornello ends the
movement with a fine balance of sorrow and comfort, the pain of departure mixed with the hope
of a new beginning.

Nevertheless, the body cannot help but grieve for its fate. The following alto aria faces the
ultimate test: “Even as my eyes weaken, I will look to you, my true Saviour”. The words are
resolute but, despite Simeon, Bach is too much of a realist to suppose that life will ever be
surrendered without regret. This agonised ambivalence – between a natural shrinking from
death, and yet, as it cannot be avoided, the need to think of it as a re-creation of life – is reflected
∗
Simeon’s valediction has a place in the Christian liturgy as the nunc dimittis.
in the music.∗ In the introductory bars, flute and oboe move together in thirds, advancing in
slowly choreographed sighs until they wind their way to a cadence. Their elegy repeats itself
throughout the aria, both as an instrumental ritornello and as an accompaniment to the voice.
Slow, halting phrases – a token of the body’s fading strength – impede the free flow of the
melodic lines.

The second portion of text leads to the supreme moment: “Although the framework of my body
breaks” (flute and oboe are for a little while no longer in step with each other) “yet my heart and
my hope do not fail”. The soul needs all the courage of faith, for only Christ can help: “My Jesus
looks upon me as I die and lets no harm come to me”. With the threefold repetition of sterben
(“die”) the vocal line gradually sinks, while flute and oboe spiral upwards over two bars, ending
in nothingness. Here, the usual symbolism of a silent beat draws attention to something more
significant: the gap in the sound creates not disruption but merely a slight delay. After a
momentary hiatus, the continuo resumes the steady throb that sustains the entire aria. It
continues in exactly the same way: an endless succession of paired notes, phrased together to
create the alternating strong and weak accents of the heart’s own rhythm. With this barely
perceptible motion, Bach translates the stillness of the grave into the pulse that surrounds the
unborn child in the womb. The music’s subliminal message is that the deep peace of death is the
cradle of life.

* * * * *

Death is everywhere and nowhere in the cantatas. If to live is to have one foot in the grave, then
the other foot is always (for the believer at least) striding towards a life that can never be
extinguished. This intimate connection between mortality and immortality is one of the central
themes for Bach and his librettists. Thus Simeon’s readiness for departure has far more than
funereal implications; it is actually the aspiration of every believer at all times. In BWV 82, Ich
habe genug (“My life is fulfilled”), the entire work presents Simeon’s farewell as a sublime state
of grace in which the burden of self is lost in union with God. No more questions need to be
asked; they are answered before being uttered.

Ich habe genug was composed in 1727 for the feast of the Purification. It is a solo cantata, to a
text by an unknown author, and it was performed several times in Bach’s lifetime, until the late
1740s. Another indication of its wide appeal is that it was evidently sung by three types of voice:
baritone, mezzo-soprano and soprano.∗ The design of the work cradles the listener in symmetry.
There are five movements; three arias alternate with two recitatives, and the rondo form of the
central aria itself embodies a fivefold structure. The outer movements share the same minor key
and time signature, while the central part, which lulls the soul into the blessed sleep of death, is
in the relative major. The sense of stillness and finality is, however, complemented by a
progression of role and mood.

∗
Again, there are parallels in terms of style and instrumental colour with the St. Matthew Passion, in particular with
the duet for soprano and alto, No. 33, and the hearbroken soprano aria, No. 57.
∗
The latter version was transposed up a third, from C minor to E minor, and the obbligato part given to the flute
instead of to the oboe.
We hear Simeon in the words of the first movement: “My life is fulfilled, I have taken the
Saviour, the hope of the godly, in my eager arms. I have seen him, my faith has pressed Jesus to
my heart; now I wish that even today I could joyfully depart from here”. Even so, the music
mourns, nursing its sorrow in the sighs and murmurs of the violins. Repeated patterns in the
continuo suggest the slow-moving lament of a ground bass, while the bittersweet contours of the
oboe melody reflect the paradoxical connection between serenity and grief. The heartbreak
normally associated with deprivation of life is transmuted to the ache for what is as yet
unattainable. Death, as ever, is an emotionally complex process.

The central event of the cantata, psychologically and structurally, is a lullaby in which the self
colludes tenderly in its own annihilation: “Go to sleep, you weary eyes; fall softly and blissfully
shut!” Strings alone partner the voice; the melodic footfall of singer and instruments alike is
smooth and gentle. There is no hint of struggle or complaint in the blending of the parts – only
the blessed ease of death, indicated by long silent pauses. This is truly the final sleep. Yet after a
recitative expressing disappointment at remaining here, although mentally prepared to leave, the
final movement of BWV 82 takes us back to a world of physical vigour and passion. It takes all
the energy of the living to convey Christian delight in dying. The difference between the
perpetual motion of this music and the earlier state of calm could hardly be greater. The voice
hurls itself into its future: “I look forward to my death”. Rising, emphatically repeated phrases
contrast with the downward-ebbing sequences of the first aria. There, holding the sacred child,
Simeon prepared to abdicate quietly from life; here, death is an invigorating step forward.

As ever, the impulse cannot be immediately satisfied: “Ah, if only it had already come”.
Consumed with impatience and regret, the soul’s musical persona temporarily loses its high
good humour. One further sentence embodies humanity’s tragic vision: “There I will escape all
the affliction that shackles me on earth.” In setting these words, Bach alludes to the opening
phrase of the cantata, reminding the listener that death can appear to fulfil a perennial longing:
the exchange of life’s mess and misery for a perfect ideal. In one final touch of symmetry, BWV
82 ends, as it began, with an implied tension between words and music. The difference is that
whereas in the first aria the music expressed yearning while the words spoke of fulfilment, here
the final cry (“Ah, if only death had already come”) conflicts with the exuberance of the music,
leaving once more a hint of unfinished business, of unattained desire.

* * * * *

This, of course, is the defining characteristic of heaven. The very concept is predicated on a
sense of lack. It will always be with us because we can always entertain the possibility of
something better. Far from being a foolish fantasy that no longer has relevance, heaven in some
form or other occupies a permanent place in our imagination. We are closer than we may think
to the mentality of the cantatas, in which the hope of a greater good sustains the believer’s effort
to rise above present distress. As with any mental construct, it can be used in ways that invite
criticism. For instance, instead of being a spur to improve what we have, its airbrushed
perfection can lead to disgust (including self-disgust) and despair. It can also become the opiate
that saps the will to do what is currently in our power, however inadequate. Yet secular versions,
in attempting to eliminate human untidiness here and now, have inflicted great misery. Heaven,
like death, is ultimately a private affair; compassion demands that we allow others to arrive there
in a way of their own choosing. Turning it into political reality is like trying to lasso the
rainbow.
 Chapter Eight

Ears for Eyes: The Theatre of the Imagination

Distinguishing between the real and the illusory is a central project of the cantatas. Bach’s
librettists are engaged in the search for what is fixed and certain, and their religious outlook leads
them always to the same position, dogmatic and sceptical in equal measure: they are sure that the
unchanging exists, but they are also convinced that it can never be fully grasped by the mortal
mind. Nevertheless, rather than forget the whole idea, we are, they maintain, obliged to hang on
to the little we have – the belief that there is such a thing as objective truth – even though it
cannot be located in the world around us. In which case, how are we supposed to perceive it?
The answer is, according to Christian teaching, through a special inner faculty: the soul. This is
held to impart a type of wisdom above and beyond the knowledge transmitted by the shifting
world of appearances.

