The musical family is by no means an unfamiliar phenomenon, and nearly everyone must be acquainted with at least one household in which practically every member delights not only in listening to music but also in singing or playing musical instruments. Even with the weakening of family ties and the proliferation of ready-made forms of home entertainment in western society today, it is still possible for many a paterfamilias to echo the words that J. S. Bach wrote in 1730 in a famous letter to his former schoolmate Georg Erdmann:

Moreover, musical talent of an unusual kind has manifested itself in modern times in families such as the Menuhins and the Torteliers. One could discuss at length the relative importance of heredity and environment in the formation of musical families at whatever level of attainment, but it seems quite clear that the role played by environment is more important in fostering a talent for music than it is in influencing other forms of artistic and intellectual endeavour. By its nature, musical activity impinges on everyone within earshot (and, some would say, even on the child in the womb) and therefore invites at least some degree of communal engagement. Literature, painting and mathematics (to mention three branches of cultural activity closely connected to music) are, on the other hand, solitary pursuits, and - the Brontes, the Breughels and the Bernoullis notwithstanding - the musical family is a phenomenon rarely paralleled in the other arts.

The second half of the eighteenth century: ‘adoption’ – ‘classical’ rephrasing – Mozart's image of Bach

The historical location of Bach in the music of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and the accompanying radical changes are determined by his position in the second half of the eighteenth century. The caesura ‘1750’ could indicate a break in the influence of Bach's music, or the beginning of a tradition where it and his understanding of it are transmitted to his sons, students and future generations in a linear, undisturbed fashion, or, conversely, the beginning of the process of reinterpretation that is more familiar after the turn of the nineteenth century. Each of these three positions has consequences for the writing of music history in the second half of the eighteenth century and for the development of a ‘Romantic Bach interpretation’ in the early nineteenth century. In the first case, the phase 1750–1800 can be portrayed without Bach, which, given the minor influence of Bach's music on the general public, would be correct. In the second case, the preservation of the Bach tradition, there is the danger that the ‘shift’ of the divergent horizons of expectation, in Blumenberg's sense, would be exaggerated and the historical portrayal would be focused too much on the monument ‘Bach’. The third position has the advantage of differentiating between the ideas of breaking with the past and continuity and sees the process of reinterpretation during the eighteenth century as the decisive precondition for the means whereby Bach's music, once functional and rhetorical, now becomes autonomous.

To raise objections about the very topic one has been asked to write about is surely unusual; perhaps it would be better not to address the topic at all. But that would be far too simple a solution. It makes more sense to formulate the discontent, not as a disclaimer soon to be forgotten, but rather as a critical undercurrent that will run throughout both this chapter and the next.

Three fundamental objections can be raised against the assigned topic. First, much of the material is ubiquitous, given that there is hardly a composer of the nineteenth or twentieth century who has not occupied himself with Bach, whether it be by choice or requirement. Perhaps it would therefore be more feasible to investigate those who have given Bach a wide berth. Delimiting the material in this manner would serve as a corrective to the unattainable goal of comprehensively listing and critically interpreting all forms of Bach reception. Secondly, there is the danger of mythologising Bach by producing yet another historiographically out-moded description of great heroes, a monocausal, linear music history delineated by monuments, Bach – Beethoven – Brahms – Schoenberg – Boulez. Thirdly, there is the historical and ontological difference between Bach's horizon of expectation and that of the present day; the ubiquity of Bach's music and the mythologising of Bach today contradict the situation in his own time.

Some understanding of the theological content and the liturgical practices of Lutheranism is essential for the historical appreciation of Bach's music. Bach's theological thinking was formed by the distinctively Lutheran responses to the Reformation debate of the sixteenth century, and he composed a great deal of his music for the Lutheran liturgies of his day. For example, the church cantatas usually relate in some way to the biblical readings, liturgical provisions, congregational hymnody, and ecclesiastical monody of the particular day, season or celebration. This chapter therefore outlines some of the distinctive features of the Lutheran Reformation in general, and Luther's musical and liturgical reforms in particular, as they relate both to later Lutheranism and to Bach's life and works.

