Regret vs. Repentance

CW: Sexuality, minor encounters of emotional abuse

Consequence. As I grow older and recover from years of emotional turmoil from childhood, I am learning to elaborate on my judgements. The food I eat, the people with whom I spend my time, the actions I chose, the actions from which I steered away. In addition to fighting my internal unfair judgement on myself, I look at the larger systems that shame my actions. Particularly, the concept of purity culture.

I realized that many people, especially people that currently or previously present as female, believe their failed relationships and their insecurities on their encounters with their partners.

"I should have known my relationship wasn't going to work out because we had sex before marriage."

"I'm a bad person because I displayed affection with my partner in front of everyone."

"I thought I loved my partner, and we had experienced so many of our 'firsts' together, but because the relationship didn't work out, I know my actions at the time were wrong."

Can people have regrets and make actions that aren't appropriate? Yes. But the concept of purity, wondering if you are going to be a chewed up piece of gum or a unusable piece of Scotch tape, makes people equates the damning word of "fornication" represents their consensual and enjoyable activities with a partner with whom they eventually diverged.

Biblically, fornication is when men break a possible contract with a potential wife's father by having sex with her and abandoning her, meaning she would be seen as unfit to marry. The sin, in God's eyes, was placed on the man for hurting every party involved by quite literally screwing them over. But for many years, through today, the social shame around fornication is placing blame on the "chewed gum" rather than the mouth that spit them out.

The good news is that you are a person and not a piece of tape or a stick of gum. Engaging in trust and enthusiastic consent is not what is hurting you in your heart. You shouldn't blame yourself in that respect. So why does it feel shitty when things don't work out? The answer is paradoxically simple and complex: it's because you see clearly where trust has been broken or lost within the relationship, especially in sexuality but more so on a personal level.

I have a friend (I promise this is not me) that is in a long-term committed relationship with someone that is genuinely hurting them. I am not in contact with this person a lot, so the odds of them looking at this is incredibly low. Here's why.

 Their partner overshadows their actions and friendships with other people outside of the relationship, including myself. As much as they use sexual activities as a reaffirmation of their love and trust, I see the trust falling apart for both of them. My friend's partner, in my personal opinion, has an incredibly possessive view of their relationship and clings onto my friend as a person that will drop everything in their life for them. They've been together for a long time, and my friend credits their partner as one of the greatest things in their life but still sacrifices every bit of security they have for their partner. My friend will justify their partner's manipulative actions, gatekeeping of friendships, and threats of physical and emotional violence as both accountability and reversion to a traditional view of a relationship. I–and many other people–know it's abuse.

The worst part is that when everything crashes and burns between the two of them, my friend will look at their own loving, consensual displays of their love and blame the failure of the relationship on themselves. They won't believe that they can or should love anyone else because they will think that their actions prompted the downfall of their relationship with their partner.

If this particular friend reads this (or anyone in a relationship like that description above), I have one thing to say: I cannot be the one that brings judgement on the people that hurt you because that's God's job. However, the pain that comes from failed relationships, especially long-term sexual relationships, is incredibly valid. But just because you will feel chewed up and spit out, doesn't mean that you are. You do not need to repent any loving action you choose to do with your body. But you certainly have the right to feel anger and regret. I hope, eventually, we all learn the difference.

Hearing music about immigrants and gay boys

This photo is from a lecture in the class "Hidden Figures in Early Christianity" discussing the behavior of the dominant voices in antiquity, particularly public artwork representing other nations as sad, passive women holding up strong men. I thought it was relevant.

All artists have a purpose. The most influential artists have power. Most of us are comfortable with this sentiment. The most impactful artists have an agenda. This is what troubles the casual listener.

During my time in Nordic Choir this last year, we had the unique experience of preparing a full-scale oratorio titled "Considering Matthew Shepard," a work describing the tragic story of the murder of a young gay man. Harder yet, the work discussed the aftermath of the media, the backlash, the confrontation, the forgiveness, and the desire to move forward.

As performers, doing this work was difficult. Many of the LGBTQ+ members of Nordic Choir reflected their own emotions about their worldly experiences and presented excerpts of this work to audiences in the American South over our tour in Texas. Although we had an overwhelmingly positive and powerful response from the majority of our audience members, we had a few instances of clear pushback.

