Yizkor Requiem

 

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Liner Notes

Thomas Beveridge was inspired to compose Yizkor Requiem: A Quest for Spiritual Roots initially as a memorial to his father, Lowell Beveridge, who was for many years the organist and choirmaster at Columbia University’s St. Paul’s Chapel. A distinctly ecumenical and interfaith concert work that touches on some of the parallel features and common ground between Christianity and Judaism, Yizkor Requiem combines, integrates, and juxtaposes elements of Roman Catholic and Judaic liturgies. These elements have been interrelated creatively in the twin contexts of a universal petition for “eternal rest” and a monotheistic acknowledgment of Divine supremacy and holiness.

Lowell Beveridge was personally fascinated by Christianity’s liturgical and theological roots in Judaism. During his years at St. Paul’s, he was drawn increasingly to the Episcopal priesthood, and eventually he left his university post to pursue seminary studies. After becoming ordained as a priest, he taught music and “speech liturgics” at Virginia Theological Seminary, in Alexandria. Meanwhile, he continued his lifelong endeavor to assemble and examine writings on the subject of “music and the soul,” which he called his Pythagoras Project, for which he mined the philosophical literature on comparative concepts of the soul.

Upon his retirement, Lowell Beveridge studied and lived for two years at Tantur Ecumenical Institute in Jerusalem, an institution established and maintained under the auspices of the Vatican to promote dialogue among Christian, Jewish, and Moslem thinkers. While there, he began to explore in greater depth some of the parallel concepts in Judaism and Christianity, and he focused upon some of the shared liturgical derivations. He became especially absorbed with his interest in Judaism. “If I had not [already] made so many changes in my life,” he mused to his son at one point, “I think I might become a Jew.”

The Genesis of Yizkor Requiem

The artistic conception for this work was born in Thomas Beveridge’s imagination almost immediately upon his father’s death, in 1991. “The words of Requiem aeternam came to me,” he recalled a decade later (although, like his father, his Christian affiliation is Episcopal, not Roman Catholic). “I began to think of a way of memorializing my father by writing a piece that would bring together and draw upon some of his ideas in terms of religious philosophy—the theological-historical connections between Judaism and Christianity, and the Judaic roots of certain Christian liturgies.” His intention, as he has since emphasized, was not to demonstrate similarities among the musical parameters that attend the two liturgical traditions, in spite of the fact that his father’s interest had also been piqued by the emerging scholarly exploration of musicological issues concerning the reliance of the early Church on ancient synagogue and Temple practices. (Lowell Beveridge had been introduced to that area of inquiry in 1959, with the publication of Eric Werner’s groundbreaking study, The Sacred Bridge.) However, notwithstanding a degree of subconscious traditional melodic imprint and stylistic vocal influences, and perhaps an echo of received religious aural ambience in some passages, the music of Yizkor Requiem is entirely original. “I tried to write a piece that suggests one standing on the bridge of the Judeo and Christian religions,” the composer has explained, “and which suggests how parts of the Jewish memorial service—together with other parts of the Hebrew liturgy—and the Requiem Mass can be brought together in some way.”

This work uses not only concrete elements of the memorial liturgies of Roman Catholic and Judaic traditions, but also additional extracts and quotations from synagogue prayers in the annual liturgical cycle. This further illustrates, in the composer’s perception, the nexus between the two religions.

As he proceeded to compose Yizkor Requiem, Beveridge focused in particular on the relationship of specific words in the Latin Mass to Hebrew sources, counterparts, and equivalents. The following examples triggered his exploration of linguistic parallels between the liturgies and fueled his musical interpretation:

Beveridge deliberately omitted sections of the Requiem Mass that refer to the Christologically conditioned view of the “Day of Judgment,” with the agonies that are believed to await the damned: the entire Dies Irae and parts of the Domine Jesu Christe, or offertorium. There is no corresponding concept or image in Judaic theology, where, notwithstanding individual talmudic and other references to judgment after death, the primary focus concerns life and the annual day of Divine judgment: yom hadin. This is linked to Rosh Hashana—as one of the New Year’s multiple designations—as well as to Yom Kippur. In this Judaic conception, hopeful petitions for Divine pardon are bound to sincere repentance, return to God’s teachings and mandated ways, prayer, and acts of righteousness—all of which have the collective power to “avert the severe decree” and are inextricable from the Judgment Day scenario.

The Requiem Mass

The Requiem Mass is a service of the Roman Catholic Church offered or celebrated in memory of—as well as on behalf of—the souls of the dead (viz., those who were baptized into the Church). It also occurs in the Roman Church’s Eastern Rite and, in variant and sometimes freer non-fixed forms, in other Christian denominations or branches where the celebration of Mass appertains. The Latin title (lit., rest) derives from the phrase Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine (May God grant them eternal rest...), which is the beginning of the Introit of this special Mass. The Requiem Mass text is believed to have taken form by the 8th or 9th century, with antecedents that may extend as far back as the period between the 2nd and 4th centuries. The text and the order of its subsections derive directly from the Latin Missa pro Defunctis (Mass for those who have completed this life). But the latter title fell into disuse with the Church’s refocused emphasis on resurrection and eternal life—rather than death itself—following the Second Vatican Council.