But we are also dependent on and influenced by our senses, for we ourselves are part of the
physical universe. Faith hangs on a slender thread, strained almost to breaking point by the
tension between spiritual and material types of understanding. The assumption in the cantatas is
that the soul needs a great deal more help than the body. Hence Bach makes its invisible
presence more real by placing it in a musical world full of the sights, sounds and emotions of
everyday existence. He allows the listener to have it both ways: to retreat into the silent, invisible
domain of the soul and apparently to close the door on the outer world, without in fact losing its
bustle and spectacle.

While the cantatas were not staged works, the soul’s private difficulties and joys are played out
as a spectacle before the mind’s eye, in the manner, say, of radio drama rather than film or
television. There is a certain irony (obviously unintentional) in Bach’s use of theatrical
strategies, for in his quest to give substance to the ethereal realm of the spirit he invokes an
artistic medium based on illusion. The notion of drama includes both a representational and a
rhetorical aspect, both of which permeate the cantatas. First, the music frequently implies the
sensory immediacy of the visual – something unusual or colourful to attract our gaze. As the
narrative unfolds we enjoy the make-believe power that comes from watching others as if with
the cloak of invisibility. We can be spectators from a safe distance, choosing which characters to
understand and relate to without being trapped in their situation. But the most important dramatic
feature of the cantatas is the momentum generated by conflict: the tension between what people
want and what they can get, between the true and the false, between weakness and strength, and
between the simultaneously opposed impulses of the self. Here – in the inner struggles enacted in
the cantatas – we have the essence of theatre.

In Bach’s lifetime opera was the most prestigious, public and exciting musical art form. He, of
course, chose a different professional milieu – sacred rather than secular – yet he was always
alert to the theatrical implications of his libretti, from the fine detail of word painting to the broad
brush-strokes of great ceremonial set-pieces. Moreover, whatever he may have lost in terms of
visible stage effects, he gained in the area of stylistic freedom; the cantatas encompass a far
wider repertoire of musical possibilities than would have been considered appropriate for the
opera of his day, most obviously in the inclusion of hymns, the importance of choral movements,
and the virtuosic play of counterpoint. In his insouciant mastery of so many registers – from the
deliberately antique to the latest styles of his day, and from a hearty, accessible idiom to the
refined and stately musical language of the court – Bach belongs in Shakespearian company. He
mixed and blended an immense palette of forms, harmony and timbre to respond to a subject
matter – life and death in the context of eternity – which could never be bound by the classic
Aristotelian constraints of time and place. His music had to embrace both the infinitely large (the
everlasting universe overseen by God) and the minute psychological details of a mind at odds
with itself.

Bach’s response to the theatrical implications of his texts is endlessly alert. Often the emotional
or pictorial connection that he makes is obvious, but to follow subtle turns of characterisation
and plot, as ever, requires concentration. For various reasons, a modern listener can be unaware
of some of the visual symbolism of the cantatas. Firstly, in terms of its formal architecture and
emotional eloquence, the music is aesthetically magnificent. Listening to it without enquiring
how Bach means to illustrate his text is a self-sufficient pleasure.∗ Furthermore, the nature of the
relationship between what we see and what we hear is now different. While the developed world
of the twenty-first century is awash with mechanically generated sound, including electronically
reproduced music, it is arguably the visual image that has the most power to direct our tastes and
preferences. To be sure, film and television, including advertising – that great conjuror of
previously unfelt needs – owe much of their impact to mood-directing music. But the eyes take
the lead in deciding what is most important. Sound is the consort of sight – always there, always
needed, but in the background, a pace or two behind.

The situation is reversed in Bach’s sacred music; the ear becomes the main conduit of
information, but this does not mean that the eye is forgotten. The narratives of the cantatas gain
colour and life through an endless stream of visual associations generated by the language of
sound. While the starting point may be a word or idea in the libretto, it is the composer’s creative
imagination and technical dexterity that transform both the concept and the picture it suggests
into music. The allusions of the text are recreated as a cinematic event projected on to the inner
eye. In fact, precisely because in this case the mind is not dependent on the stimulus of a viewed
object, it can shift more easily and rapidly from one location to another. The world of the
cantatas is populated with scenes of celebration and sorrow, doubt and distress, longing, fear,
aggression and triumph.

* * * * *

Three works written for the approach to Christmas typify this variety. For instance, the colourful
Advent cantata of 1714, BWV 61, Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland (“Now come, Saviour of the
gentiles”), whisks us through an ever-changing scenario. Its opening, with a ceremonious French
overture as the envelope for the chorale from which the cantata takes its name, takes us to the
court of God the King. We then watch the Holy Spirit gliding to earth in the descending
trajectory of a lilting melody for the tenor; this is followed by an extraordinary encounter with
Christ himself, sung as usual by the bass voice. He knocks on the door (the regular tap, tap of
pizzicato strings) asking the human heart to let him in. The soul (soprano voice) duly offers a

∗
Just as classical Greek statuary is perfectly beautiful as white marble, even though we know that it was once
brightly painted; an exhibition in the Pergamon Museum in Berlin recreates the original effect.
passionate welcome, with the breathless style of the music responding to the sexual implications
of the text.

In contrast, BWV 132, Bereitet die Wege, bereitet die Bahn! (“Prepare the paths, prepare the
road”) is akin to a courtroom drama in which the believer faces prosecution on the charge of
weakness of faith. The need for self-scrutiny is a constant theme of the cantatas, and never more
so than in the period before Christmas, which demands rigorous mental preparation for the
divine presence on earth. BWV 132 is another early work, composed in Weimar in 1715 to a
stern and accusatory text by Salomon Franck. One of the day’s gospel readings (Jn. 1: 19-28)
describes the interrogation of John the Baptist by the priestly establishment. Franck transforms
the incident into a test of the spiritual honesty that is required of every believer, the unflinching
gaze into the conscience that will show how much the human sinner has fallen short of the
Christian ideal. By magnifying the pitch contours of the spoken words and enlivening the
lengthy preaching with images in sound, Bach’s musical language flags up the psychological
journey from summons to accusation, self-denunciation and contrition. The absence of choral
numbers confirms the impression of a hearing in private; judgement is delivered within the
confines of the mind.

