Bachtalk: Thinking Through Music

The following was the eulogy I delivered at the funeral service for my father, John Monroe, in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, on November 10, 2025.

If you want a small window into John Monroe, or at least part of who he was, here’s a story.

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Friday, one week ago, I received a call informing me that my dad had called EMS and was taken to the hospital. I booked the first flight out of Cincinnati at 6:00 a.m. the next morning, and by 10:00 a.m. I was walking into his room in the ICU. I He was connected to a dozen machines, wearing an oxygen mask. His eyes lit up when I walked in. I went to him, grabbed his hand, and asked, “Dad, are you okay?”

He said, “Yes, but listen. I need you to check the Credit Union cash account.”

Puzzled, I responded, “Ok, but why?”

He informed me, “If the balance falls below a certain amount, they are going to charge me a monthly fee.”

If the essence of a person is like a house, then the stories we tell about them are like windows—each one offering a different perspective. Some panes are clear, others fogged or distorted, but taken together they form an impression in our hearts.

I hope that today, and in the days to come, we will tell many stories about my father, Johnny. Though his passing may feel sudden, his life was full and rich and beautiful, and those are the stories I hope will remain.

My father was a deeply honorable man. He had a keen sense of what was right, proper, and appropriate, and what was not. Public opinion or the influence of peers rarely swayed him from that inner moral compass.

When he was in his early twenties, his uncle by marriage, Steele Burden, offered to pay for an extended trip to Europe. Steele believed travel to the artistic capitals of the continent would be of great educational and cultural value to a young man. My father declined, unable to accept such a gift even from family. Can you imagine declining an offer like that at age 20?

This sense of honor led him to be highly independent. For nearly every challenge, he expected the solution to come from within. It wasn’t distrust of others, but belief in self-reliance. On the humorous side, this meant fixing glasses with tape, coiling electric cords in old cardboard toilet-paper rolls, and countless other handyman solutions. Spending money to fix things was something of an extravagance.

My father was also a deeply faithful person. I don’t mean this in a strictly religious sense, although my father’s faith journey is certainly a compelling part of his life story. His faithfulness was a devotion to the people and places in his life. A part of his heart was given to family. Having lost his father at age 12 and his mother at 18, he knew the weight of absence early. I believe those losses solidified in him a lifelong dedication to his family—his children, his sibling, his cousins, and his extended family in special ways.

He was a devoted grandfather to Jack and Catherine. Grandparenthood is like fine-grit sandpaper; those sweet babies can soften even the hardest edges. My son said this week that every time Granddad was with him, he was teaching him something.

Part of his heart was also given to friends. Everyone knows my dad largely had friends because he was married to Frances—the social butterfly to his reluctant companionship—but the friendships he had, he cherished. Up until the end, he played bridge with his childhood friend, James Hoth. The circle of friends my parents shared through their lives remains close-knit to this day. Looking through photos, it’s striking to see the same faces year after year, decade after decade. Those long friendships are nearly impossible to imagine today.

A large part of his heart was dedicated to what he called “the place,” the house and grounds at 6200 Burden Lane. Caring for this home, where my parents would live for over 50 years, required an intention and dedication few homeowners know. I don’t think my father ever considered himself the “owner” of what we today call the Monroe-Burden House. He saw himself as a steward of something larger. Every repair or update had to remain in character with the larger property, which the Burdens donated to LSU for what is now the Burden Museum and Gardens. Despite our childhood pleading, he would not install a swimming pool. He believed completely in the Burdens’ vision that the property should be a place of reflection. The homes, gardens, artwork, and sculptures were meant to encourage quietude and meditation.

But family, friends, and “the place” did not claim most of his heart. That was reserved for my mother, Frances. Their relationship was the anchor of their life together, and his devotion to her never wavered. They had known each other since grade school, married after LSU, raised my brother and me, and contributed to their community while always putting their relationship first. Most of you know they endured the unimaginable loss of my younger brother, Byron, at age 15. The statistics for marriages that survive such loss are grim—but they didn’t know John and Frances. Theirs was a marriage meant to last.

In the end, I hope the stories that remain are the ones that tell of my father’s honor and faithfulness. His life was a full, beautiful tale of family, friends, place, and the woman—my mother—who was his home. These are the windows through which I see him most clearly, and those are the stories that remind us of what endures.