After our runout, an alumnus emailed our director asking why we were singing about a gay boy that did nothing to serve the country (quoting from the Book of Matt, a largely discredited narrative about the notion that Matthew was a drug dealer) and that Nordic shouldn't be pushing an agenda on individuals wanting to hear Nordic sing nice music. The sentiments a more brash casual listener can be summarized in an aggressive comment from an audience member to our director after a concert in Missouri: "I didn't come to hear a concert about immigrant children and gay boys."

Did we perform some beautiful music with more universal messages that are fun to sing and hear? Yes, we love ourselves some PJ Christiansen and Vaughan Williams. They help complete our message. Choral programming is now a balancing act of showcasing the traditions of the past while making space for new voices. Sometimes, audiences aren’t ready to hear them. Historically, this is normal. Thus, I write.

In the midst of this tightrope, I fully believe that our director didn't entirely build this rich program for the casual listener. That's a good thing. I personally believe that building a program for casual listening has numbed the voices of the composers, therefore numbing the interpretation of the performer and losing the purpose for the composition among the audience. Here's why:

This idea of programming music exclusively for the entertainment of the listener and teaching fundamental devices of music stems back to people in Medieval, Baroque, and Classical music. People like Bach and Vivaldi were hired to write music for the church and their students. Do we love Bach? Hell yes. His music is incredibly fun to sing, and the traditional audiences pine for the nostalgia of timeless music. That’s why folks in the 19th Century decided that Bach was “music for the sake of making music.” However, we see a major shift in the perspectives around music when Beethoven is cited as a vehicle for the Word of God to his audiences.

But many great works of art in the 19th and 20th century stemmed from the radical outcries from oppression. Shostakovich and Stravinsky wrote music with sentiments of rebellion against the Russian government; each of them made their impact on Russian instrumental performance and ballet for the centuries to come. Much of the modern musical devices in our modern "casual listening" stemmed from spirituals from enslaved folks in the South.

This got me thinking about my conversation with another choral musician about the concept of choral spirituals. Teachers love to program them because they add diversity to a program and teach students about the specific rhythms and articulations needed for the genre, and the students retain joy from making that cool music together. That's what makes it purposeful. Thanks to the genius of composers such as Stacey V. Gibbs and William Dawson, many audiences love to hear them because they are fun to listen to and they can sing them in their head after they leave. That's what makes them influential.

However, when programmed in a way that sees beyond the coded language of Christian spirituality when discussing the atrocities and fears concerning slavery; that's what makes them impactful. How do we as a predominantly White choir capture the voices of these people when singing “Great God Almighty”? How do we talk about Beethoven’s grief when he lost his hearing while discussing the atrocities of ableism in Runestad’s “A Silence Haunts Me”? How do we talk about immigrants and gay boys? Yes, it is hard to amplify voices without speaking over them. Certainly not programming for the casual listener. But we try.

Out of all people, Weston Noble knew how to program pieces to leave an impact. The man loved music. It was his form of fellowship, prayer, and discipleship. He had an agenda with his concerts: to have the audience leave with the love of God that he possessed in his heart.

Of course the music he produced sounded lovely, everywhere from Bach to Christiansen to Hogan. People liked listening to the Nordic Choir sing because they were skillful and powerful. But the music was so much more than that for Weston. He used the gift of music from these composers to put out his own message.

As for our current director, Dr. Last not only wanted to impact audiences of all generations; he wanted for us to put our collective voice as young musicians to make our own impact. And right now, we're making a statement that a particularly disgruntled man in Missouri who came as a casual listener. And yes, we love singing Bach and Sweelinck, making music for the sake of making music. We sing to outline their interests as well. We added the voices of other testimonies as well, testimonies that speak to us now. In my opinion, the listener coming to hear the status quo of choral music clearly didn't come to hear the legacy of Nordic Choir. We reach above and beyond.