The opening aria for soprano (“Prepare the paths, prepare the road!”) begins as a brisk dance-life
fanfare, using first the oboe and then the voice as a heraldic trumpet. Melody and harmony are
crisp and cheerful, yet the straightforward call to action turns into a test of vocal stamina. It leads
to a musical portrayal of the winding way ahead, suggesting the unremitting efforts demanded of
the Christian conscience. That Christ comes to redeem humanity is a familiar message; to
understand its personal relevance requires constant vigilance. The central part of the aria insists
that all deviation from the sacred ideal must be corrected: “Prepare the roads, and make the
footpaths in faith and life completely level for the Most High”. Five reiterated notes combine
jabbing insistence with a representation of the level path along which faith ushers Christ into the
human heart. A final revelation explains the urgency: “The Messiah is coming!” Bach underlines
its climactic importance with a sudden gesture; the instruments fall silent as the human voice
alone announces the imminent arrival of God.

But first, believers must be made aware of their shortcomings. A tenor recitative begins the
onslaught on complacency: “If you would call yourself God’s child and Christ’s brother, then
heart and mouth must freely confess the Saviour. Yes, O man, your entire life must give
testimony of your faith! Even if Christ’s word and teaching is sealed with your blood, devote
yourself willingly to it!” The naturalistic speech style of the setting collaborates perfectly with
the text; discontinuities of rhythm and key imitate the planned pauses and changes of mood of
the skilled public speaker. Suffering and self-discipline, however, bring their own reward – “For
this is the Christian’s crown and glory” – and here the abruptness melts into a small oasis of
melodic sweetness. The vision inspires fresh motivation for the present task and a return to the
angular contours of recitative: “Meanwhile, my heart, prepare here and now the pathway of faith
for the Lord, and clear away the hills and high places which stand opposed to him!” The
culminating image of the barrier between God and humanity is borrowed from the story of the
Resurrection. Human failings are like an enormous stone that must be rolled aside before the soul
can enter Christ’s inner sanctum. Again, Bach illustrates the lecture with music, combining
entertainment with instruction as the continuo repeatedly trundles downhill.
All this, however, is merely a preparation for the forensic fury of the bass aria. The text is
divided into three parts. First comes the scornful challenge that implies the guilty verdict: “Who
are you? Ask your conscience, then you are bound to hear the proper judgement on you, without
hypocrisy – whether you, O man, are false or true”. The vocal style is as tough as the relentless
questioning. Again imitating the contours of the spoken phrase, Bach creates a musical motto
which in various guises dominates the entire movement. Its plummeting octave is a constant
reminder of the need to tear down self-regard; meanwhile, a solo cello sweats over a part better
suited to a keyboard player. Next, the accusing finger points to the law of the Old Testament,
with its evidence of humanity’s original sin: “Who are you? Question the law, it will tell you
who you are”. Condemnation follows: “A child of anger in Satan’s net, a false and hypocritical
Christian”. The familiar serpentine chromaticism recalls the wiles of the tempter, and straying
harmonies reveal the inconstancy of the so-called believer. Four bars of the opening motif bring
the trial to a speedy conclusion: the case is open and shut.

The tongue-lashing achieves its effect; in an alto recitative, the soul grovels before God and
pledges to do better in future. Slow-moving string chords indicate the sacred space – the newly
purified conscience – from which the penitent makes full confession: “I freely admit to you, my
God, that before now I have not truly committed myself to you. Although my mouth and lips call
you Lord and Father, yet my heart has turned away from you. I have denied you with my life!
How can you give a good testimony of me?” Although the instrumental style remains
contemplative, harmonic changes reveal the agitation and shame of the sinner. Human
shortcomings have severed the bond between sinner and Christ: “When, Jesus, your bath of spirit
and water cleansed me of my misdeeds, I promised always to be faithful to you; but ah, alas,
baptism’s covenant is broken”. The muted harmonies express the anguish of failure as the
miscreant, helpless, weak and worthless, cries out for God’s mercy: “I repent my unfaithfulness!
Ah God, have mercy, ah help that I with unswerving loyalty may forever in faith renew the
covenant of grace!” Now that it has pleaded guilty, the soul is once more fit to receive God’s
grace, and so BWV 132 ends with an alto aria over which a solo violin pours streams of
consoling melody.

There are no barriers to overcome in BWV 36, Schwingt freudig euch empor (“Soar joyfully
aloft”), which portrays the eager and loving encounter of the human and the divine.∗ Where does
this meeting take place? The imagination bounds over the cosmos, excitedly reaching out to
God, only to find that he has already arrived. He does not require the glare of publicity but
rather, as we eventually discover, a private, soft-toned conversation with those who speak his
language. BWV 36 was composed in 1731 for the first Sunday in Advent. It includes some self-
borrowings, since movements 1, 3, 5 and 7 re-use material from a secular cantata of 1726,
written to honour the Princess of Anhalt-Cöthen. Each of these alternates with a chorale setting
to steer the listener’s response along a spiritual path. In no sense is the religious intensity of the
work diminished by the earlier function of the music. The point of departure in both cases is the
need to celebrate the birthday of a high-ranking person, and so the expressive vocabulary easily
adapts to its new purpose. The words of the original cantata have naturally been altered (perhaps
by the same writer, Picander) to suggest a new set and a fresh cast of characters.

∗
See also Chapter Two
BWV 36 opens with a choral expression of delight at Christ’s birth, an enactment of the public
festivities at which every believer must be seen and heard in order to reaffirm membership of the
community of faith. In a recurring phrase for the first violin a quick twirl is followed by an
upward leap. The sound of the human voice is to be flung on high in a physical effort to meet its
God: “Soar joyfully on high to the lofty stars, you tongues which now rejoice in Zion”. Such an
attempt is a necessary sign of devotion, but, as the cantata gradually makes clear, becomes
ultimately redundant. When once the inclination to faith is roused, Christ is sure to enter the
human heart. The point is made with a sudden rhetorical change of direction in both music and
text: “Yet stop! The sound need not carry far, for now he himself is drawing near to you, the
Lord of Glory”. Startled into silence, the instrumental bustle momentarily pauses. However, it is
too early yet to finish the noisy celebration, and so the urge to sing out to God returns. Again, the
voices are checked – this time the command is repeated three times – and the movement ends
with a further reassurance of Christ’s approaching presence.

The jubilant crowd withdraws, to be replaced by the sound of two voices woven into the intimate
texture of a trio sonata. Luther’s Advent hymn invites the soul to meditate on the imminent birth
of Christ: “Now come, Saviour of the gentiles, revealed as the virgin’s child; the whole world
wonders at this, that God has ordained such a birth for him.” Bach reworks each line as a
dialogue in which the two voices imitate and reinforce each other’s impulse of amazement and
longing. At the same time, the continuo makes an independent, and doubly expressive,
contribution. It constantly repeats the first line of the chorale, so that the invitation to Christ
becomes the thread that binds the movement together, yet it is also full of skittish little phrases,
urgent with syncopation. The wait is, in a sense, over. Christ has already shown himself on earth
and is always present to his faithful followers. Advent is both a historically specific event and
endlessly repeated.