A Requiem Mass may be celebrated on the day of burial, on other specific days within the month following burial, on succeeding anniversaries, and on other annual occasions as well. Its liturgical components can include texts from both the Ordinary (Ordinarium missae, the invariable parts of a Mass) and the Proper (Proprium missae, the variable texts that change according to seasons or dates of particular feasts or commemorations), although texts from the Proper are found mostly in artistic requiems from the 18th century on. Typically, these comprise the following sections, including the special insertions:

INTROIT (Requiem aeternam)
KYRIE
GRADUAL (Requiem aeternam)
TRACT
SEQUENCE (Dies Irae, dies illa)
OFFERTORIUM (Domine Jesu Christe)
SANCTUS and BENEDICTUS
AGNUS DEI
COMMUNION (Lux aeterna)

The Responsory, Libera me, Domine (Deliver me, O Lord), is sometimes also included. The Credo and Gloria from the Ordinary, however, are omitted in a requiem.

In musical terms, a requiem may refer to an artistic setting of the text—in whole or in part—for actual liturgical use in a service or for concert performance in a secular (non-worship) context. Or—as with requiems by important composers in virtually every period in the course of Western music, such as Mozart (although his was uncompleted at his death), Verdi, Berlioz, Dvořák, or Fauré—they can serve both functions. But requiems on these scales, which transcend the boundaries of religious service altogether, are more commonly associated with the classical canon of concert music and with universal humanistic sensibilities than with the genre of sacred music per se.

The title, requiem, can also apply even more broadly and more generically simply to any large-scale cantata (or even to a programmatic but exclusively instrumental work) that is conceived as a memorial—or which addresses related themes of death and remembrance. Such works may or may not be based on, or refer to, texts from the actual Requiem Mass. They may include alternative sacred or quasi-sacred as well as completely secular literary texts that have been selected or written by the composer. Brahms’s German Requiem, for example (1857–68), is based entirely on German translations from the Hebrew Bible rather than on any liturgy, and it is not considered a religious service. Benjamin Britten’s War Requiem (1961), on the other hand—also a nonliturgical concert work—nonetheless incorporates some parts of the Latin Mass along with 20th-century poetry by Wilfred Owen. And Hans Werner Henze’s Requiem—a chamber orchestral work (1990–92)—contains no vocal element, but the instrumental movements (with the exception of the third one) are titled after sections of the Latin Requiem Mass. Beveridge’s Yizkor Requiem, despite its deeply spiritual genesis and its exploration of sacred texts, falls into this category. It is not a religious service, but a concert work based on religious sentiments. It is, by its very ecumenical character, a manifestly humanistic work of universal perspectives in Western cultural terms. It might be perceived as “religious,” however, if one accepts that characterization on its transcendental, nonparochial plane.

The Yizkor Service

In Judaic practice, the term yizkor (May He [God] remember) does not refer to the liturgy that accompanies funerals or burials. Rather, it signifies the formal memorial service for specific relatives (hazkarat n’shamot—remembrance of souls). It is conducted communally, but recited individually among Ashkenazi Jews on four occasions on the liturgical calendar—usually within the morning Torah service, before returning the scrolls to the ark. Those four occasions are Yom Kippur and the last days of each of the Three Festivals (Sukkot, Pesah, and Shavuot).

Traditionally, yizkor has been observed chiefly with respect to one’s parents, often in conjunction with pledges of charitable donations to honor their memory. But one may elect to recite yizkor in memory of others as well. Indeed, many 20th- and 21st-century prayerbooks, including some with traditional formats, provide for such additional yizkor recitations for children, siblings, spouses, other relatives, and even friends. There are also memorial prayers for collectively martyred fellow Jews (viz., those who were murdered because they were Jews), especially, since the second half of the 20th century, those who were slain by the Germans during the Holocaust. Soldiers who have given their lives on behalf of the State of Israel are also sometimes remembered within contemporary yizkor services.

Originally, the yizkor service was confined to Yom Kippur. Its introduction on that holiest of days may be linked historically to the opening passage of the morning service Torah reading, which refers to the death of Aaron’s two sons (Leviticus 16). One theory also holds that it was instituted as a spiritual vehicle to induce deeper repentance on the Day of Atonement by invoking the memory of one’s parents and resolving to honor them by mending one’s ways. The custom of praying for the departed on Yom Kippur and Festivals was opposed by some leading medieval scholars and authorities (notably Hai Gaon and Nissim Gaon). They stressed the conviction that only worthy deeds of the departed during their lifetimes—not any deeds or words of atonement by their descendants on their behalf—are of consequence before God. Nonetheless, this practice gained special significance during the Crusades and the waves of persecution in Europe in the following centuries, and by the 17th or 18th century, hazkarat n’shamot, or yizkor, had become a firmly rooted part of the Ashkenazi synagogue ritual for the Three Festivals as well as for Yom Kippur.