Baton Rouge

November 9, 2025

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In this episode, Adam and Carlton discuss Cantata 164, Bach’s musical reflection on the story of the Good Samaritan.

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Note: The following reflection was delivered at a service of Vespers on October 26, 2025, at St. Thomas Episcopal Church, Terrace Park, Ohio, with the Bach Ensemble at St. Thomas. The featured cantata was J. S. Bach’s BWV 90, Es reisset euch ein schrecklich Ende.

Each season of the year seems to awaken something deep and distinct in the human imagination, yet it is shared across time, space, and culture. Spring is the season of renewal — Passover, Easter, Holi — all celebrations of new life, of beginnings, of light breaking through darkness.

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Summer carries the energy of fullness and joy: a season of work and harvest, of sunlight and abundance.

But autumn, where we find ourselves this evening, is different.

It is a time when the world begins to turn inward. The light fades, the air cools, the fields are gathered in. The trees begin to let go of what they no longer need. The world reminds us, literally, that everything living must die before new life can begin.

It’s no wonder, then, that autumn has long been the season when people reckon with endings — when cultures across the world have paused to remember the dead and reflect on what it means to live.

In the Christian West, this is the season of All Hallows’ Eve, All Saints’, and All Souls’ — three days devoted to remembrance: for the saints, for the faithful departed, for the whole communion of the living and the dead.

In Japan, during the Obon festival, families light paper lanterns to guide ancestral spirits home, and then release them, floating down rivers or out to sea. In Mexico, Día de los Muertos fills early November with color and scent — marigolds, candles, food, photographs — a joyful homecoming for the dead, where death is not denied but welcomed into the circle of life and love.

Long before any of these, the ancient Celts marked Samhain (sow-when), the turning of the year, when the veil between this world and the next was said to grow thin, and bonfires were lit to honor the dead and ward off the powers of chaos. In China, during Qingming (king-ming), families visit ancestral graves, sweep them clean, burn incense, and share food.

Each of these traditions faces death directly, with reverence, beauty, and imagination. They teach that remembrance is not morbid — it’s part of what makes us human.

But in modern-day American Halloween, we’ve replaced them with over-sugared children in Marvel and Disney costumes and adults dressing as sexy nurses.

It’s funny — but also telling. We still play at death, but we no longer practice for it.

The practice of memento mori— literally, “remember that you must die” — dates back to Socrates and was once at the center of human wisdom. It wasn’t meant to depress or frighten. It was a moral and spiritual discipline. For the Stoics of the ancient world, it trained the mind toward clarity and proportion, reminding them that life’s brevity gives meaning to every action. For Christians, it became a form of spiritual preparation: not fear of death, but readiness — a daily rehearsal in trust.

To remember death rightly is not to dwell in despair; rather, it is to live more wisely and virtuously. It gives us humility, gratitude, and compassion. It clears away illusion and pretense. It reminds us of what matters.

And I think this is why Bach’s Cantata 90 — shocking though it is — belongs in this same tradition.

Bach composed Cantata 90 in 1723 for the 25th Sunday after Trinity, one of the final Sundays of the church year, when the lectionary readings turn to judgment, the end times, and the promise of redemption. The text begins with terrifying words: “Es reißet euch ein schrecklich Ende” — “A dreadful end is tearing you away.”

It is one of the most violent opening images in all of Bach’s sacred music. No polite prelude, no gentle meditation — it begins with fire. For the modern listener, it can feel almost unapproachable, even offensive. But perhaps, like those ancient autumn rituals, its purpose is not to shock for shock’s sake — but to awaken us.

To awaken us to the truth that death, judgment, and grace are part of the same mystery.

In Bach’s world, death was never far away. Disease, war, and infant mortality were constants. Yet within his Lutheran faith, death was not the final catastrophe. It was the threshold to union with Christ. His music reflects that paradox — the fear of divine justice joined to confidence in divine mercy.

Cantata 90 embodies that balance. It begins with terror, but it doesn’t stay there. The music moves through contrasts — fiery arias of warning followed by quiet moments of assurance. The final chorale settles the storm into prayer.

Listening to this cantata, we can hear Bach teaching his congregation how to die — not in despair, but in trust. His music is a spiritual exercise, a kind of memento mori in sound. It reminds us that facing death, in faith, is how one learns to live fully.

