NB: The relationship between music and experience enchants and confounds me. I know that sound — not to mention silence — profoundly impacts the way I process encounters, but words fail me when trying to describe the nature of the experience.

AG: Music is often the topic of discussion and debate in the church and public square, but it is scarcely understood or appreciated in its power to engage every one of our faculties. This is not to undervalue the power of any other art form; literature, visual art, architecture, dance, and the like all have their own unique way of drawing us out of ourselves and into an encounter with the spiritual realities (whether we’re aware that art is designed to connect us to God or not). For me personally, though, music has always been the very thing that helps me be receptive to grace.

NB: Regardless of religious bent, we’ve all had those magical experiences: at a concert, during Christmas Eve Vigil, in the car blaring that one song that really breaks you open, or even while the score backgrounding your favorite movie scene plays . . . when the veil between heaven and earth thins, when music perfectly complements the moment in time. Fiction and film are my preferred media for creative expression, and I certainly understand them better as art forms, but music is unique somehow. It communicates truth to me without images, on a level beyond words. Just as visual art draws my gaze upward, music redirects my gaze inward.

AG: It does seem that music is unique in how it is experienced in those more tender moments. Most art forms (literature, architecture, visual art, music) have an ordinary place in our daily lives, but also an extraordinary purpose when employed in the sacred liturgy. Take literature, for example: I recently read The Fellowship of the Ring with my 11-year-old daughter and watched as Tolkien’s fearful description of the mines of Moria transformed my daughter’s experience of our nighttime reading routine (she was on the edge of the bed yelling as Gandalf and the balrog fell into the dark abyss). Literature is indeed powerful, and can shape our attentions profoundly.

NB: Not to mention our imaginations. That Moria scene certainly still looms large in mine.

AG: Right? We can sense this at a height in the Mass as we listen attentively to the Gospels. Hearing the Passion of Christ on Good Friday is an example par excellence of the liturgy’s use of spoken word to command our full attention. Still, there are also art forms that don’t have a natural home in the liturgy. Take, for instance, dance or film; there is not quite a sense that these art forms flow from the Mass and into the tributaries of daily life. Dance and film can still be very beautiful, or convey goodness and truth, but those qualities don’t derive first from a liturgical expression (and perhaps more from a “groundedness” in the lives of the artists themselves). Music, in this sense, stands alone as an art form. At its height in the liturgy, music reveals something of God as we are drawn together in worship of Him. Yet also, music flows into our daily lives, where God seems to encounter us through song in the everyday. It’s why we can fairly say that chant and polyphony elevate our hearts and minds to God in the Mass, but that doesn’t diminish the value of a praise and worship song (or maybe even a classical piece or a folk song) that breaks us open in other ways. Both are experiences of something sacred expressed in music, one with a proper home in the liturgy and the other rightly belonging to our daily lives.

NB: I’ve thought a lot about music from an experiential perspective, both from the point of view of the artist and audience, but I hadn’t considered that liturgical connection. Considering the impact of a location on a concert — with all the atmospheric and acoustical concerns that choice brings — it makes perfect sense that the principle would apply even more when extended to a sacred setting (speaking both in terms of place and purpose). And I think the way secular and sacred music can mirror each other really has potential to bridge the two worlds.

AG: The church identifies music as “a treasure of inestimable value, greater even than that of any other art” in Sacrosanctum Concilium (1963). The church cites music’s ability to clothe text in beauty as an integral part of the liturgy, but I think there’s more to unveil here about the nature of music itself. Think about a great hymn: it doesn’t just exist on paper; it requires something of us. First it requires a collective, gathering breath — a bookending of sound in active silence — and then our full bodies engage in singing: breath, vibration, and movement. Yes, this is an action of each individual mind, heart, and soul, yet to acknowledge that alone would cheapen the gift that music is. It is first an initiative of God’s; one that unifies us — heart, mind, body, soul — as a gathered body of Christ. There is a “bothness” to music that other art forms don’t quite contain.