A tenor aria portrays the union with Christ in terms of an ideal marriage: “Love draws its
beloved gradually with soft footsteps. Just as a bride is enchanted when she looks at the
bridegroom, so also a heart follows Jesus”. Here, it seems, are two people who are freshly in love
and whose mutual devotion is displayed with delicacy and respect. The tempo is dance-like and
the texture light enough (only oboe and continuo partner the voice) to match the refined steps of
bride and bridegroom. The da capo structure corresponds neatly with the verbal imagery: the
outer sections show Christ as lover, the inner section presents the enraptured beloved, safely held
in the Saviour’s embrace.

Later, the action takes place on a less rarefied level, as a bass aria suggests a convivial host
beaming with delight as he ushers in his visitor; the rhythmic patterns recall the exuberance of
the opening chorus, with its loud public invitation to the redeemer. But it is the penultimate
movement of BWV 36 that contains its central message. A gentle soprano aria describes how the
spirit quietly achieves its purpose: “Even with subdued, weak voices is God’s majesty
honoured”. A muted violin partners the voice in a duet of lilting beauty – music to the ear of
God. What may be drowned out by everyday clamour can possess a strength that echoes across
the universe. In the central portion of the musical design (“As long as the spirit resounds, then
this is the kind of shout that He himself hears in heaven”) Bach breathes life into the theological
concept with playful, bell-like imitation between voice and violin. As so often, his music draws
on the sense-perception of the material world to create a metaphor for a non-material reality.
 * * * * *

Alongside their didactic or edifying mission, the cantatas had a compelling need to intrigue and
entertain. They were performed, generally on Sunday mornings, as part of a lengthy religious
service; their purpose was to help the mind focus afresh on the day’s biblical topic. Text, image
and music are linked in a mutual feedback loop. Each of them might activate and in turn be
brought to life by one of the others. Nevertheless, there is an intended hierarchy of perception.
Every cantata aims to direct the attention of its listeners to the words and concepts that it
accompanies. Both sound and its linked visual associations are placed at the service of a
specialised type of verbal meaning: not words in general, but the Word of God – the sacred book
believed to contain eternal and universal truth. The cantata libretti, of course, are not simply
passages from the Bible, although they often include short excerpts from it. But as their purpose
is to enlarge upon biblical themes, they are to the Lutheran religious mind the next best thing to
scripture.

Hence Bach’s own genuine piety and natural inventiveness together inclined him not only to pay
scrupulous attention to the meaning of his texts, irrespective of their literary merit (or lack of it),
but also to use every available means to make them relevant to the personal experience of each
listener. In recreating theology as human drama, the cantatas share certain of the features of early
eighteenth-century opera. For instance, the solo arias explore one or two emotional states at
some length. They engage with a relatively small amount of text, depending on skilfully planned
repetitions of melodic and harmonic patterns to accumulate depth of feeling. The role of
recitatives, on the other hand (again as in opera), is to carry the action forward, often with an
analysis of the situation, a discussion, argument or rationalisation. Music intensifies the cut and
thrust of the rhetoric, heightening the usual variety in the pitch and rhythm of speech to add
emotional emphasis. In the case of such an intimate connection between the spoken and the sung,
their easy partnership is only fully apparent when the cantatas are performed in their original
language.

In his range of types of recitative Bach naturally draws on the expressive vocabulary of his
immediate predecessors and contemporaries. He has at his disposal a quasi-conversational style,
supported by the continuo alone, or he may evoke an elevated spirituality by means of sustained
string chords hovering in the background. For moments when feelings seem too strong for
normal utterance, the speech-like contours of recitative can also soar into song (arioso). What is
notable is the untiring scrupulousness, as if no part of the text can be taken for granted. Clearly
Bach belongs in the company of composers with a heightened response to verbal meaning.
Along with the superlative craftsmanship, there can be an almost childlike zest in his ready
translation of words into music – an inspired shift from one category of symbols to another. Or
perhaps when, as in Bach’s case, music is so completely wired into the brain, a type of
synaesthesia occurs; every idea or sensation has its equivalent in sound.

Is there a conceptual barrier between us and the figurative and emotional imagery of Bach’s
music? Any system of meaning embodies a code that belongs to a particular culture and tells us
more if we have made some effort to understand its protocols. But the expressive vocabulary of
the cantatas amounts to more than a culturally specific pairing of sounds and concepts. It
originates in a widespread, perhaps universal, response to rhythm, pitch and variety of
instrumental colour. There is, for instance, an instinctive association between speed and a
positive mood, and between powerful timbre and authority. Similarly, no-one needs to be taught
that stuttering, tentative phrases suggest nervousness and fear (as, for instance, in the soprano
aria “How the sinner’s thoughts tremble and shake” from BWV 105∗). Thus when Bach sets the
word “joy” to music, it is very often to a stream of notes that overflows with surplus energy. And
when the underlying pulse seems hardly to stir, we prepare for a scene of weariness and
dejection.

* * * * *

The simplest way for music to bring a narrative to life is to slip in a naturalistic reference to the
physical world. The cantatas abound in these descriptive touches. They bring an instant flash of
recognition to the listener, adding pace and colour to the story-telling, but their naïvety is more
apparent than real. Such obviously representational musical motifs are subsidiary elements in a
complex structure; the relationship of the parts to the whole becomes a metaphor of how the
observable attributes of the universe are manifestations of God’s design, constructs of the divine
mind. For example, BWV 18, Gleichwie der Regen und Schnee vom Himmel fällt (“Just as the
rain and snow fall from heaven”), begins with an instrumental prelude which illustrates the life-
giving cycle of nature.∗

The purpose of this sinfonia is to suggest a visual context for the day’s gospel reading (Lk. 8:4-
15), a parable in which Christ depicts God in the role of seed-sower. The muted tone colours (no
violins – just four violas, bassoon, cello and continuo) evoke the grey skies which bring snow
and rain; we hear their insistent fall in the steady patter of all the instruments in unison. From
this, two violas emerge in a melodic duo to suggest the first stirrings of life. These pictorial
symbols prepare the listener for the theme of the cantata – the analogy between physical and
spiritual growth. The central section passes the musical images of snow, rain and germination
from one group of instruments to another, combining and re-combining them in such a way that
the texture of the whole is constantly varied. The mood is serious but not sombre – its thoughtful
introversion suits the theme of the influence of God’s Word as it steals upon the soul.

When in 1724 Bach came to write another piece for this occasion, he emphasized a different
aspect of the same parable. In BWV 181, Leichtgesinnte Flattergeister (“Empty-headed
fluttering souls”), the anonymous librettist is full of contempt towards those who fail to accept
divine truth. Taking his cue from the biblical imagery of the birds who devour and destroy the
divine seed, he depicts theological refuseniks as “flutter-souls”. The music of the opening bass
aria revels in the conflation of ideas; sound-picture and mental concept are united in the ungainly
phrases, staccato peckings and sudden squawks with which the composer ridicules the
unbeliever. Behind the collaborative satire of music and text lies a warning: if humanity loses its
aspiration toward the divine and we succumb to our animal natures, we leave ourselves at the
mercy of the chaotic power of the material world.

