"Dwelling place" comment ―

―​from Nathaniel Fryml, conductor of Amarillo Master Chorale, as written in the concert program, November 14, 2025, in St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, Amarillo, Texas.

What a joy it is to be back in this elevating sacred space making beautiful music together. Our program this evening has been carefully selected not only to highlight the glorious acoustic of the nave of St. Andrew's, but also to evoke the feeling of a journey towards a safe place―perhaps a journey home.
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The idea to organize a program around the poetry contained in Griner and Gawthorp's "Sing Me to Heaven" came rather unexpectedly. I had been puzzling for weeks over what direction to take this fall concert, a long-anticipated traditional choral event after a few years devoted almost entirely to masterworks and wonderful collaborations. I was writing a poem about an exhausted bird who collapses on a (seemingly) barren patch of hard earth, thinking perhaps I could build a program around this metaphor. But as I wrote, I discovered the poem was really for someone I dearly love who is sgruggling through a very difficult season in their life. 

I then started to reflect on the "other" implied in so many one-sided conversations we are privy to in music and throughout the arts, but especially in poetry. I began to reevaluate my long list of dream pieces for performance venues like St. Andrew's Episcopal with this in mind, and a common theme begn to emerge. And though this concert would indeed be infused with poetry, the central image would not be that of a fallen bird, but of a lamb―a lamb looking up at its shepherd, with questions in its heart but no words with which to articulate them. 

"If you would comfort me, sing me a lullaby..." From the infant's first awestruck, gasping breaths in the arms of a protector and provider, to the wizened yet labored sighs of one who has lived and seen much, we draw in and pour out comfort in a myriad of different ways. Words of affirmation, knowing glances, careful touch, warmth of physical presence, random acts of kindness, great acts of self-sacrifice, or even the humming of a simple tune―we feel instinctively we cannot bear to be alone, and we sense something inside of us that longs to move toward the "other," despite the fear of the unknown. Why do we reach out for love? Why do we feel welling up inside of us a love that has to be given away lest it overwhelm us or, worse, grow stale? Because at some point along our journey, there was an Other who first reached out to us in love. 

As in life, certain portions of our journey this evening will be colored by a tinge of loneliness. Other moments may invite painful reflection on deep loss we have experienced or that we dread may be waiting right around the corner. But then light starts pouring through broken clouds, or a fragrance of delightful memory is wafted on a breeze, or the hand of a friend rests lightly on one's arm, and suddenly the path forward becomes clear enough to take one more step. My deep hope is that, as we share the gift of music tonight, you will find the comfort and courage you need to take the next step towards your dwelling place.

Thank you for reading.
Happy Thanksgiving!

In Christian love,