NB: I’m glad you brought the word “unveil” into the conversation: that’s a helpful way to describe how music (and art, more broadly) not only shapes our experiences but reveals truth. I think that’s something a secular audience can embrace, as well. Music has the ability to unveil while also leaving aspects obscured — its mystery makes it all the more transcendent. Perhaps that’s also why it is so well suited to enhancing sacred encounters: it can embody both the holy and the mysterious at once. This revelatory paradox reinforces my awe and appreciation for music’s power. It’s as if music allows me to feel the goodness of truth. And by harnessing and channeling the other transcendentals, it offers momentary glimpses of the eternal. I know that sounds effusive, but I mean it sincerely.

AG: You’re not alone in that feeling. It’s not just a spiritual intuition, either: there’s something measurable and scientific behind it. Recently, Switzerland’s University of Bern studied the effects of music on a classical music audience, and found that an audience’s breathing rates, heart rates, and levels of excitement began to synchronize with each other while listening. Nothing else on earth, aside from Christ himself, could break boundaries of language, culture, context, and ideology and still find a group of people unified in such a way.

NB: I’ve certainly experienced the music-inspired unity you’re describing, in both secular and sacred settings. The phenomenon can be contagious, almost hypnotic, which is also why context and intent matter so much. But when properly ordered toward the good and the true, I can’t think of a more awesome or impressive aesthetic experience.

AG: The secular world, especially through high arts like classical music, understands that music is unique in its ability to promote unity. It seems to me that the Church has more to understand, and frankly reclaim, in its ability to leverage music in such a way that it draws us all outside of ourselves and unifies us at the foot of the Holy Sacrifice. Perhaps you should elaborate on how sacred spaces and contexts differentiate an experience of music in a concert hall from an encounter with the divine. Would you say music is, inherently, a sacred experience, or is it the context that matters?

NB: I wouldn’t say that music is inherently sacred, at least not in the deepest religious sense of the word. The phenomenon of sacred music seems to me a meeting of artistic telos and individual devotion, a temporal harmony of objective ends and intimate encounters. So too with sacred spaces. Neither are sacred in an abstract sense: their sacredness is as personal as it is transcendent. Music’s capacity to activate place-based encounters is unparalleled. And yet, full “activation” asks for more than the audience’s tacit acknowledgment of the musician’s original intent — it demands something active within the person receiving the music, as well. Musical activation of a sacred space thus rests on the animation of the individuals who fill it. This applies acutely to sacred spaces, but also more broadly to place-based encounters. Maybe you can help me understand what’s happening here.

AG: Prior to my work in Catholic music (forming musicians for parishes and missionary work at The Vigil Project), I spent a good deal of time in the classical music space: opera, symphony, and extensively in chamber music. It was obvious to me that music was a pathway to an encounter with God, and that the classical concert hall was perhaps one of the least evangelized places. I became curious: how could it be . . .

This dialogue is incomplete because it is still happening; Part 2 will be published on ’s Substack as soon as possible. In the meantime, I encourage you to explore his archive of helpful essays to learn more about this subject.

Andrew's Substack

The digital world obscures many truths, but the unsettling way social media distorts our sense of community is the most insidious of its deceptions. This distortion’s impact on modern community runs deep. More than evolving the tools we use to communicate, the proliferation of social media has altered our very definition of community. Our communities have been — are being — removed from their actual surroundings. We’re displacing ourselves.

Enter the Benedictine charism of stability, our monastic elephant in the (chat) room. Unlike the mendicant orders, Benedictines make a lifelong promise to a particular community. Why would applying this ancient Christian principle be a salve for the modern world’s digital woes? Because it puts community back in its proper place. It attaches community to a particular place, to be more precise. The Benedictines may be unique in adopting stability as a vow, but its value is readily available to all of us.