* * * * *
∗
See also Chapter Three
∗
See also Chapter Five
The gospel narratives are in general a rich source of dramatic material, both in terms of the
eventful biography of Christ and also through his manner of teaching by story-telling. As with
any collection of sacred writings, believers may respond on a number of levels. A literal
understanding is the first stage of the search for a deeper, allegorical truth that sheds light on the
relationship between the human and the divine. But the allegorical is a function of the literal;
though it may be considered a more complex form of understanding, it has no independent
existence. Its impact is dependent on, and proportional to, the vividness of its starting point – the
portrayal of something that creates an immediate physical and emotional connection.

This was evidently clear to Bach. For instance, in BWV 81, Jesus schläft. was soll ich hoffen
(“Jesus sleeps, how can I hope?”), which evokes the fear of drowning as a way to understand the
dangers of the loss of faith, the music takes the listener immediately onto the heaving boat.∗ In
the opening alto aria the upper instruments (recorders wailing above the strings) sway with
queasy semitones while the continuo seems to plunge into the abyss. Lurching and stuttering, the
voice acts out the terror of one who faces imminent annihilation: “Jesus sleeps, how can I hope?
Do I not already see, with ashen face, the open chasm of death.” The vocal line alternates
between immobility (the musical harbinger of death) and short, gasping phrases. The only thing
that counts at this moment is the sheer instinct to live, exposed in all its flailing desperation in
the ensuing tenor recitative. Here, the cries of the soul bob up and down the stave, gesturing
wildly for help: “Lord! Why do you stand so far off? Why do you hide yourself in a time of
need, when everything threatens me with a wretched end? Ah, is your eye, which otherwise
never sleeps, not moved by my need?”

Bach’s setting is full of harsh dislocations, for instance in the great leap (“so far”) that depicts
the distance from God. The harmonic progressions are similarly designed to destroy any sense of
security.There is only one lifeline for the believer, and that is an appeal for divine revelation:
“You did indeed in previous times show the newly-converted wise men the right way to journey.
Ah, lead me with the light from your eyes, because this way promises nothing but danger”. A
descending scale suggests the longed-for beam from heaven, yet at the same time a chromatically
rising bass tells of ominous forces below. The hint is enlarged upon in the following tenor aria,
which is the turning point in the fight for survival. At the height of nature’s assault, the true
adversary is now identified: “The foaming waves of Belial’s water redouble their rage”. The
frenzy of the waters, represented by the tireless arpeggios and passagework of the violin, buffets
the vocal line; yet the singer is not so much overwhelmed as inspired by new powers of
resistance. The energy of the vocal line matches the forces that would overwhelm it, as if the
doubt that has paralysed the soul has been transformed into opposition to an external enemy.
Text and music now offer a glimpse of the resolution of the conflict by adding a further stage-
prop from nature: “A Christian should indeed stand like a rock when winds of affliction blow
around him, yet the raging flood seeks to weaken the strength of faith”. Positioned centrally in
the aria, these few slow-moving bars remain impervious to the surrounding turbulence. The
musical juxtaposition of stillness and storm maps the believer’s inner turmoil on to a
recognisable scene from the physical world.

∗
See also Chapter Two
The next two movements feature Christ as an actor in the drama. While of course we cannot see
him, the effect of his personality (from which the listener is free to infer any physical features he
or she chooses) is delineated in music. For instance, Bach’s setting of the words of Christ (“Why
are you afraid, O men of little faith?) is supremely orderly; bass voice and continuo engage in a
short, structured dialogue of imitative counterpoint, a controlled précis of fugue. The music
interprets Christ’s response not as an angry rebuke but as a rational antidote to the overwrought
minds of his followers. It is clear that his self-possession proceeds not from lack of imagination
but from boundless strength, displayed in an aria of command: “Be still, towering sea! Be silent,
storm and wind!”

As before, the string parts suggest the agitation of the waves, but now they are restrained within
a smaller compass and they show their obedience to God’s will by receding and quietening. The
voice of authority is suitably characterised by heraldic fanfares, heroic leaps and heavyweight
athleticism. Above all, Christ is the guarantor of a regulated universe: “May your boundary be
set, so that no mishap shall ever injure my chosen child”. The da capo structure of the aria
creates a neat metaphor for this protective demarcation. The “chosen child” is safely enclosed
within the central section; the waves can still be heard, but they are subdued, kept within
permitted bounds.

Nature is similarly tamed by the presence of Christ (though we do not hear his voice) in the
cantatas representing him as the Good Shepherd, i.e. BWV 104, BWV 85, and BWV 112∗. The
latter, Der Herr ist mein getreuer Hirt (“The Lord is my faithful shepherd”), is the latest of this
group. It was composed in 1731 to a poetic rendering of Psalm 23 by Wolfgang Meuslin, an
early Lutheran convert, pastor and theologian. The opening beckons us to a dreamscape of rural
bliss, a place of sunlit greenery and happiness. A simple, four-part setting of the first verse of the
chorale is enclosed within a sparkling orchestral texture. The music remains harmonically bound
to the hymn melody, yet is full of movement and infectious high spirits. It has no goal except for
the enjoyment of life under Christ’s protection. Hunting horns echo in the distance, while the
bounding vigour of strings and oboes invites us to share in the light-heartedness of those who
trust in God’s promise of heaven.

* * * * *

Even so, divine influence over the natural world is not always calm and kindly. One of the most
dramatically charged events in Christian belief is the moment at the end of time when God
shatters the physical universe. The importance of this much-prophesied cataclysm is that it will
bring final proof of the mastery of the spiritual over the material. As Christ triumphantly
reappears, the earth will implode and God will make his last judgement over each individual life.
The image is spectacular and continues in new guises – such as apocalyptic films – to transfix
the imagination, for it embodies the ultimate moral sanction: the eternal punishment of evil and
reward of goodness.

This is the theme of BWV 90, Es reißet euch ein schrecklich Ende (“A terrifying end will sweep
you away”), written for the twenty-fifth Sunday after Trinity in 1723. It may seem that such a
small-scale work could hardly do justice to its monumental subject, yet as the librettist oscillates
∗
These works are also discussed in Chapters Two and Seven
between threats and cajolery, Bach’s music suggests the psychological impact of that terrible
moment. Although the words of the opening tenor aria are apparently directed at others (“A
terrifying end will sweep you away, you wicked scorners”) the vocal part itself seems to act out
the horror that it foretells, carried along by the tense, forceful energy of the first violin. Bach
pushes the singer to the edge of endurance, as if the shrillness of the accuser merges with the
despair and exhaustion of the fugitive. In spite of the da capo form there is little change in the
musical material of the central section, and no mercy from the text: “Your sin’s measure has
reached the limit, yet your completely unrepentant spirit has entirely forgotten its judge”.