The Reformation

Although it is customary to employ the term ‘Reformation’ as the ecclesiastical analogue of the ‘Renaissance’ of sixteenth-century Europe, it might be more accurate to speak of the ‘Reformations’ of the period. Although there were certainly a number of common concerns – such as the authority of the Bible in contradistinction to the authority of the church of Rome, or the concept of the general priesthood of all believers set against the particular priesthood of Catholicism – the Reformation in each European area developed its own characteristics, both theological and practical. Thus the Reformation in Switzerland, centred on such cities as Geneva, Basle and Zurich, was strongly influenced by the theology of such Reformers as Zwingli, Calvin and Bullinger.

The repertory

The Bach literature shows no unified approach to the categorisation of the instrumental music: while some writers describe the entire repertory as ‘chamber music’, others speak of ‘chamber and orchestral music’. The reason for this uncertainty lies in the historical change in the meaning of the terms ‘chamber music’ and ‘orchestra’. For Bach's contemporaries, the term ‘chamber music’ covered all types of music written for the court and for domestic consumption, but excluded music intended for the church and theatre. In his letter releasing Bach from his service in 1723, the composer's employer in Köthen could write, therefore, that Bach had served him as ‘Kapellmeister and director of our chamber music’. According to our contemporary understanding of the term, it is now restricted to ‘music written for and performed by a small ensemble, usually instrumental, with one performer on a part’.

The word ‘orchestra’ was occasionally used in Bach's day to refer to a relatively large body of players, or so it would appear to be used by Silvius Leopold Weiss in a letter to Johann Mattheson of 1723: ‘But to accompany on the lute in the orchestra, that would of course be too weak.’ In general, however, it may be said that neither Bach nor his contemporaries drew a distinction in principie between an ‘orchestra’ and an ensemble that performed ‘chamber music’.

Johann Sebastian Bach's activities as a teacher appear to have been both widespread and respected. Nevertheless, the substantial body of evidence concerning his teaching and methods is far from complete or authoritative. Furthermore, the circumstances of each individual pupil and Bach's own changing whim apparently led to a variability of approach. As in other areas of his activity, such inconsistency was probably also the result of the composer's continuing quest for improvement and his almost compulsive thirst for new challenges. Bach seems to have been a highly creative teacher, surprisingly so for his historical environment.

There are various ways in which we can identify Bach's pupils:

1. Recorded or preserved written evidence from Bach himself (say in a written testimonial) refers to personal instruction. It may also refer to collaboration in performance under his supervision (which is a rather different matter).

2. Written or reported evidence from an individual pupil may refer to study with Bach, sometimes with further comment concerning when and how the learning process was effected.

3. Sometimes music manuscripts compiled in collaboration with pupils demonstrate an educational purpose; but one needs to be careful here, since there may be many reasons why Bach required copying assistance without any specifically didactic intention.

4. Written reports by third parties, stating that others have been, are, or hope to become students of Bach.

5. The records of choir schools (the register of Thomasschule alumni, published by B. F. Richter in the BJb 1906 and subsequently destroyed, is useful, but it does not cover the Externer (day-pupils), including Bach's own sons).