Social media tries to convince us that it’s possible — worse, that it’s good — to divorce community from place, compartmentalizing the two. Stability, on the other hand, asks monks to pledge fealty to a particular community, located at a particular monastery, for life. This commitment is lived out daily in concrete, tangible action. Everything outlined in the Rule of St. Benedict, which is arguably the most universal of all monastic guides, is inseparable from the individual’s commitment to a single community. The universal anchored in the particular.

In our digital-first society, embracing this monastic wisdom would help heal our communities by restoring the proper order of relational encounters. Now more than ever, we must intentionally privilege flesh-and-blood communities, making space for intimate conversations and allowing ourselves to be uncomfortably close to each other again. If we want to alleviate the social media-fueled epidemic of loneliness, we must first stabilize. Being close to one another causes friction. But it also brings a depth of community that’s otherwise impossible.

Relocating ourselves online requires reorienting ourselves toward our own communities, remembering that community must be grounded in place to thrive. St. Benedict’s ancient advice shows us how.

This video by a Benedictine monk explains the vow of stability in greater detail. I’ve had nice conversations with Br. Francisco and highly recommend his channel.

A series of exuberant greetings followed by bursts of cheerful laughter became increasingly audible as he wound through the cafe. Lindy was that barista who never seemed to have an off day.

“Good morning,” she said again and again without losing any warmth. “What would you like today?”

He turned the volume up. Shuffling forward, he watched the feet in front of him. Just two more now: a placid couple with matching hipster glasses. They took their time studying the menu and when they finally ordered they gave Lindy a clandestine nod as they handed her a small notecard containing dense but inscrutable details. She read the card with a smile but her cheeks flushed red. She hurried away to collect ingredients from the back.

“Good morning,” Lindy said once more, sliding back in front of the register. “What would you—“

“Just a small black coffee.” He removed one of his earbuds without looking up.

Lindy punched the register keys with her two pointer fingers. Sweat was starting to bead along her hairline. The hipsters had put her to work.

He waited with his credit card in hand while she rang him up.

“We’ll have it right out.” She smiled. “Good to see you again.”

But both earbuds were already back in. He shuffled along to the far end of the bar. A scalding beverage appeared moments later, plopped in front of him by a second barista.

Steaming coffee in tow, he retreated to the countertop along the front window overlooking Main. The only available seat had him sandwiched between strangers, but he didn’t mind. He liked the anonymity of a bustling cafe almost as much as the busy city streets outside.

He sipped his coffee and stared at his phone. What began as mindlessly flicking through photos of friends abruptly ended when he froze wide-eyed on an image of two boys, shoulder to shoulder, with the mountains behind them and their whole lives in front. He slammed his phone facedown.

By the time he slipped back onto the sidewalk the cafe line was spilling out the door. Bells without ceasing.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

Who are the artists who adorn our cathedrals? Their anonymity elevates their work. Their humility reflects heaven’s glow. They transcend this world because they have sacrificed their egos to the most admirable of all goods: beauty. 

The artists who adorn our cathedrals create for those above without care for us below. And yet they love us so well. They call us to be better and they show us how. They redirect our gaze. Their art is fuel for the holy fire, amplifying its warmth, focusing its rays. They are more than muses, for they now mirror the angels. 

We do not know the names of the artists who adorn our cathedrals. We do not see their faces. They diminish themselves so that we might increase. They hide certain details to reveal deeper truths. They bridge heaven and earth. 

Their work, like that of so many anonymous creators, alters history. Their gift of self nurtures culture. Their sacrifice heals souls. They are, themselves, icons. 

The artists who adorn our cathedrals are the noblest of us all. Let us learn from them, honor them, become them.

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this reflection, you might also appreciate “The Lost Art of Cathedral Building.”

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“Not like that, man,” the old bartender said. “Like this.” He dug his toweled thumb into the glass with extra force on the last word.

Nodding, the trainee took the pint glass and vigorously wiped it with a bar towel. Visible smudges lingered.