And perhaps this is what our culture has lost. We are uneasy with talk of death or judgment. We prefer distraction, comfort, and youth. But in doing so, we lose the perspective that our ancestors once practiced every autumn — that remembering our mortality is not a denial of life, but its completion.

When we hear Bach’s music through this lens, its “fire and brimstone” becomes something different. It becomes a way to strip away illusion, to face the truth of our condition, and to find grace on the other side. The cantata becomes a musical mirror for our lives — a drama of fear giving way to hope, of judgment giving way to mercy.

The world’s autumn rituals, the Stoic wisdom of memento mori, and Bach’s sacred music all share a single insight: remembering death teaches us how to live.

To practice for death — as the Stoics did, as Bach did, as our ancestors did each autumn — is not morbid; it is faithful. It is a way of practicing gratitude, humility, and courage. It is a way of preparing our souls to let go — and in doing so, to live more deeply.

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October 20, 2025

On this episode, Adam Shoaff gives us a historical and musical overview of Cantata 90, and we speak with guest conductor Christopher Holman about his upcoming appearance leading the Bach Ensemble.

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On this episode, we chat with Oct. 24 concert artists Evin Blomberg and Ilya Finkelsteyn. We discuss historic vs. modern performances of Baroque music, Bach’s ability to write for string instruments, and what kind of golfer Bach might have been.

On this solo podcast, Bach Ensemble Artistic Director Carlton Monroe previews the upcoming BEST Fall Fest, a three-day weekend of music events in October 2025.

Note: The following reflection was delivered at a service of Vespers on September 7, 2025, at St. Thomas Episcopal Church, Terrace Park, Ohio, with the Bach Ensemble at St. Thomas. The featured cantata was J. S. Bach’s BWV 29, Wir danken dir, Gott, wir danken dir (We thank you, God, we thank you).

Vespers, as it comes to us from the Divine Office, is not so much an isolated service as a link in an endless chain. Imagine a great rope of prayer stretching across centuries, each knot tied to the one before, each one leading on to the next. In such a vision, no single evening stands out—it is the constancy itself that matters.

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Our own custom of Bach Vespers is different. We do not meet every day; we fall silent in summer; we return, fresh, each autumn. Tonight, therefore, carries the character of a beginning. We feel that slight thrill of return—the lamps lit again, the music awakened, the prayers rising once more.

To greet this new season, we take up a cantata unlike the rest. Bach did not compose BWV 29 for Christmas or Easter, but for the swearing-in of Leipzig’s Town Council. And yet, in his hands, even a civic ceremony is transfigured. What he gave them was not a mere flourish of trumpets and timpani (though there are plenty of those!), but a work of praise, of gratitude, of blessing. One can hardly imagine a more fitting sound for our own beginning tonight.

Consider the three notes that resound in this music: celebration, humility, blessing. The first is obvious enough—there is grandeur here, the kind of music that makes one sit up straighter and breathe more deeply. But celebration on its own easily becomes vanity, a peacock display. It needs humility: the acknowledgment that what is good and beautiful is never of our making alone. And humility, too, would falter if it did not lead to blessing—a request that what we now enjoy might be granted again, and even enlarged, in the time to come. These three belong together, like harmony in three parts. Remove one, and the song collapses.

So, we celebrate this evening—not only Bach’s notes on the page, but the fact that they are made alive in this place, by these voices and instruments, before your listening ears. We confess our humility as well, for no one of us could accomplish such a thing. It is the joined labor of many, and something more: the breath of the divine that animates mere sound into music. And we receive blessing—the sense that in gathering, singing, and hearing, we are touched by something larger than ourselves.

If you think of it this way, you see that tonight is not just a beginning. Despite the months that have passed since our last gathering, this Vespers remains another link in the chain of human expression and divine presence. And if for a moment we glimpse that larger pattern, then we have more than a performance, and more than a prayer: we have a hint of what it means to be truly human, and to join our small voices to the greater song.

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Southeast Ohio in the early fall is a fairy tale, or more bluntly, a lie about being midwestern. It is not. Most years, the Cincinnati summer lingers late into September. This month is not usually the place of crispy falling leaves, sweaters, and hot cocoa. But this year, for some reason, a cooler air has settled in the Ohio River Valley, much to the delight of its inhabitants. It has seemingly made people happier, or at least more polite. At convenience stores, we smile and talk about the weather, noting how wonderful it is.