The word yizkor is derived from the text incipit of the principal prayer of the service: yizkor elohim nishmat...(May God remember the soul of...). The individual private recitations of yizkor may be preceded by optional Psalm verses and readings. Following those yizkor recitations, the service concludes, in many if not most Ashkenazi synagogues, with the prayer el male raḥamim (God, who is full of mercy), which is intoned by the cantor or prayer leader. In the Sephardi rites, each of those who are accorded the honor of being called up to the Torah—to recite the benedictions in connection with its reading—recites a memorial prayer for his relatives after pronouncing the benedictions.

Musical Symbolism

Although Beveridge did not quote any specific traditional tunes, motives, or other musical properties from Judaic or Christian sources, he did construct the work around certain basic intervallic recurrences. He used these as symbols, and even as leitmotifs. He has referred to the octave within the piece as the “yizkor motif,” which he invokes to represent, through its embrace of the same tone in two or more registers, the interrelationship between God and mankind. “Although God is the Highest,” he has explained, “we do partake in the Divinity at a lower level of awareness.” Thus a pitch at the higher register of the octave in this work represents God, while the same pitch in a lower register signifies humanity. Octave usage permeates the movements, beginning with the opening trumpet fanfare in octaves and followed by recurrent singing by the soprano and alto soloists in octaves. And all forces are heard in octaves at key dramatic moments in the final two movements.

The composer has further explained his use of the interval of the fifth to symbolize Divine perfection and glory—for example, in the opening tenor cantorial solo on the word yitgaddal (May God’s great Name be even more exalted), and at the climactic moment in the sixth movement (Sanctification), where brass instruments soar above the chorus and the rest of the orchestra. The upward leap of a fifth in such passages is, by the composer’s design, reminiscent of motives typically associated with the shofar (ram’s horn) blasts, or calls, which today are most commonly associated with Rosh Hashana. Beveridge has used the interval of the third, however, to symbolize the more immediate and more personal aspect of Divine love—the love inherent in God’s essence, especially in vocal duet passages.

Sequence of the Movements

I. Reader's Kaddish

Following the jubilant introductory brass fanfare, the cantorial or tenor soloist intones one of the several basic forms of the kaddish prayer (in this case, ḥatzi kaddish, or half kaddish). As an affirmation of faith, kaddish may be perceived legitimately as a Judaic doxology. Apart from a congregational response and the concluding sentence of the full text, which constitutes a petition for Divinely fashioned peace and which was introduced at a later date, the language of kaddish is Aramaic—the vernacular spoken by the Jews for approximately 1,500 years following the Babylonian captivity (6th–5th century B.C.E). Overall, kaddish embodies the supreme acknowledgment of God’s unparalleled greatness. It is the ultimate expression of unqualified glorification, praise, and worship of God throughout all eternity. Varying forms of the text are recited at specifically assigned points throughout the liturgy of every prayer service where a minyan (a quorum of ten) is present.

Originally, kaddish was not related to the liturgy per se, but was recited at the conclusion of rabbinic discourses or lessons, perhaps as a way of dismissing the assembly with an allusion to messianic hope and supreme faith. Because those discourses were delivered in Aramaic, the kaddish text, too, was composed in that daily language. It developed around its central communal response, y’he sh’me rabba m’varakh l’alam ul’almei almaya (May His great Name be worshipped forever, for all time, for all eternity), which derives from Daniel 2:20. Later, kaddish was introduced into the liturgy to signal the conclusion of sections of a service, to divide such sections, or to conclude biblical readings or talmudic quotations. As the liturgical tradition developed, various forms of kaddish—its full recitation as well as versions either omitting certain parts or containing alternate passages—were assigned to different specific roles in the liturgical order. These various kaddish recitations and their individual text variants include kaddish d’rabbanan (scholars’ kaddish), recited after the reading of talmudic or midrashic passages; kaddish shalem (the full kaddish text), recited by the reader or prayer leader at the end of a major section of a service; ḥatzi kaddish (half kaddish), recited by the prayer leader between sections of a service, in which case it also functions as an introduction to the ensuing section; and kaddish yatom (mourners’ kaddish), recited by mourners and observers of a yortsayt (anniversary of a death) after a service and following recitation of certain Psalms. An expanded form of the mourners’ kaddish is recited at the cemetery following a burial (kaddish l’atḥaddata).

In some traditions that version also replaces kaddish d’rabbanan (scholars’ kaddish) at the completion of study of a talmudic section.

The first known use of the term kaddish to designate this doxological prayer text appears in Sofrim—a minor, supplementary tractate of the Talmud (16:12, 19:1, 21:6). In a literary-theological conception that was crystallized and confirmed during the Geonic period (6th–11th centuries), the ten synonyms for praise contained in kaddish—glorifying “God’s great Name throughout the world that He has created according to His will”—were shown to correspond to the ten Divine utterances by which, according to a Talmudic passage, it is said that the world was created (Avot 5:1).