After an alto recitative reproaching ungrateful sinners for turning away from the Church, BWV
90 returns us to the scene of Judgement Day. A trumpet announces the majestic presence while
the bass voice explains that at this point it will be too late to remedy a lifetime’s neglect of God.
He has generously supplied his Word to illuminate the soul’s path, but he will dash away his
lamp (it topples down in a cascade of scales) from those who have dishonoured him. The musical
style is both stately and florid, its unbending formality suggesting that God is no longer prepared
to give the accused the benefit of the doubt. Yet perhaps here the listener should not take this too
personally. Just as a disaster movie invites us to identify with those who survive against the odds,
and not to be too troubled by the gruesome deaths along the way, BWV 90 ends by separating us
from the victims of God’s anger. They are not us, but people we have watched from the
sidelines. The fourth movement is a tenor recitative that places the listener in a different,
favoured category: “God’s eye looks on us as chosen ones … the champion in Israel protects us
and helps us up”. A final chorale looks hopefully towards eternal life by God’s side.

There is a similar sense of the listener as spectator of a deservedly alien group in BWV 178, Wo
Gott der Herr nicht bei uns hält (“Where God the Lord does not stand with us”)∗. This highly
pictorial work is based on a chorale by Justus Jonas, theologian, translator, and close colleague
of Luther. Bach’s setting conflates the physical and the ideological. In the opening chorus the
enemy (the Devil) shakes, rages and roars in dotted rhythms and seething semiquavers. A bass
aria (the third movement) portrays the little band of believers in their boat, once again tossed and
pounded by the waves. All this tumultuous energy aims “to expand Satan’s kingdom”, but in
fact, as the next movement indicates, through the mechanism of thought rather than deeds. The
fourth verse of the chorale points to those who, while priding themselves on being Christians and
pretending to respect God, are no more than heretics and hypocrites. The chorale melody keeps a
steady course while two oboes and continuo maintain a restless, imitative texture, full of niggling
inconsistencies, both melodic and harmonic.

The next episode of the drama pits the communal voice of faith against the ravenous fury of the
satanic powers. Their role is chiefly assigned to the continuo, whose upward arpeggios,
suggesting the lunges of a beast, echo the verbal imagery: “They open their jaws wide, roaring
like lions; they bare their murderous teeth and would devour us.” The musical design, following
the structure of the text, intersperses a solid four-part setting of the chorale with ringside
commentaries from bass, alto and tenor. Christ (“the lion of Judah”) is the champion against the
forces of the Devil; they will “vanish like chaff” whereas the true believers will stand “like green
trees”. Minor and major keys respectively represent the death of the one and the life of the other.

∗
See also Chapter Five
 * * * * *

In BWV 178, Bach (in response to his librettist) objectifies the clash between truth and
falsehood, encouraging the listener to watch and cheer on his hero. But it is far more usual to
find the duel taking place closer to home. The dramatic momentum in the cantatas is ultimately
generated by psychological tensions; the self becomes its own battleground, as the enemy within
(doubt) appears in two guises. There might be a straightforward lack of faith in the power of
Christ to grant eternal life, or (a more subtle variant) the individual concerned may feel unworthy
of God’s blessing, which, as an expression of distrust in divine grace, becomes self-fulfilling.
Many of the cantatas function as extended soliloquies, offering a window on to the divided mind.
In contrast with a similar personal revelation on stage, Bach is free to use different voices, as
well as the expressive resources of music, to portray internal dissension. Although the
protagonists have no visible shape, they reveal their existence through the competing directions
of the musical rhetoric.

As its title suggests, BWV 109, Ich glaube, lieber Herr, hilf meinem Unglauben! (“I believe dear
Lord, help my unbelief!”), depicts the soul veering from one position to another until it regains
its allegiance to God. This work was composed for the twenty-first Sunday after Trinity in 1723,
whose prescribed gospel reading (Jn. 4:46-54) emphasizes the need for faith to make miracles
come true. There is accordingly the strongest possible motivation for the mind to resist despair
and trust in God’s promise. The words of the first chorus are taken from another biblical account
(Mk. 14) of Christ’s power to work wonders. A father who longs to see his son cured of
convulsions is told “All things are possible to him who believes”. The man’s reply is the
confused yet hopeful “I believe dear Lord, help my unbelief!”

The text may be brief, yet it embodies the Christian dilemma – the credibility gap between the
longing to believe and the mind’s propensity to remain sceptical in the absence of material proof.
Bach acknowledges the importance of the paradox by exploring it at some length within a
substantial instrumental framework. The music differentiates the conflicting urges through its
distinct treatment of the two elements. The setting of “I believe” indicates the mind at one with
itself by the use of a solo vocal line, whose assurance is solidly, albeit momentarily, confirmed
by the group. But in “help my unbelief” the voices wander off on their separate paths, alternately
scattering and recombining in a simulated disunity. Evidently the tendency to doubt outweighs
the impulse to believe, for the second part of the text receives far more attention than the first.
Furthermore, through the stylised sighing of the instruments and isolated cries of “help” we
understand that the absence of faith brings deep distress.

The following two movements (both for tenor) show us what happens when unbelief takes hold.
First, a recitative portrays a mind that is prey to violent mood swings. Strong, bright phrases
expressing hope alternate with faint cries of despair (Bach prescribes the requisite dynamic
changes); the climax is a melodically tortured appeal for God’s presence. The agony continues in
an aria whose shuddering, jerking rhythms convey a high degree of mental and physical tension.
A swaying vocal line (“how my anxious heart wavers”) betrays the loss of inner and outer
balance. But exactly halfway through, BWV 109 shows us the mind suddenly transforming itself
for the better. A further recitative and aria (this time for alto) replace the sceptic Mr. Hyde with
the Dr. Jekyll of faith. The results are impressive. The recitative takes off in C major (a startling
contrast with the preceding E minor aria), and the text brooks no nonsense: “Control yourself,
don’t give in to doubt, for Jesus still works miracles! The eyes of faith will see the salvation of
the Lord; if the fulfilment seems too distant, you can still count on the promise.”

This leads directly to an alto aria in the style of a courtly dance: “The Saviour indeed knows his
own when their hope lies helpless.” The poise of the music and above all its reassuring tonal
stability (the outer sections never stray from their initial key) reveal an entirely altered mood.
Even in the central section, with its darkened harmonic response to past troubles, the setting is
always stately. Finally, BWV 109 ends with the emotional antithesis of its beginning. While a
sturdy, four-part chorale places full trust in God, the decorative orchestral setting bounds with
newly liberated, uncomplicated good humour. And there is (for the very attentive listener) just
one more touch of musical optimism: Bach guides the music to end in the dominant key, not just
of this movement but of the starting point of the entire cantata.

