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The theological experts have gathered. Over here is the exegete; over there is the philosopher; beside him is the systematic theologian; and beside her is the … musician? Theologian and musician Jeremy S. Begbie, who teaches at Cambridge and St. Andrews universities in Britain, suggests that musicians do indeed belong around the theological table. His recent book, Theology, Music, and Time (Cambridge University Press, 2000), offers abundant proof for his surprising contention. Begbie asserts that when theology is considered in reference to music, "unfamiliar themes are opened up, familiar topics exposed and negotiated in fresh and telling ways, obscure matters … are clarified, and distortions of theological truth are avoided and even corrected."

Five examples of such collaboration between music and theology will perhaps suffice to woo readers into exploring the riches of this fascinating project.

• Is time itself good? Begbie notes the ambivalence toward time in various branches of Christian theology. Eternity typically is considered "timeless" or "beyond time," yet if it consists of an unimprovable state of perfection, it may appear to be static—even monotonous, one might say. Begbie shows that in music, time is not something to be transcended. Instead, it is good—indeed, it is intrinsic. Themes begin, unfold, and give way to others, only to be (perhaps) restated and reworked into new beauty. Transience is essential to music, not an unhappy accident to be superseded somehow, someday. Thus music challenges us to reconsider the life to come. We can hardly defer gratification now (another theme Begbie explores) unless we hope for two things: one, eschatological resolution of our current problems, and two, continuing elaboration of the beautiful themes of creation in the next world.
  
  
• How is prophecy fulfilled? Music shows us how tension can be built up and then resolved, only to continue with a new tension that arises out of the previous section—and that in turn seeks resolution that is both fresh and reminiscent of the first. Begbie shows how each bar of music (at least in most Western music since the 18th century) has its own rhythmic and melodic logic, which typically connects with the next bar in a phrase (forming thereby a "hyperbar"). This hyperbar is a component of a four- or eight-bar unit (a hyperbar at a higher level), and so on to embrace the entire piece as a hyperbar. (Indeed, Begbie's logic would extend to seeing the various movements of a symphony as themselves components of the symphonic "hyperbar"—and then, perhaps, to considering the symphony as part of the entire career of a composer.)

The famous opening notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony start as a self-contained unit (ba-ba-ba-bah). But then they both continue and change in the next bar into a chord that cannot rest there. It is, as musicians call it, the dominant chord, and we all "want" it to resolve back to the first chord, the tonic. The third bar does resolve back to the tonic chord, but Beethoven proceeds to elaborate on this simple theme more and more, so that the initial, deceptively simple motif blooms into an astonishing sequence of promise-and-fulfillment patterns. Thus a prophecy can be fulfilled at a particular juncture, while at the same time pointing forward to richer developments to come.

• How should we celebrate the Eucharist? In an inspiring argument against the idea that taking the Lord's Supper frequently makes it dull (a logic that would seem to lead inexorably to celebrating it just once in a lifetime), Begbie explores music's ability to repeat without boring the listener—indeed, without ever being quite the same.

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October 7 2002, Vol. 46, No. 11