“Good enough. Now trash. I got the bar covered.”

The trainee snapped on a pair of blue medical gloves. He proceeded to empty the smaller bins hidden behind the bar as the old bartender mixed and poured a line of brightly colored shots for the brightly colored bachelorettes filing in. The loud, sugary women were met with alternately annoyed and lascivious looks from the pod of regulars on the far side of the bar.

“Shots, shots, shots,” they chanted, jumping in place.

The trainee stumbled down the hallway to the back of the house, half dragging, half carrying the overloaded trash bin holding all the smaller bags he’d collected. The sounds of scraping ice and singing bachelorettes faded, only to be replaced by the violent noise of dinner-rush dishwashing.

The alley behind the bar smelled like the beer-soaked trash bags that lined it. He grabbed a cigarette with his lips and got it lit without letting it touch his gloves, a skill anyone who smoked while running trash had to learn. For a moment all he could smell was the tobacco swirling in his mouth.

He smiled at the scrawny waitress who crashed through the door of the bar next to his. She tossed a bag of trash onto a nearby pile with a cry of exasperation.

“Assholes,” she muttered, wiping the sweat from her forehead. Her hair was tied loosely, but every muscle in her face was tight.

“You good?” He studied her face with amusement.

“What?” The waitress noticed him for the first time.

“¿Todo bien?”

“This is Viña, dude. You can speak English.”

He took a drag and looked down, shifting uncomfortably. The undulating bass from the DJ inside blended with the roar of the revelers as more and more poured out of the bar patios onto the streets and into the plazas.

“It’s crazy tonight.”

She scoffed and narrowed her eyes. “Now I know you’re new. When you start?”

“Couple weeks ago. What gave me away?”

“You think this a crazy night.” She watched him turn red again. “Got one to spare?”

He shook the open pack until a couple looseys peeked out.

“Muchas gracias . . . señor.”

She gave a mock curtsy, cigarette clenched between her lips. He relaxed and started to laugh. He flicked his lighter with a thumb and held it out.

They smoked in silence as the shouts outside grew louder. Then — much closer — glass shattered.

“I gotta get back,” she said.

The waitress took a deep drag and dropped her half-smoked cigarette into one of the shallow puddles scattered across the alley. The hiss of its extinguishing was lost in the pulsing bass as she slipped back inside.

Another crash, followed by the sound of crunching cans, emerged from the far end of the alley. The old bartender stood in the doorway and squinted at the smoke-framed silhouette of his trainee. His stubbled face was twisted in frustration.

“Where the hell did you go, chico?” he said. “Ven . . . ¡ya!”

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

Thanks for reading. You can preview more of my short stories below.

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It’s fashionable to reduce our identities in two interconnected ways: measuring our worth by what we make and limiting what we make to what we can create on our own. The first reduces people to machines of production; the second reduces culture to the sum of individual contributions. Both are life-sapping lies.

I don’t want to blame all the world’s problems on social media, but there’s an undeniable connection between its rise and the prevalence of hyperindividualized brand identities. So-called “personal brands” collapse self into work by design. When our work is inseparable from our worth, how could self-promotion still be considered a sin?

To be fair, one’s self should inform one’s work, but conflating the two in turn sacrifices self to work. This deteriorates human identity. We must restore the right hierarchy: properly ordered, there is one’s self and there is one’s work. The former should shape the latter so that the latter doesn’t distort the former.

We are more than we do. We’re also capable of building bigger than we are. But to achieve such heights, we must take great care to reset the boundaries between who we are, what we do, and our true value as human beings.

Our worth is immeasurable because of who we are, regardless of how much we contribute. We must remember that about ourselves and about others. When we do, we not only catalyze but elevate our collective work.

Friends, that is how cathedrals are built.

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N.B.: I’m not blind to my own hypocrisy: this criticism has me in its crosshairs, too. Let’s remember who we are and then get back to work building something bigger than ourselves — together.