At every period of his creative life Bach may be found altering, arranging and continuing to develop his own and other composers' works. For the young Bach, arranging other composers' works was a means of analysing and coming to terms with the various musical traditions that he was attempting to assimilate. Parody – the practice of re-using his own vocal works and providing them with new words in new contexts – became increasingly important to him during the Leipzig years 1723–50. His leadership of the local Collegium musicum from 1729 also resulted in a series of harpsichord arrangements of older concertos originally scored for solo melody instruments. And among the activities of his final decade, the compilation, completion and editing of earlier works occupies a not inconsiderable space: it is to this tendency that we owe collections such as the ‘18’, the ‘Schübler’ Chorales and the second book of The Well-tempered Clavier. Even more far-reaching revisions may be found in two instrumental works that were redrafted during the 1740s, namely, the Canonic Variations and The Art of Fugue. In consequence, both these works survive in characteristically different versions. Nor should we forget in this context Bach's completion, towards the end of his life, of his Mass in B Minor (a completion substantially based on the use of parody) and, perhaps most surprisingly of all, his recourse to the work of a younger contemporary in the form of Giovanni Battista Pergolesi's Stabat mater, which he rewrote as a vocal composition with new words, Tilge, Höchster, meine Sünden BWV 1083/243a.

Studies of theology, religious symbolism, allegory and rhetoric tell us much about the historical context and function of Bach's music, but alone they do not adequately reveal how Bach conceived of his music. In other words, the purely theological viewpoint often illuminates the message of Bach's music without giving any explanation of his conception of the medium. It is the very basis of my approach here to contend that there may indeed be contradictions between the historical religious context and, specifically, the metaphysical basis of his creative work. Throughout, I negotiate a delicate and speculative tightrope: on the one hand in conjecturing about Bach's own view of the task of composition (and performance) from a sparse array of verbal documents, and on the other in surmising what his music and certain tendencies in his compositional output may tell us.

While I offer a general study of some of the conceptions of music and its relation to religion in Bach's age, I give particular attention to one particular hypothesis: that Bach saw the very substance of music as constituting a religious reality, that the more perfectly the task of composition (and, indeed, performance) is realised, the more God is immanent in music. Traditionally, something of this conception has been inferred from the intertwining of the sacred and secular in Orthodox Lutheran thought, and indeed in Luther's own attitude towards music as a vital aspect of the Christian life (see Chapter 3). Furthermore, the Pythagorean tradition of viewing music as the sounding evidence of God's creation was still evident in the writings of music theorists who embraced natural theology.

Many superlatives have been lavished on Bach's mature vocal works, such as Georg Nägeli's acclamation of the B minor Mass as one of the ‘greatest musical works of art of all times and of all peoples’, or Mendelssohn's veneration of the Matthew Passion as ‘the greatest of Christian works’. But such evaluations have usually been based on the concept that these incomparable works of Bach are self-standing musical monuments. Following Mendelssohn's revival of the Matthew Passion in 1829, Bach's cantatas, oratorios, passions, Magnificat and the B minor Mass have generally been performed as autonomous works in a concert setting. But this later usage was not what the composer envisaged. What Robert Marshall writes with regard to the cantatas applies equally to most of Bach's other vocal works: ‘such compositions were not intended primarily for the “delectation” of a concert public, but rather for the “edification” of a church congregation … Bach's cantatas, in fact, were conceived and should be regarded not as concert pieces at all but as musical sermons; and they were incorporated as such in the regular Sunday church services.’ This chapter therefore discusses these works against the background of the liturgical imperatives that brought them into being.

Liturgy and music in Leipzig

The specific liturgical practices of Leipzig provide the immediate context for the creation of Bach's mature vocal works. Liturgical usage in Leipzig during the eighteenth century was somewhat conservative. Compared with other areas of Germany, where traditional Lutheran liturgical forms, based on Luther's two liturgies, were already beginning to be eroded, Leipzig retained a highly developed and rich liturgical and musical tradition.