Recitation of kaddish (the kaddish yatom version) in memory of parents and siblings is certainly one of its assigned roles. The oldest evidence of this, however, is found no earlier than in a 13th-century prayerbook, even though the aforementioned Sofrim also contains a reference to the pronouncement of kaddish at burials (19:12). But the kaddish text itself is in no way a “prayer for the dead,” and even kaddish yatom concerns neither mourning nor death. Nor should that memorial function be construed as the primary role among its others. In fact, the direct role of kaddish vis-à-vis mourners may well have arisen as an indirect consequence of another, related practice, whereby mourners were assigned to study or participate in study of a sacred text. Such study was deemed an appropriate way of honoring deceased parents, and was first mentioned in Sofrim (19:12). In that case, the leader (not the mourners themselves) would have recited a concluding kaddish—not for the departed ones, but simply to conclude the study session. According to that scenario, memorial recitation of kaddish directly by mourners and observers of yortsayt grew from the custom of memorial study, and was instituted as an independent obligation only later.

Eventually, and without prejudice to the other, wider roles of kaddish in regular daily prayer services, the specific mourners’ kaddish acquired an identity and raison d'être of its own. Various mystical, poetic, and allegorical purposes were attached to its daily recitation during the eleven-month mourning period for parents, and annually on the yortsayt. Although such supernaturally driven interpretative justifications are for the most part no longer accepted literally within the contexts of modern mainstream theological sensibilities, in earlier periods some believed that kaddish recitation had the power to redeem the souls of departed ones, to facilitate their “rescue” from suffering in the hereafter, and to mediate punitive torments. It has also been proposed that kaddish was adopted as a mourner’s prayer because of a reference to messianic resurrection, which is found in a passage near the beginning that was later discarded in versions other than kaddish l’atḥaddata. Another messianic reference (unrelated to resurrection) remains, however, in the kaddish text of the Sephardi rite as well as among Hassidim (nusaḥ ari).

More rationally grounded, sophic, psychologically reasoned, and currently acceptable interpretations are generally less tinged with eschatological concerns, and can be tied in principle to the concept of tzidduk hadin (justification)—viz., acceptance, of God’s judgment. In this context, a mourner’s almost defiant pronouncement of kaddish confirms his steadfast worship of God and undiminished acknowledgment of His ultimately benevolent supremacy even in the face of death and grief.

As a divider of sections of the liturgy, the ḥatzi kaddish (also known as the reader’s kaddish) precedes the core set of prayers in every service. In the context and spirit of the opening movement of Yizkor Requiem, however, kaddish—no version of which is part of the actual yizkor service—functions simply as a preamble to the work, expressing praise and worship of God as the author of life and death.

The final chord at the conclusion of this movement proceeds directly into the opening major chord of the next movement, and it fades while a bass viol plays a doleful, chantlike melody underneath it in its enharmonic minor. The concluding choral statement, “Blest be the Name of the Lord,” also bridges these two movements, with its final word on the downbeat of the second.

II. Requiem Aeternam

Muted strings take over and develop fugally the minor melody introduced by the bass viol, leading to the choral pronouncement of the words from the Introit, Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine. The octave leitmotif appears on the operative word, light, and then gradually accumulates all twelve tones of the chromatic scale. The word light—sung first in its Latin context, Et lux perpetua (perpetual light), and then in English—triggers the cantorial tenor solo entrance on its Hebrew equivalent (or) in a quotation from Psalms (97:11) that also refers to light as an ultimate reward: or zaru’a latzaddik ul’yishrei lev simḥa (Light is sown for the righteous, and radiance upon the upright in heart). That verse, which is not part of any memorial service, is quoted in the liturgy for various other occasions and is probably best known to synagogue worshippers from its incorporation in the introductory kabbalat shabbat (welcoming the Sabbath) service. Beveridge selected it both to amplify the theme of eternal light and to illustrate a Judeo-Christian connection between the two thematic images. The original Hebrew and its English translation are interwoven in the rendition by the tenor together with the soprano and alto soloists.

Another linguistic-thematic correspondence between the two liturgies is exploited by the juxtaposition of the phrase from the Latin Mass, Ad te omnis caro veniet (All flesh—all living beings—shall return to You), against the opening sentence of a Hebrew hymn of praise for God in the prefatory part of Sabbath, Festival, and High Holy Day morning services—nishmat kol ḥai t’varekh et shimkha adonai eloheinu (The soul of every breathing being shall praise Your Name, Lord, our God)—which is sung here immediately after the Latin. The most transparent similarity is found in the parallel literary construction, with the image of the soul—or breath—of all flesh. And although one may interpret and acknowledge a fundamental theological divergence in emphasis here in terms of earthly life as opposed to a “life hereafter,” it is possible nonetheless to intuit some common ground in the jointly held notion of “returning” to God.