I'll say this as an individual artist from this larger body known as Nordic Choir: I'm grateful as a musician to move into another generation of music with the fire from brilliant composers in tow. I get to contribute to an almost 75 year legacy of college students wanting to leave an impact. I'm grateful for the folks that housed me in Ft. Worth and said that they thought the experience was so unique and special that they came to our next stop. I'm proud of the impact the 2019-20 Nordic Choir made, and I'm even more excited to hear the new collective voice of Nordic Choir 2020-21. We have a purpose to serve as a voice in a time of uncertainty. We have power because many individuals look to choral artists across the country for innovation. And yes, we as artists will have an agenda. And whatever it is, it will trouble the casual listener. Because it will be impactful.

Doing the best I can

For those who desire photo descriptions, the text reads "The Spirit of the LORD God is upon me, Because the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners...–Isaiah 61:1"

On one of the last ordinary Tuesday nights of my semester: my classmates are in shock and disarray. Spring Break is within reach, but many are preparing for distance learning and mentally avoiding the possibility that their last year at college might be cut short.

Meanwhile, I'm sitting on the floor of my parents' bedroom with mascara running down my face. I've gotten to the point in college where I can't just get by with my intuition. I'm working my ass off and disappointing myself. My parents remind me that I have nothing to prove to anyone, and I need to focus on my learning rather than the letters on my report card. I have a hard time believing them. Here's why.

The day before, I'm sitting in the lounge next to the choir room with my close friends. All of these lovely humans are wonderful singers, and my good friends are discussing the difficulty they're having with their music and their struggle to adapt to their ever-changing instruments. The conversation led me to a point of comparing myself to all of my fellow mezzo-sopranos and their splendid growth. My friends assured me that my development as a musician is on the right path, but I feel the need to argue. I didn't know why in that moment.

I walk away for a drink of water and a moment of reflection. All I can think to myself is "stupid, stupid, stupid." My self-bullying makes me reluctantly go back and sit quietly among my friends. Amid their conversation, I realize why I'm so upset:

I'm not mad at my voice. I'm not mad at my grades. I'm mad at myself.

I've been mad at myself for a long time now. The summer of 2019 started with an ugly breakup and ended with my first and only episode of self-harm. The school year continued with what my friends have described as a date-of-the-month club (none of which started or ended particularly well). I was seeking love and attention that I didn't have for myself anymore, even though I was trying to justify that I was in a better place than when I was with my significant other in the spring.

I've been confiding in many friends about this inner turmoil. I tell them that I can't grasp that I am more than the sum of all of the things I want to change about myself. Being around other people is a temporary pick-me-up, but I revert back to my helpless state when I'm alone with myself.

Now, I'm away from Luther. And I will be for the rest of the semester.

I'm not afraid of the virus, so long as I stay at home and stay sanitary. I'm haunted by the isolation.  With my mom working her ass off as a key communicator in the health crisis and my dad advising people from home, I'm alone with myself and my screens. Yes, I have books and a nice neighborhood to walk in, but I'm overwhelmingly isolated. I needed a break from the rhythm of my hectic life; I just wasn't ready for it.

In the midst of my social isolation, I'm really evaluating why I'm here. In this climate, on this planet, heading toward this future–what will I be equipped to do?

Mom told me while I came home crying that Tuesday evening, "I want you to think back and remember when that professor talked to you outside of class to apply for a scholarship–not just because you got by in their class, but also they appreciated your character. And also when you were asked by multiple people to work with them because of research that you did all before you turned 19. You have nothing to prove, Ab. I struggle with this, too, but maybe it's time you stopped equating who you are with your successes or struggles and start finding worth in your capacity to use them for other people that need it."

Mom tells me this as I sit on the ground with my head bowed forward to hide the mascara streaks on my face. Although my mom is about six inches shorter than I am, she sits above me on her bed like the Creator on a cloud. The reflection in the mirror doesn't look like a defendant sitting before a judge. It looks like a daughter sitting before her mother. Neither of us have failed, but we feel the load crushing us.

The structure of my time home is still a mystery. It will get there, but not without the help of my parents. I've been keeping in contact with my friends, but knowing them, they've needed to catch up on sleep as much as I have. Mama is upstairs, working from home in her office but still watching over me. I'm spending the smallest bit of time on this painful reflection of my journey, and, truly, doing the best I can.