BWV 156

A husband and wife were relaxing one evening, when the wife posed a question.

“Honey, if I die before you, would you remarry?”

The husband shifted uneasily in his chair. 

“I don’t know, honey, I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Well, I think you should,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to be alone.”

“Ok,” he responded, “I guess I might.”

She continued. “Well, if I die, and you remarry, would you let her live in this house?”

“Geez, sweetie, what is this? I guess so…I don’t know.” 

“Well, I think you should. It’s such a nice house, and I know you love it. I think should you live here.”

“Ok, if you say so,” the husband replied.

She went on. “Honey, if I died, and you remarried, and you lived together in this house, would you let her use my golf clubs?”

The husband answered, “Oh, no, she’s left-handed”

Death is not a subject we talk much about. When we do, it more likely to be a joke like that one rather than a serious discussion. Our culture tends to push those conversations into the background for most of our lives. Why not, when it is so much more enjoyable to discuss sports, politics, the weather, or just about anything else. Now, when I was young, I had a needlepoint hung in my bathroom with the prayer “Now I am lay be down to sleep.” I read it every night without even realizing it. “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” If you need a one line summary of what this cantata is about, that’s it.

This should not be surprising. Every faith, philosophy, and worldview wrestles with fundamental questions: What is the meaning of life? Why are we here? And why do we die? Science offers explanations—about the mechanics of life and the physics of death—but when we’re asking those big questions, we’re seeking something deeper. We yearn for meaning and purpose, not just understanding. 

In studying tonight’s cantata and considering these big questions I was reminded of a novel I recently read, and that I mentioned to you in a previous reflection. The Great Passion, by James Runcie follows Stefan, a young boy who, after his mother’s death, is sent to Leipzig to join the choir school at the Thomasschule. The book is an imagined depiction of life in the school, and life in Bach’s choir. Stefan struggles integrating into his class of sometimes brutal peers, becomes a star soprano in the choir, and participates in recurring cycle of liturgical music. The weekly cantatas and their themes put his own daily struggles in relief. Sometimes the connections are revelatory, offering clarity or comfort. Other times, the cantatas serve as guides, helping him navigate the uncertainty of his questions: Why did his mother have to die? Why was he sent here alone? What is to become of him? 

These kinds of questions resonate with us today. The human instinct to ask “Why?” is not just about seeking answers; it’s about making sense of our place in the universe. Hopefully, this is what we all do when we gather to experience great liturgical art. The liturgy, the art, the experience of sharing together, is both a mirror and a map. 

Tonight’s cantata, written for the Epiphany season in Leipzig, is inspired by a Gospel story of healing. The cantata, however, does not reflect on physical healing, but rather the hope for spiritual healing. It is a portrait of a body broken, a dying person who asks for mercy and forgiveness. 

In the final scene of Steven Spielberg’s “Saving Private Ryan,” the title character returns to the American Cemetery at Normandy a half-century after D-Day. There, standing amid the graves of the fallen, the once-young-soldier-now-turned-old-man falls to his knees, remembering all the people who died to save him, and pleads with his wife “Tell me I’m a good man.” He wants to know that his life was worthy of their sacrifice. 

We hope that our lives have been worthy. We shouldn’t live our lives trying to build a great resume, when instead we should strive to be worthy of a beautiful eulogy. And we when take the time to think about these things—about life, about death—we are doing the work of crafting that worthy life. 

On a final note, I think it is worth considering the opening movement of the work. I ask you to take a moment and put yourself in Bach’s place. How would you begin a cantata of such a serious and somber subject. The first movement has no text, only an instrumental sinfonia. What do you think it will sound like? I won’t completely spoil the surprise except to say this: I think Bach decides to give you the ending first. 

This morning, I came to church with a heavy heart. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I was facing a long day at work. I also have a dear friend who is facing the precise situation that our cantata describes. So having to lead this piece, and to talk about it with you was not something I was looking forward to. As I drove, I started to think about this cantata, and the way it begins, and suddenly a revelation hit me. I decided to try and begin my day the way Bach begins this cantata, and I ask Siri to play me a song:

Rise up this morning

Smiled with the rising sun

Three little birds 

Pitch by my doorstep

Singing sweet songs 

Of melodies pure and true

Saying, “This is my message to you-ou-ou.

“Don’t worry about a thing

‘Cause every little thing is gonna be alright”