One of my most vivid musical memories was when I heard the opening of Johann Sebastian Bach’s "St. John Passion" for the first time. An oratorio that dramatically tells the story of the trial and crucifixion of Jesus according to John’s Gospel, it is a visceral, disturbing, and galvanizing piece of work, beginning with a churning ocean of low strings, pierced by high oboes like the thorns of Christ’s crown, and culminating with a great wall of sound when the chorus cries, as a drowning man cries for rescue, “Herr! Herr! Unser herrscher!” (Lord! Lord! Lord and Master!). I found myself immediately enthralled, and I quickly fell in love with the work, relishing its drama and pathos.

I think that sacred music has a special way of bringing out a deeply emotional and passionate side of composers, especially composers like Bach. Both the man and the music are immersed in Lutheran theology to the very bones, and almost all of his vocal music was written to fit around the Lutheran liturgical calendar, including the "St. John Passion." At the time I first heard it, I was a committed Christian and turned to this piece again and again as a consolation and an exploration of the trials and tribulations of living a Christian life-- I found great solace in it. Over the course of the next couple years, however, I realized that I had to take a different approach to the music that I’d held so dear to my heart.

Like a ton of bricks, many issues in my life, interactions and conversations with friends, coming out of the closet, reading and thinking on my own, etc., caused me to gradually lose my Christianity. Consequently, when I went back to some of my favorite sacred music, I still enjoyed it, but some of the content began to be quite troubling, particularly when these pieces talk about topics like judgement, sin and hell.

Take George Fredrick Handel’s iconic oratorio "Messiah," for example. With a text by Charles Jennings taken from both testaments, it’s performed at countless churches and concert halls every Christmas and Easter, and is enjoyed by classical music fans of all faiths for its jubilant, impeccably structured choruses and its ravishingly gorgeous arias and duets, but, in reference to those who reject Christ’s gospel, it has this to say:

“He that dwelleth in Heaven shall laugh them to scorn, he shall have them in derision

Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron

Thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter’s vessel”

Another example comes from Bach’s Cantata No. 115, a work very concerned with fear of the impending judgement, which says in a melancholy aria for the alto soloist:

“Oh, sleepy soul, how? Do you still rest?

Arouse yourself now!

Judgment might abruptly awaken you

and, were you not aware,

envelope you in the sleep of eternal death.”

Listening to these pieces made me re-think my opinions on some of this music that, for all of its genius, preaches that the loving creator of the universe has a special pit reserved for those who choose to believe differently about him to perish and burn in fiery torture for all eternity (an aspect of Christianity that I’d rather forget). As any former Christian can tell you, the fear of hell is very real, and causes a lot of unnecessary anxiety for those who wish to explore other belief systems, and for some people, the fear of an imaginary hell can make their lives on earth hellish for their whole lives. Even though I wasn’t a Christian for a very long time, and haven’t been for over a year now, I still occasionallyhave second thoughts and am made anxious by a fear of a judgement I don’t even believe in. It should be obvious that Christian composers should espouse standard Christian doctrine, but I kept having a gut feeling that this attitude is not something like imagining my favorite composers espousing, and it is not at all becoming of the joy, the passion, and the spiritual depth of their music.

This bothered me a great deal until one day I put on a Bach playlist on 'Spotify,' and I listened to the beloved aria “Erbarme dich” from Bach’s other great Passion, the "St. Matthew." After Peter’s threefold denial of Christ, the alto soloist sings a heart wrenchingly-melancholy aria. “Have mercy for my tears’ sake” it says, “Look how my heart and eyes weep bitterly”. As I sat in my dorm room I found myself carried away by the dark, melancholic timbre of the alto soloist, coupled with the graceful, soaring violin obbligato that is always just out of the singer’s melodic reach-- representing a moral and spiritual ideal that we strive for, but, because of our human nature, can never grasp, and can only call despairingly “Have mercy! Have mercy!” along with the soloist. I sobbed like a baby. Anyone who's heard this piece before, don't try to tell me you haven't.

In that moment I realized that by listening to this aria as a non-Christian, I gained a deeper appreciation and gratitude for what Bach has to say than I ever had when I professed the faith. This aria is more than just a piece calling on God for salvation, it is a plea to be heard, to be forgiven, to be consoled, to be understood, things that penetrate our being far beyond the levels of doctrinal outlook, and into the core of our human needs. To me, Bach and Handel aren’t writing about religion, about Christianity, or even, necessarily, about God. They are portraying for us the everyday existential struggle of crying out desperately for meaning, purpose, and love in a world which is unyieldingly and radically refuses to answer.

We shouldn’t view this music as not a preaching tool to frighten its listeners through Christian dogma; it’s too sincere, too engrossing, and too smart for that. Instead, it is an invitation to look at how the artists who made sense of their answers to their questions, and who challenge us to take this music and see how we can use it to help us, maybe, begin to find answers to ours.