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Sludge oozes from the cracks where the low ceiling meets the thick stone walls. Moments of silence pockmarked with the groans of men. Death lingers in the stale air. The prisoners are immune to its stench, but involuntary shudders follow the worst of the cries. For there is a pain that even the most seasoned of sufferers cannot bear to hear. Only the callous and the cruel can, and they still need practice.

With a primal look in his eye, the old man unfolds the page still clenched between his tattered fingers. Looking down, he traces the words he was given the week before, gripping the well-worn parchment so tightly the edge begins to tear. The sound pulls him from his trance. Softening his hold with a sniff, he stands up slowly and surveys his companions for the first time in weeks.

Huddled together for warmth, dozens of prisoners line the single-room cage. One man scratches nervously at the wall, ignoring the trickle of blood coursing down his arm. Others gaze longingly at the sliver of light at the end of the long corridor. Another rocks back and forth, hyperventilating between sobs.

The old man gathers his resolve and approaches the condemned prisoner, whose eyes drift between vacant stare and frenzied dance as he continues to rock.

“Can I pray with you?”

[to be continued]

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He nearly flattened an old woman as he darted into The Beehive. The young man slipped inside just as the tempered glass door shut, careful not to let it catch his clothing. He was tall with hazy blue eyes half shaded by an intense brow topped with neatly kept hair. The woman glared at the back of his head severely enough to make the sternest Großmutter proud. Sniffing sharply he readjusted his AirPods and looked away.

Inside the cacophony of Main Street dulled. The cafe was teeming, but the scattered conversations were contained and subdued. It would have felt like a library were it not for the flail of bells sounding off each new arrival. The owners took pride in the atmosphere they had worked so hard to cultivate and were always there, polishing some surface or another.

Haphazardly hung posters dotted the walls, announcing shows and sales alike. The paint was chipped but the floors kept clean. A carefully arranged set of black-stained hardwood furniture filled every open inch of space. It was the kind of place that made chaos look stylish. People loved it for that fact and also for the fact that its coffee was actually good. It had become an escape for locals and, increasingly, a spectacle for outsiders, who had themselves become a spectacle for the locals.

The line wrapped from the register around one side of the cafe almost back to the door. When the man stretched his neck, he could count 9 patrons in front of him, and he knew a few more were hidden around the corner. He gnawed on his lip, shifting uncomfortably in place. 

“Freakin’ tourists,” a voice said behind him. It belonged to a college student he vaguely recognized as a regular. “Man, there’s more every summer.”

The man pretended not to hear, gaze pointedly buried in his phone. As he shuffled ahead, he listened to the student recite the same lines to the people behind him.  

[to be continued]

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Social media continues to dominate modern life. While this is old news, in a sense, the introduction of the Threads app — and, even more so, its unprecedented 100-million-user race time — reveals the true depth of our society’s obsession with social media.

With this revelation comes another, far more disturbing realization about the nature of the obsession: indeed, fueling and supporting it is an unquenchable thirst for perpetual relevance and a misguided belief that relevance lies in keeping pace with society. The speed with which people joined Threads underscores this desire.

To be sure, some users were already seeking a Twitter alternative and were relieved when Threads arrived. For the majority, however — Catholics like myself included — I believe the decision to sign up was fostered by “I guess this is where we’re supposed to go now” thinking. Mass appeal doesn’t automatically make something immoral, but mass adoption without proper investigation is a fool’s errand.

Free access and social contagion have combined forces to remove would-be reservations. New products that cost us money normally make us pause before purchasing. Despite costing us time, social media disguises itself as free; this new product’s offer coaxes us into putting down our guard.

As Catholics, we are called to thoughtfully and thoroughly engage with new ideas and new technologies before accepting them. This is not based on the fear of progress but a recognition of the dangers of haste. The speed surrounding social media has obscured our ability to discern which of the products we use are actually helping us become better humans.

We have to slow down.