* * * * *

A victory too easily won does not make a deep impression; the spice of doubt and dissension
strengthens the case for faith. Allowing a counter-voice to be heard (“but”, “what if?”, “how can
I be sure?” “I still feel terrible”) is one of the orator’s basic strategies, calculated to inspire
confidence in the speaker. By the same token, the cantatas often make room for questions, setting
up an opposing view before demolishing it – through exhortation, example and inspiring words
rather than through logical argument. Hence in BWV 60, O Ewigkeit, du Donnerwort (“O
eternity, you word of thunder!”), the librettist works through the soul’s contradictions by
recasting them as a histrionic dialogue between the figures of Hope and Fear.

BWV 60 was composed on the twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity 1723, (i.e. just three weeks
after BWV 109). It is one of two works that are known by the first line of the same hymn∗ and it
is not comfortable listening, for its task is to expose deep cracks in the edifice of the self. Bach’s
music mirrors the text in its sense of the alienation of Fear from Hope (sung by alto and tenor
respectively). The musical utterances of Fear are melodically dour, often spiked with dotted
rhythms, and find their natural home in minor keys. In contrast, the voice of Hope follows a path
of greater melodic freedom, generally turning in the brighter direction of major keys. But while
their differences seem on the face of it irreconcilable, the duellists are closer in spirit than they
(or we) might think. Music is always their meeting place, a metaphor for the underlying unity of
the self whose need for the comfort of faith will eventually overcome its own internally
generated opposition.

In the first movement, Fear and Hope appear to go their separate ways. Before the voices begin,
the orchestral instruments stake out two positions: a nervous, repeated shivering of the strings
and a response of sweetly flowing melody from the oboes. Fear’s role throughout the movement
is to intone the bleak message of the chorale O Ewigkeit, du Donnerwort: “O eternity, you word
of thunder, O sword which pierces the soul, O beginning without end!” But just as Fear is about
to move on to its confession of abject panic (“O eternity, time without time, I am so wretched I
do not know where to turn; my terrified heart trembles so much that my tongue sticks to the roof
of my mouth”), the voice of Hope brings release from the mind’s prison in a free-ranging
∗
The other is BWV 20, whose somewhat different trajectory is described in Chapter One.
rhapsodic style that soars beyond tight rhythmic and melodic boundaries: “Lord, I wait for your
salvation”.

The second movement is a dialogue in recitative in which Fear and Hope set out their opposed
views of death. Fear begins with a deliberately tormented allusion to the first phrase of the
chorale melody: “How difficult is the way to my final fight and battle!” To which Hope replies,
in the confidence of faith: “My helper is already there; my Saviour stand comfortingly at my
side”. What is really at issue is mental well-being here and now. Fear destroys the chance of
present happiness in its imaginary projection of what lies in store: “The fear of death, the final
pain, overtakes and seizes my heart and tortures these limbs of mine”. At “tortures” (martert) the
vocal line twists in slow agony for four bars. Hope, however, relishes the chance to demonstrate
faith through stoical endurance: “I lay down this body as a sacrifice to God. The fire of affliction
may be hot, but it purifies me to the greater glory of God.”

The third movement is a close-up of the moment of death. The librettist has organised the verbal
jousting as three pairs of rhyming couplets, each containing a cry of horror from Fear and a
riposte from Hope. Bach’s setting hints at the eventual outcome of the conflict. The adversaries
still keep their distinct identities but the contrasts are not as marked as before. Not only does
Hope have the last word in every exchange (i.e. the vocal part continues beyond that of Fear) but
in addition the more decorous style implies that the self’s anxiety may be subsiding.

Thus Bach prepares us for the clinching revelation of the fourth movement. In this last section of
dialogue, Fear is answered not by Hope but by a far higher authority: Christ himself. By now,
Fear is fluent in the arguments against the certainty of salvation, but Christ (sung by the bass
voice) is an elegant theologian, countering each objection with a quotation from scripture, sung
in a flowing arioso style, each time in a major key a third lower than Fear’s preceding minor key.
Christ replies to Fear three times, beginning always with “Blessed are the dead” and
subsequently adding a new, emphatically repeated gloss. Hell need no longer terrify because
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord”. Finally, Christ deals with the fear of death as an
actual, immediate blight on the enjoyment of the present; his third arioso adds, repeatedly, “from
now on” (von nun an). At last Fear can invite Hope to return as the human soul looks beyond
death to a transfigured joy.

Even the final chorale Es ist genug (“It is enough”), has its place in the drama.∗ Without warning,
Bach appears to float into another harmonic dimension, severing the expected musical
connection with what has gone before. The first phrase of the chorale seems to be repeating the
final utterance of the previous movement, but its sudden metamorphosis into a new key, coupled
with the unusual sharpening of its fourth note, disorientates the ear and hence the mind. This
same phrase also alludes to, and similarly transforms, the brooding O Ewigkeit, du Donnerwort
that cast its shadow over the beginning of the cantata. By these small strokes of genius BWV 60
achieves psychological closure; what we would not have believed possible can, after all (it
implies), be attained through faith.

* * * * *

∗
Franz Joachim Burmeister, seventeenth-century preacher and poet, wrote the words, and they were set to music by
Johann Rudolf Ahle, one of Bach’s predecessors in his first post at Mühlhausen.
If these sacred works of Bach are to be considered analogous to theatre, what exactly might we
be watching? And is there a reason – a need, even – for a type of drama that is realised solely
through music? The cantatas are a platform for the most universal, absorbing and painful contest
of all: the struggle to accept that our most precious possession – life – will be taken from us. For
this, two stage sets are envisaged, though neither of them could ever be physically constructed.
One phase of the action takes place within ourselves. While internal oppositions may at times be
personified (as, for instance, by the imaginary figures of Fear and Hope), to see them in the flesh
as separate entities would turn us into mere onlookers of our own state of mind. In the cantatas,
we, the listeners, are always the subject: busy inside our heads, engrossed in the battle against
death, preparing our souls for immortality.

The second location is the spiritual realm, the focus of all our hopes of eternity. The nature of
heaven can only be hinted at (see Chapter Seven), for no living person is in a position to describe
it, but the cantatas have to convey a more immediate relationship with the God who rules over it;
how, after all, could we know of a world beyond our own unless the divine is made real to us? It
may seem unthinkable to try to impersonate a being who is unsullied by mortal imperfection. Yet
the musico-dramatic conventions available to Bach permit a compromise that would be
impossible on stage. The personal closeness and the shared human experience of the figure of
Christ is what distinguishes Christianity from the other great monotheistic religions. He is the
believer’s constant companion in life, and above all in death. Allowing his voice to speak in
music brings us as close as we dare to the actual figure of God without either bathos or heretical
disrespect.∗

BWV 159, Sehet, wir gehen hinauf gen Jerusalem (“See, we are going up to Jerusalem”), is a
perfect example of Bach’s spiritual theatre. With a biblical narrative as its backdrop, it includes
the voice of Christ, the dialogue format, reconciliation with death, intimations of heaven, and a
type of ambiguity (the identities of Christ and the soul seem at the end to coalesce) that would
hardly be possible on stage. BWV 159 was composed in 1729, just before the penitential season
of Lent, to a libretto by Picander. Its theme is departure and the projected journey is both
physical and psychological.