Points of intersection may be contained in the implied connection between return and worship. The sentiments from the Mass here focus on the eternal life of the soul after death, and its return to the source of all life. The soul may be presumed then to worship and praise God eternally. From Judaic perspectives, the link between worship and return is associated primarily with repentance during one’s lifetime. Ideally, one returns to God by reaffirming and reaccepting His supreme righteousness, and therefore worshipping Him through acts and deeds as well as thoughts and words; and one returns to God in order to engage in a life of such worship. The concept of t’shuva—which means return to God by returning to His teachings and stipulated ways—is tethered to repentance and making amends. And those acts and resolutions are inextricable from praise-filled acknowledgment of God’s supreme authority—worship of “His Name.” (In modern Hebrew, the word t’shuva translates both as “return” in the ordinary sense and as “repentance.”)

Although the Mass text refers to a different sense of return, both manifestations of return are nonetheless part of the overall theology of each religion.

The phrase Kyrie, eleison (Lord, have mercy!) is one of the most recognizable passages of the Ordinary of the Mass. Toward the end of this movement, Beveridge relates these words to one of the prayers of the Jewish weekday service: s’laḥ lanu (Forgive us). Those Hebrew words, which occur as well in the penitential liturgy related to Yom Kippur, are prayed, of course, with reliance on God’s mercy rather than on mankind’s merits, and they imply humanity’s acknowledgment of its own shortcomings. This is underscored in a succeeding phrase in the same prayer: “Because You do forgive sin and pardon transgression”—viz., out of mercy and compassion. Even though, once again, the emphasis of the plea in the Mass concerns the afterlife, whereas the Hebrew prayer involves Divine mercy through forgiveness during one’s earthly life, both petitions may be viewed as appeals for ultimate redemption.

III. Psalm 23

Although the Twenty-third Psalm is neither a requisite nor an established part of the Requiem Mass or Judaic memorial liturgy, it is one of the most frequent adjuncts to both Christian and Jewish funeral and memorial services. Its universal sentiments of comfort apply equally to both religious realms. Beveridge has explained that he wrote the only truly agitated musical passage of the entire work to express the words “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...” But he retained that mood for only a moment, to signify that “we do not fear death or evil, for the Lord is with us and will comfort us.”

IV. Remember!

This movement joins part of the Offertorium (Domine Jesu Christe) to the opening section of the amida (lit., standing)—the core series of prayers in every service that is recited individually and silently while standing. Its opening section is known as the avot (fathers) because of the reference therein to the three biblical patriarchs: Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The avot links God’s continuous protection and generosity to the patriarchs’ righteousness and devotion to Him, in remembrance of which God will bring redemption to their descendants out of fatherly love. But reliance on the patriarchs’ merits alone is not considered sufficient for each generation—and each individual—to merit God’s consideration. Some commentators have viewed the threefold repetition of the word God (i.e., “God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob,” rather than “God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob”) as a reminder that each individual must also search out and communicate with God and establish his own merit through his own devotion. In the artistic context and license of Beveridge’s work, the words in the amida—ha’el haggadol haggibor v’hannora el elyon (God who is great, mighty, and awesome, supreme Master)—are made to correspond to the Latin reference to God as Rex Gloriae (King of Glory).

The Latin Recordare (remember), addressed in the Mass to God, is then paired with the High Holy Day amida insertion—zokhrenu l’ḥayyim...(Remember us unto life...and inscribe us in the Book of Life)—in accordance with the theme of remembrance that pervades the High Holy Day liturgy. Rosh Hashana is in fact known as yom hazikaron (day of memorial and remembrance), the time when historical and theological memory operates in both directions: between man and God, and between God and the Jewish people. The Christian and Judaic frameworks, however, may differ with respect to the significance and role of memory. The plea for God’s remembrance in the context of the Latin Mass here concerns the souls of the departed and their eternal rest, while the primary focus of the text of zokhrenu is upon reprieve and pardon for life in the coming year. The Book of Life is the liturgical poetic metaphor for the recorded fate of each individual in that coming year, which, according to traditional theological perceptions, is connected to the sincerity of repentance during Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. Repentance is believed to be possible and potentially effective until the last possible moment at the end of the Day of Atonement, when the “gates of repentance” are finally closed. The book image is thus extended to encompass the idea that the Book of Life is sealed only during the concluding service (n’ila) of Yom Kippur. In that final pronouncement of the zokhrenu petition during n’ila, the word v’khatmenu (Seal us in the Book of Life) is substituted for the word v’khatvenu (Inscribe us...), which occurs in all earlier pronouncements of the same prayer during the preceding High Holy Day services.

