The question of style versus substance is a bit like asking whether the clothes make the person, or the person makes the clothes. And as with most such questions, the truth lies somewhere in the middle. Take, for instance, two very different types of music from the 18th century: the high baroque of Johann Sebastian Bach and the lighter, more fashionable *style galante* that followed, a style with which Bach flirted with on occasion, including in tonight’s two cantatas.

Much of Bach’s music is, in many ways, like the work of a meticulous German engineer—let’s call him BWV. Every note in his compositions has a place, every line of counterpoint fits into an intricate web of meaning. To appreciate Bach’s work, one must engage both the mind and the heart, for his music is like a grand cathedral, built with purpose, precision, and care. Here, substance reigns supreme. It is not music you passively enjoy while sipping tea; it demands something of you, just as any great truth does.

You won’t take it on a cross-country trek, and you wouldn’t expect it to endure through the centuries as Bach’s music has done. And yet, it most certainly has. Bach experiment with the style in many works; his sons were significant composers of the new style, which would eventually give birth to the music Haydn and Mozart. 

The temptation is to see these two as opposites—Bach’s German engineer as the embodiment of substance, the Vespa of *style galante* as mere ornament. But this is a false dichotomy. Style is not the enemy of substance; rather, it can be a useful servant of it. Think of the composer as a craftsman, with both precision tools and decorative flourishes at his disposal. One doesn’t always need the heavy machinery of a Bach fugue; sometimes a lighter, more playful touch is what the moment requires. Just as a carpenter doesn’t build every chair with the same tools, so too does the composer (or the artist, or the theologian) make use of different styles to suit different purposes. 

Consider a religious life. Some might argue that the rituals, symbols, and forms of religion—its “style,” if you will—are mere decoration, unworthy of serious attention. What matters, they say, is the “substance” of faith, the raw truth underneath the outward trappings. But this too is a mistake. The outward forms of religion, like the high arches of a cathedral or the cadence of a well-said prayer, serve a purpose. They direct our attention, engage our senses, and lead us toward the greater truths that lie beyond them. Without these forms, we might struggle to grasp the substance at all. 

The truth is that style, whether in music or in faith, is meant to serve substance, to lead us toward it. One is not the enemy of the other. Rather, the wisest approach is to see changing styles as simply different tools in the craftsman’s kit, each capable of revealing a different aspect of the same truth.

In the end, the ultimate truth does not change, but the ways in which we approach it can. Bach’s intricate music, built to last, and the playful ease of the *style galante* both offer us glimpses of beauty. And beauty, when it is true, always points beyond itself, toward something greater.