The lower temperatures have triggered some sort of deep impulse in me, an ancient urge to ensure we have wood to burn. We have a small fireplace in the living room, and a radically underused fire pit on our stone patio. I am determined to use both more frequently this year. This will be possible, in part, because my wife and I presume to have more time on our hands this fall and winter. There will be no evenings on fields or in gyms around southeast Ohio, as it has been for the past four years.

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Our children (twins) have moved away. They are off and running on their next, and best yet, adventure: college. Here on Locust Run Road, they have left a wake of quietness and uncertainty. What just happened here? Where did those eighteen years go? What will fill that time? More books, more cooking, more exercise—who knows?

Let’s start with fire. Warmth and light in the darkness, the deep quiet blackness of winter. I don’t love that time of year. But in the same spirit of there-can-be-no-virtue-if-you-do-not-know-sin, I will put on a brave face and make a fire.

There are enough trees that fall on our five acres every year that could likely support the minimal amount of firewood we need. But my list of excuses runs long: axe is dull, chainsaw isn’t working, no time, etc. It would be good for me. Making firewood warms you multiple times. Felling a tree, splitting the logs, stacking the wood, and then the fire. That’s four sessions of warmth provided by your efforts.

But for today, the closest I can come is buying bulk firewood from a local landscaping company. I do have a (sort of) truck, so that’s something. At least I’m not asking to have it delivered. I loaded the bed this morning, and after weighing it came to a whopping $35, about half of what the industrious young man up the road has posted near his house front stacks for sale.

After driving home, I stood in the truck bed and threw the logs up the stairs by the garage, next to the metal rack where they will be stored. After emptying the bed, I climbed up and stacked the logs. The rack is small, just a half-cord, and it didn’t take long. I worked up a small sweat.

It felt good. The air, as I mentioned, was cool. The sound of the logs landing on one another had a wooden plink, a rugged marimba of random tones, an autumn percussion. Some of the logs had stringy strands of wood and bark that dangled down, and I could see how quickly they would light and burn. The fire isn’t far away.

I thought about sending a picture of the stack to my kids. They would remember the fires we had together, I thought. The marshmallows are never as good as you want them to be. The sparks and smoke are lifting into the night sky. Or the evenings inside, with the hearth glowing, music playing. We could remember all those times.

I didn’t send a picture. When I finished, I covered the stack with the blue tarp, the one with small patches where mice had chewed through, and darkened with the old sludge of dirt and rain. It folded nicely, and I laid two logs on the top to hold it in place. It made me smile to see this project complete. The stack meant something to me. It meant that winter was coming, and that I was ready. I am not certain that I am ready for whatever else the months ahead bring, but I can make a fire.

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September 1, 2025

Welcome to the BachTalk Podcast! In this first episode, host Carlton Monroe chats with Bach Ensemble Resident Scholar Adam Shoaff about Cantata 29, the first work featured in the 2025-2026 season of Vespers services. Look for more episodes in the coming weeks!

Links:

BWV 29, performed by the Netherlands Bach Society

BWV 29, on the Bach Cantatas Website

Annotated Translation from Michael Marissen & Daniel R. Melamed

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It is too cold for May. My body longs for warmth, blue skies, and the sense of my skin on the edge of sweat. Much of what I love is most enjoyed in warmer weather: an hour on the driving range, the stretch of an achy swing, and watching the arc of a ball against wind and sky, seeking its fall among the green grass, bright and fresh with spring growth. Or the flap of sail in the breeze, removed with a line pulled tautly, and the lapping of water against the fiberglass, watching the lake move past the side with the sun glimmering on the surface. Or maybe something as simple as an evening walk, with the contented panting of my dogs pulling me through the night air as we search for the next most interesting thing. I am eager to light the grill, to cook while savoring the spring silence of the yard, which is no silence at all. It is a lull punctuated by the chirps, swishes, and cracks of nature as critters scurry about their business and the deep and tall timber creak with the push and pull of the wind. 

The sun settles under the tree line, which daily becomes more obscure with the growth of leaves. Soon the summer shadows will creep across the yard, while the beer in my hand, wet and cool, grows lighter by the minute. The sizzle and pop of dinner behind me, and the sounds of family emerging from the porch door, which is now open all evening.