V. Offertory (Hostias)

The composer characterizes this movement, whose text is part of the Proper of the Mass, as an a cappella motet. The soprano and alto soloists enter on the concluding line, in a summary appeal for “perpetual light”—eternal life—for the departed whose memory the Requiem Mass celebrates. The reference to the patriarch Abraham, and to the biblical promise made to him and his descendants concerning redemption, again reflects the avot. The first benediction of the avot refers to God as the King who saves and redeems, the “shield of Abraham.” The second benediction (if translated literally, and apart from thorny theological issues and modern interpretations) contains the image of God restoring the dead to life. The Hebrew text offers assurance of this ultimate redemption, along with praise and worship of God in advance for its guarantee: “You keep faith with those who sleep in the dust.” The Latin text petitions God to grant that restoration and redemption, in accordance with the promise to Abraham for his descendants—even though the actual nature and scenario of eternal life can differ significantly between the two theological traditions.

VI. Sanctification

The Sanctus and the Benedictus, components of the Ordinary of the Mass, are interwoven throughout this movement with corresponding and related phrases from the Hebrew proclamation that is prayed in every communal morning, afternoon, and musaf service (the additional service following the morning service on Sabbaths, High Holy Days, Festivals, and the New Month): the k’dusha. Clearly, the Sanctus was taken from the k’dusha and translated nearly verbatim for the Roman Church ritual. Both the Sanctus and the k’dusha affirm God’s embodiment of ultimate, supreme holiness; both evoke the image of the heavenly angelic hosts who, in their utterances, provide a model for human acknowledgment of Divine holiness and for worship of God as the “Lord of Hosts”; and both assert that the entire world is filled with the evidence and manifestations of God’s glory.

The nucleus of the k’dusha is a pastiche of biblical verses (I Isaiah 6:3; Ezekiel 3:12; and Psalm 146:10), which most scholars believe were used as liturgical responses during the Second Temple era. Various additions and supplementary passages were appended to, and interpolated within, this nucleus, mostly during the first millennium C.E. Some of those additional passages were adopted eventually by all rites, while others have remained confined to specific local or regional customs; and there are variant and expanded forms of the k’dusha for certain distinct services. In the process of liturgical development and evolution, the k’dusha was inserted at the beginning of the third benediction during the repetition of the amida, for those occasions when the cantor or reader repeats aloud the entire set of prayers that has first been recited individually and silently by the congregation. This occurs only when there is a quorum of ten (minyan) to qualify the service as public worship. The restriction of the k’dusha to communal worship has been ascribed in the Talmud (Berakhot 21b) to the biblical passage in Leviticus 22:32—“And I will be sanctified among the children of Israel”—which has been interpreted to imply the need for a quorum. Another talmudic reference suggests that the perpetuation of the entire world depends upon the continual emphasis of holiness, as it is expressed in the words quoted from the Bible in the k’dusha. “Since the destruction of the Temple the world has been sustained by the k’dusha of the liturgy....” (Sota 49a).

Morning and afternoon service renditions of the k’dusha begin with the introductory passage, n’kadesh et shimkha ba’olam (We sanctify Your Holy Name on earth). This is a summons to the worshippers to proclaim God’s holiness after the manner in which, according to the account in Prophets (I Isaiah), the six-winged seraphim, representing the highest spiritual abode in the universe, are said to have called out to each other—with the very same words.

In that pronouncement, the word kadosh (holy) is stated three times for emphasis, rather than for any special connotation of the number three. This is to signify the ultimate degree of holiness, since biblical Hebrew contains no suffix or superlative form to denote “holiest.” Therefore, any rendition of the sentence should be punctuated as follows: kadosh, kadosh, kadosh adonai tz’va’ot (without pausal separation after the third kadosh), which clarifies the meaning as “Holy, holy—the Lord of Hosts is Holy!” The Sanctus retained this threefold articulation from its Hebrew source, even though the Latin superlative sanctissimus could otherwise have provided the required emphasis.

Pirkei d’Rabbi Eleazar, an 8th-century Midrash that echoes this passage from the k’dusha, offers an imagined poetic scenario surrounding this heavenly pronouncement:

The majestic scene is thus pictured: Two seraphs stand one on each side of the Holy One; they cover their faces in reverence and sanctify His great Name. One invokes and the other responds, saying, “Holy, holy ...” And the ḥayyot (heavenly beings) stand by, but not knowing the place of His glory, they answer by saying, “Wherever His glory is, may the Name of His ...”

The second basic response of all k’dusha renditions, barukh k’vod adonai mimkomo (God is worshipped from His place....), which is a quotation from Ezekiel, is sung here by the two female soloists. The passage adir adirenu (God is our strength), which is added to the k’dusha in the musaf services on Festivals and High Holy Days, is sung here by the tenor cantorial soloist. The order of these two passages, however, is reversed in this work, both for dramatic effect and as a reflection of the variant format in Reform prayerbooks.