The starting point of BWV 159 is the account in Luke’s gospel (Lk. 18: 31-43) in which Christ
prepares to travel for the last time to Jerusalem. He tries to make his disciples understand that his
earthly task (and thus his prophesied death and resurrection) will soon be completed, but they
make no sense of his words. Picander takes the beginning of Christ’s speech (“See, we are going
up to Jerusalem”) and unpicks it, phrase by phrase; each of the three small units of biblical text
provokes a reaction from the soul, first merely questioning, and then recoiling at the implications
for both God and human. A clear demarcation of style separates the two. The bass arioso
passages for Christ are firm of purpose - rhythmically and tonally steady. By contrast, the freer
style of the alto recitative, against slow-moving string chords, implies the spontaneity of the
soul’s response as it progresses from respectful interest to horror and agitation.

The prolonged flourish on Christ’s first word “See” suggests that an important message is on its
way, and the soul obediently takes note: “Come, my mind, see, where is your Jesus going?” The
∗
Obviously Jews and Muslims, not to mention the more austere branches of the Christian faith would disagree.
answer: “We are going up” is implicit in the setting, as the continuo and the vocal bass ascend
together. As the soul registers its shock, Bach shatters the harmonic calm: “O difficult path! Up?
O monstrous mountain to which my sins point! How bitter your climb will be!” The musical path
is suitably craggy and irregular, with sinister potholes of the diminished fifth underfoot.∗ The
Saviour now gives his final piece of information (“to Jerusalem”) and repeats his entire message,
with particular emphasis on his destination.

The soul, however, is horrified – must Christ really make this sacrifice? “Ah, do not go! Your
cross is already prepared for you, where you must bleed to death; here they seek whips, there
they fasten together rods; bonds await you. Do not go there!” There is a twofold difficulty. In
order to benefit from the gift of eternal life the human soul must bear the guilt of the beloved
God’s agonising death; and furthermore, Christ’s crucifixion is a symbol and harbinger of the
believer’s own death. Bach’s illusion of tonal floundering represents the torment of indecision,
but there is finally no alternative: without the sacrificial death, the soul faces its own eternal
destruction: “But if you were to stay back, then I myself would be forced to go – not to
Jerusalem, but ah, alas, down to hell”.

Once the choice is made, the soul looks calmly ahead. The second movement of BWV 159 is an
alto aria whose melodic material transforms Christ’s previous rising phrases into a gently
swaying dance; the musical symbolism is clear as the voice imitates the continuo: “I follow after
you, through spitting and disgrace; I wish to embrace you on the cross, my heart will not
abandon you”. At the same time, a soprano chorale expresses the lofty impulse of the spirit in the
sixth verse of Paul Gerhardt’s Easter hymn O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden (“O head covered in
blood and wounds”). The verse used here reiterates the pledge to stay by Christ’s side until the
end. How can the musical setting remain so serene when the prospect – to share Christ’s death –
seems so deeply tragic? The answer of Bach and his librettist would no doubt be to rephrase the
question: how can there be any sorrow in death when it leads the soul to heaven?

The outcome is a familiar one for the audience: in a reversal of one’s most urgent and instinctive
desire, to remain alive becomes unendurable. A tenor recitative reveals the soul in mourning, as
much for itself as for Christ: “Now I will grieve for you, Jesus, in my little corner”. Nothing
except reunion with the absent God can ever compensate for the soul’s great loss: “I will feast on
my tears and will not yearn for any happiness until I see you in your glory”. The vocal part roves
in anguish from the heights to the depths of its range; to live is to lament, to die is to find perfect
joy. With this insight, the soul has reached the end of its journey.

Human and God merge at last in the celestial repose of an aria for bass, as the Saviour’s last
words on the cross become the authentic expression of the mortal will. The musical phrase
signifying “It is finished” (Es ist vollbracht) permeates the entire movement. Moving with
antique, stepwise dignity, the string counterpoint shimmers softly, while the harmonic bass
advances in slow, ritual steps. Before even a word is uttered a solo oboe begins with the
symbolic blend of yielding and perfect completion that give this aria its transcendent spiritual
concord. The melody has hardly begun before it bends towards the subdominant key.∗ Yet by

∗
The familiar melodic marker of evil – see also Chapter Six
∗
See Chapter Three for the significance of this as a token of submitting to the divine will.
answering this small fragment of melody with its mirror-image – by inverting it – Bach returns
with unhurried precision to his starting point. In this aural universe, reality bends back on itself;
the given and its contrary coexist in a sublime pairing of opposites.

* * * * *

To show the human psyche gliding towards its other-worldly destiny would be an impossible if
not unprecedented task for the stage. Practically all drama shows the interaction of two or more
human agents engaged in some kind of power play, whether political or emotional. What is the
connection between this and the self-searching of the cantatas? The link is the need to validate
individual existence. Theatre is compelling because we watch people trying to impose their
competing views of reality upon each other. It acts out the universal imperative to make others
take their place in our system of meaning, even if sometimes this can only be achieved by force;
all we are, all we know, is our mental scheme of things, and if that is threatened then we feel
diminished.

Staged drama shows how people use each other – often to their mutual benefit, but often also in a
zero-sum game of conflicting personalities – to prove that their existence matters. The cantatas
have the same end in view, but without the social aspect. The struggle to confirm that the
individual life has meaning is pared down to a game of solitaire. The self fights to believe in its
own irreducible core, but instead of learning what this is from the reactions of others, it relies
solely on its inner resources to feed the belief that it is real, unique and eternally valuable. The
battle is purely existential; questions of sexual and political status become irrelevant.

If it is true that the subject matter of the cantatas is in this sense dramatic, can these works
actually engage us in a theatrical way? Here it is important to consider the complementary roles
of the libretti and the music. Certainly the writers of Bach’s texts create psychological
momentum. Mental victories are generally hard won, as the soul’s faith in its future is always
vulnerable to doubt. There is typically a pivotal moment which the plot resolves in favour of our
heroic, not to say tragic, pretensions to immortality. But as with any music drama, the script is an
abstract or digest of events; it cannot clothe its own words with the feelings that make human
action real to us. Like all successful opera composers, Bach realises the dramatic potential of his
texts. He also fulfils their poetic function. While his librettists wrote in verse, they did not
achieve the complex resonance, the multiple layers of meaning that characterise the finest poetry.
That is the achievement of the music, which is far more than an adjunct to religious faith. Like
any great art, it supplies us with the conceptual materials to enlarge our experience from within.
It probes the human mind and magnifies its hidden landscape of emotion and need. This,
perhaps, is the only reality we can ever know.