Beside the Manger
By Steve Osborn
I have been learning German off and on (mostly off) for about twenty years, and I must
finally admit that I am almost a complete failure at the language. This admission comes despite
my enjoying the singular advantage of being married to an Austrian who speaks perfect German
and is perfectly willing to converse with me in her native language. She has done so on countless
occasions, but our conversations invariably falter in the swamp of my linguistic ineptitude, at
which point we switch back to English.
The blame for this embarrassing state of affairs is entirely my own. In vain have I
endured the rigors of Teach Yourself German books, of complete audio courses on only 48 CDs,
of college extension classes. Even more fruitlessly have I sojourned in my wife’s native Vienna,
where German pours forth from every citizen and schoolchild at a frightening pace.
Amid this flood of German, my dull brain holds forth like a granitic promontory,
impervious to the waves of language that sweep across its surface, searching in vain for a point
of entry. The sad truth is that I just don’t get it.
As I said at the beginning, I am almost a complete failure at the language. This statement
actually gives me some wiggle room, and I am happy to reveal the one exception that proves the
rule: singing in German. At least when I sing the language,
I feel some communion with its spirit.
Speaking and singing are poles apart, whether in German or any other language. We
speak to make ourselves understood, to pursue a line of reasoning, to communicate with our
fellow humans. We sing to express the unknowable, to bring emotion to the fore, to transcend
our daily society. When we speak to each other, we have to use words; but when we sing, our
words are only one small part of a sonic expression far beyond the reach of language.
Perhaps the reason I have more feeling for German as a singer is that great composers
translate the meanings of words into music. When you sing a particular lyric, you’re not only
speaking the words, but also singing the notes of their meaning. And in the act of singing, you
may finally understand the sense of words that were impenetrable when merely read or spoken.
This heightened experience of meaning extends to listeners as well. One of the great joys
of listening to vocal music in our native language is how much the song illuminates and
amplifies the lyrics. For foreign languages, the situation is nearly the same. We may not literally
understand the lyrics, but we hear what they mean.
Case in point: Bach’s Christmas Oratorio. From its opening chorus of “Jauchzet,
frohlocket!” (Rejoice, exult!) to its closing affirmation that the human race has a place at God’s
side, it offers 63 recitatives, arias, choruses and chorales--all in German, but all perfectly
comprehensible to listeners who don’t know a word of the language.
The texts range from Biblical passages to poetic lyrics by Bach’s contemporaries. Of
particular interest are the hymn-like chorales, which Bach may have intended for the audience to
sing. In one of these (No. 59), the chorus imagines itself next to Christ’s manger and sings, "Ich
komme, bring und schenke dir, was du mir hast gegeben"; (I come, bring and give to Thee that
which Thou hast given me.)
The music here is transparent and calm--a pool of orderly simplicity amid the onrushing
narrative that has brought us to this point of reflection. Within these limpid surroundings, the
words unfold their meaning. In a sense, the gift the choir offers to Christ is the chorale itself: the
joy of making music, the chance to create glorious sound. That is the gift He gave us, and
now—through these German words infused with music that needs no translation—we offer our
universal gratitude.
By Steve Osborn
I have been learning German off and on (mostly off) for about twenty years, and I must
finally admit that I am almost a complete failure at the language. This admission comes despite
my enjoying the singular advantage of being married to an Austrian who speaks perfect German
and is perfectly willing to converse with me in her native language. She has done so on countless
occasions, but our conversations invariably falter in the swamp of my linguistic ineptitude, at
which point we switch back to English.
The blame for this embarrassing state of affairs is entirely my own. In vain have I
endured the rigors of Teach Yourself German books, of complete audio courses on only 48 CDs,
of college extension classes. Even more fruitlessly have I sojourned in my wife’s native Vienna,
where German pours forth from every citizen and schoolchild at a frightening pace.
Amid this flood of German, my dull brain holds forth like a granitic promontory,
impervious to the waves of language that sweep across its surface, searching in vain for a point
of entry. The sad truth is that I just don’t get it.
As I said at the beginning, I am almost a complete failure at the language. This statement
actually gives me some wiggle room, and I am happy to reveal the one exception that proves the
rule: singing in German. At least when I sing the language,
I feel some communion with its spirit.
Speaking and singing are poles apart, whether in German or any other language. We
speak to make ourselves understood, to pursue a line of reasoning, to communicate with our
fellow humans. We sing to express the unknowable, to bring emotion to the fore, to transcend
our daily society. When we speak to each other, we have to use words; but when we sing, our
words are only one small part of a sonic expression far beyond the reach of language.
Perhaps the reason I have more feeling for German as a singer is that great composers
translate the meanings of words into music. When you sing a particular lyric, you’re not only
speaking the words, but also singing the notes of their meaning. And in the act of singing, you
may finally understand the sense of words that were impenetrable when merely read or spoken.
This heightened experience of meaning extends to listeners as well. One of the great joys
of listening to vocal music in our native language is how much the song illuminates and
amplifies the lyrics. For foreign languages, the situation is nearly the same. We may not literally
understand the lyrics, but we hear what they mean.
Case in point: Bach’s Christmas Oratorio. From its opening chorus of “Jauchzet,
frohlocket!” (Rejoice, exult!) to its closing affirmation that the human race has a place at God’s
side, it offers 63 recitatives, arias, choruses and chorales--all in German, but all perfectly
comprehensible to listeners who don’t know a word of the language.
The texts range from Biblical passages to poetic lyrics by Bach’s contemporaries. Of
particular interest are the hymn-like chorales, which Bach may have intended for the audience to
sing. In one of these (No. 59), the chorus imagines itself next to Christ’s manger and sings, "Ich
komme, bring und schenke dir, was du mir hast gegeben"; (I come, bring and give to Thee that
which Thou hast given me.)
The music here is transparent and calm--a pool of orderly simplicity amid the onrushing
narrative that has brought us to this point of reflection. Within these limpid surroundings, the
words unfold their meaning. In a sense, the gift the choir offers to Christ is the chorale itself: the
joy of making music, the chance to create glorious sound. That is the gift He gave us, and
now—through these German words infused with music that needs no translation—we offer our
universal gratitude.