The words of the Benedictus derive from Psalm 118:26 (“Praised be he who comes in the Name of the Lord”), and the origin of the concluding phrase, Hosanna in excelsis, is the Hebrew liturgical supplication, hoshana (Save us!). But the Latin derivative hosanna acquired the altered meaning of “praise,” or “glory [be to God],” an equivalent to halleluya. This apparent discrepancy is the result of a historical fusion of two ceremonial customs—one Roman and the other Judaic; one secular and the other religious. The New Testament reports that Jesus entered Jerusalem to the welcome of crowds waving palm branches, in the manner of the customary Roman welcome for heroes, to the accompaniment of their shouts of hoshana. (This incident later manifested itself in the Christian ritual of Palm Sunday, prior to Easter.) Since the Roman custom concerned proclamations of praise, the word was interpreted and translated thus into the Christian Bible. The source of both the confusion and the connection between the accepted Latin and the original Hebrew meanings of the word hoshana or hosanna lies in the annual pilgrimage Festival of Sukkot, which is described in the Torah as the feast of ingathering at the end of the agricultural season, and, in Hebrew liturgy, as z’man simḥatenu—the “time [season] of our rejoicing.” During the weekday morning services of this seven-day Festival (eight days in the Diaspora), in accordance with a biblical commandment (Leviticus 23:40) whose anthropological antecedents are believed to lie in pagan agricultural and fertility rites, each Jewish worshipper carries and waves the lulav—a palm branch bound with boughs of myrtle and willow. The lulav is waved together with an etrog (a special variety of citrus akin to a lemon) in a prescribed ritual—first during the recitation of specific Psalm verses known as hallel (Psalms of Praise) and then in a majestic procession.

Hoshana is an abbreviation or contraction of the phrase hoshi’a na (O save us now!), which appears in Psalm 118:25, one verse before that from which the Benedictus was drawn. This Psalm forms part of the hallel that is recited on Sukkot in connection with the waving of the lulav and etrog.

The processions at the end of the morning services with the lulav and etrog culminate in a series of seven processions on the last day of the Festival, Hoshana Rabba. During these processions the worshippers recite or sing a series of liturgical poems known as hoshanot (plural of hoshana)—pleas for deliverance and liberation. Each of them begins with the incipit hoshana, which can also be sung as a refrain.

Clearly, then, the adoption of the word hoshana into Christian liturgy as Hosanna in excelsis Deo to signify “Praise [glory] to God in the highest” rather than “Save us” is a by-product of the mixture of these two separate ceremonial customs.

Beveridge punctuates the Benedictus with yet another section of the k’dusha, this time an insertion for all musaf services: “Our God is One ...” One of the Divine attributions included in this passage, “He is our Savior,” is mirrored by the Latin hosanna. (The Sephardi rite contains an additional sentence: “Behold, I have now redeemed you in the latter times, as at the beginning, to be your God.”) But the composer has omitted the Hebrew phrase lih’yot lakhem lelohim (I am your God), substituting a repetition of Hosanna in excelsis, which is followed here by the words of the concluding statement of the k’dusha (yimlokh adonai....).

VII. El male raḥamim (God, Full of Compassion)

The composer selected one of several established text variants of this memorial prayer, which entreats God to keep the souls of the departed “under the wings of” His Divine Presence. Life and death are related here—perhaps as part of a single continuum that transcends the boundary between the two. From Judaic perspectives, “eternal life” (apart from, or in addition to messianic or eschatological considerations) can reside in the preservation of loved ones’ memories, which, as suggested by some interpretations and translations of the concluding line of this prayer, may serve as inspirations for the living—and as models for their behavior in life. El male raḥamim, which is also recited at funerals, follows the yizkor recitations in most mainstream traditional yizkor services. But while those yizkor recitations are addressed to the memories of individuals, this concluding prayer encompasses collectively all those for whom yizkor has just been recited.

Beveridge drew attention to the shared image of the Garden of Eden (gan eden) as a representation of paradise in both religious traditions and liturgies. The chorus sings an English translation of that reference from In Paradisum (“May they rest in the Garden of Eden”), followed by the cantorial continuation of the parallel passage in el male raḥamim; and he has given this moment special musical emphasis.

VIII. Lux aeterna (Eternal Light)

The flute recalls the theme in minor from Requiem aeternam, which is now transformed to a melody in major, and which leads directly into the next movement. The juxtaposition of this text from the Proper against the immediately preceding el male raḥamim illuminates the Latin reflection of the image of light, which is also contained in the Hebrew prayer for the souls of the departed. The Mass text reads “Let perpetual light shine on them, O Lord, in company with Your holy ones for all eternity.” The Hebrew prayer asks that the souls be kept eternally in God’s presence, “among the holy and pure ones whose light shines as the brightness of the firmament.” The two expressions and the two metaphorical allusions are nearly identical, and a common source is obvious.

IX. Justorum animae (The Souls of the Righteous)

These words derive from The Wisdom of Solomon (3:1–4), which is part of the Apocrypha (the books not included in the biblical canon). The soprano soloist intones the text as a simple, chantlike unaccompanied hymn, which the chorus and orchestra repeat phrase by phrase in octaves. For the composer personally, these words encapsulate the essence of both religious traditions with regard to the eternity of the soul, illustrating a basic view held in common.

X. Mourners' Kaddish and Lord's Prayer

This concluding movement pairs kaddish yatom with what is probably the most widely familiar Christian liturgical expression in the Western world, even among non-Christians. The Lord’s Prayer, which is quoted in the New Testament (Matthew 6:9–13) as part of the Sermon on the Mount, is held in Christian belief and tradition to have been uttered by Jesus of Nazareth in the course of preaching to a crowd of disciples in the Galilee. Because of its powerful simplicity and its universalistic sensibilities, it is often considered to be among the most ecumenical pronouncements in Christianity. The Lord’s Prayer is nearly always deemed acceptable in nondenominational or interfaith services that seek to avoid exclusive theological parameters.

Beveridge was struck by the common theme in the opening words of these two prayers of sanctifying or hallowing God’s Name, both of which arose in the vernacular of the day. “Hallowed be Thy Name” in the Lord’s Prayer appears here as a counterpart of yitkaddash sh’me rabba (May His great Name be sanctified).

Apart from kaddish, other Hebrew liturgical derivations and parallel phraseology can be discerned in the Lord’s Prayer, which is illustrated by the following examples:

Hallowed be Thy Name.
v’kadesh et shimkha al makdishei sh’mekha—Hallow Your Name upon those who sanctify it (High Holy Days musaf, prior to k’dusha).

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
darei ma’la im darei mata....—Those who dwell on earth join with those who reside above [in heaven] in glorifying Your kingship (High Holy Days musaf).

Our Father who [which] art in heaven....
Avinu shebashamayim ase imanu ḥesed ba’avur shimkha haggadol—Our Father in heaven, deal kindly with us for the sake of Your Great Name (preliminary morning service, birkhot hashaḥar).

Eloheinu shebashamayim yaḥed shimkha v’kayem malkhut’kha tamid—Our God in heaven, reveal Your unity and establish Your kingdom forever (evening service).

Give us this day our daily bread.
v’sab’einu mituvekha uvarekh sh’natenu kashanim hatovot—And satisfy us with Your goodness and bless the year with Your bounty (weekday amida).

Give me neither poverty nor riches; Feed me with Your allotted bread (Proverbs 30:8).

Forgive us [our debts] as we have forgiven others.
s’laḥ lanu avinu ki ḥatanu—Forgive us, our Father, for we have transgressed (weekday amida; s’liḥot liturgy).

Lead us not [let us not be led] into temptation, but deliver us from evil [“the evil one”in some versions].
v’al t’vi’enu lo lidei ḥet, v’lo lidei avera v’avon, v’lo lidei nisayon....—Let us not be led into sin, transgression, iniquity, temptation....(preliminary morning service).

y’hi ratzon milfanekha...shetatzileni hayom uv’khol yom me’azei fanim ume’ azut panim, me’adam ra—May it be Your will... to deliver me today and every
day from arrogant men and arrogance, from an evil one....(preliminary morning service).

For Yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever.
l’kha adonai hag’dula v’hag’vura v’hatiferet v’hanetzaḥ v’hahod—Yours, O Lord, is the greatness and the power, the glory and the victory and the majesty (Chronicles 29; morning service—p’sukei d’zimra; Torah service).

ki hamalkhut shelkha hi ul’olmei ad timlokh b’khavod—For the kingdom is Yours and You will reign in glory forever (aleinu—al ken n’kave l’kha: conclusion of all services; Rosh Hashana musaf).

In all rites and practices, kaddish yatom is spoken simply by the mourners, and the others present join in on the responses; it is never sung or chanted in any manner. Its musical parameter here, of course, is appropriate artistic license, inasmuch as this work is a musical-dramatic expression rather than a religious service.

The English reading following the final words of kaddish here is taken from the service of the classic American Reform ritual, as it appears in the Union Prayerbook—at one time the standard and nearly exclusive prayerbook of the American Reform movement.

The last sound heard is a distant, offstage flute, which reprises the melody from Justorum animae that the orchestra also has reintroduced at the beginning of this movement. Beveridge attached a dramatic, quasi-programmatic role to these flute strains: “It is the song of the departed soul,” he has commented. “Now free of all encumbrances, it fades away into Eternity.”

A year and a half after Lowell Beveridge’s death, the composer’s mother passed away as well. Yizkor Requiem is therefore dedicated to the memory of both parents. The world premiere was given in 1994 by the New Dominion Chorale, under Beveridge’s baton. Performances followed in Chicago, New York, and at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., with the Choral Arts Society of Washington directed by Norman Scribner.

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Lyrics

• English
• Hebrew

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Credits

Composer: Thomas Beveridge

Performers: Academy and Chorus of St. Martin-in-the-Fields;  Robert Brubaker, Tenor;  Rabbi Rodney Mariner, Speaker;  Sir Neville Marriner, Conductor;  Ana María Martínez, Soprano;  Elizabeth Shammash, Mezzo-soprano