Johann Sebastian Bach's earliest compositions have long occupied an ambiguous position within his oeuvre. On the one hand, many musicians and scholars have compared them unfavourably with the masterpieces of his later years. As early as 1802 Johann Nicolaus Forkel wrote that, despite ‘undeniable evidences of a distinguished genius’, at the same time Bach's early works contain ‘so much that is useless, so much that is one-sided, extravagant, and tasteless that they are not worth preserving (at least, for the public in general)'. Nearly 200 years later, Malcolm Boyd has stated his opinion that ‘few, if any, of the works [Bach] wrote before leaving Mühlhausen at the age of twenty-three would be remembered to-day if they had been composed by anyone else’. On the other hand, even if Bach's earliest efforts do sometimes disappoint, they nonetheless possess a certain inherent interest because of what he subsequently accomplished, and they have therefore spawned a large body of research. As Peter Williams has eloquently put it, ‘the stages by which the world's most gifted step beyond the confines of local art must always be of great interest and importance’.

The early works have not yielded their secrets willingly, however. On the contrary, although several discoveries have greatly increased what is known about them, many fundamental questions remain unresolved. For this reason, the present chapter must be regarded as a report of an on-going discussion. There has not even been general agreement about what constitutes Bach's ‘early’ period. Although Alfred Dürr included the Weimar works (1714-16) in his monograph on Bach's 'early' cantatas, Christoph Wolff subsequently advocated limiting this classification to the instrumental and vocal works composed up to c. 1708, when Bach began his tenure as court organist in Weimar and simultaneously' left behind the truly formative stages [of composition] and established his own stylistic personality'.

The context and aims of the project

Twenty years ago it would have been relatively easy to predict the contents of a Cambridge companion to Bach: a basic introduction to the composer's life and works, fundamental information to enhance analysis and appreciation, perhaps also a summary of recent research and performance. While the present volume hardly represents a radical departure from this brief, the situation is now considerably more complex than it was in the 1970s. First, with the publication of the New Grove dictionary of music and musicians and several important monographs on the life and works of J. S. Bach, there is already a sizeable and reliable literature for readers of every level. Secondly, there is the mushrooming of published material throughout all fields of music scholarship: now it is virtually impossible to do justice to every slant, every area of study, even to every field of Bach's compositional output. Finally, there are the interesting issues concerning musicology that have come to the fore during the last decade or so: what actually is music scholarship? what are its aims? how much should we be catering for ‘music appreciation’? what is the significance today of a ‘great’ composer?

Bach studies have, in fact, set the tone for much music scholarship during the last thirty years. With the spectacular revisions to the chronology of Bach's cantatas in the late 1950s by Alfred Dürr and Georg von Dadelsen, overthrowing many fundamental assumptions about Bach's creative life and ever-increasing piety, the next two decades were dominated by a style of research that valued certifiable fact above critical judgement or informed opinion. Much has changed during the last decade or so: 'positivism' - as the activity of fact-gathering has, somewhat grandly, been named - has often been branded the occupation only of the dull and bibliographically-minded, while 'criticism' and - most importantly- interdisciplinary work are, to some, the direction for the elect.

This essay places Johann Sebastian Bach within the context of the domestic policy of his time. That is unquestionably an unusual viewpoint, since Bach is known as ‘Germany's greatest church composer’, the embodiment of the Lutheran cantor. Nonetheless, we must become accustomed to seeing this man in a political function, because Bach lived in a time of fundamental domestic conflict. Everyone who held a public office had to take a position in this conflict. I have concentrated on the Electorate of Saxony and the city of Leipzig, because Bach reached his ultimate and lasting professional position there; he worked for twenty-seven years, 1723–50, as cantor of the Thomasschule and music director of the city.

Absolutism in the Electorate of Saxony

The fundamental domestic conflict of the era was that between the ruler, who strove for absolute unlimited power, and the Estates, who limited this power. The Estates system or absolutism? – this was the question which even Bach had to face. In the Electorate of Saxony, the Estates essentially comprised two bodies, the nobility and the cities, with spiritual foundations and universities playing a minor role. The Landschaft, the parliament of the Estates, had an extraordinarily complex protocol, proceedings between the various groups usually being conducted in writing. Responsibility for secretarial duties was assumed by the body of cities, with Leipzig presiding over its select committee. The deputies from Leipzig drafted the papers and therefore had a key role in the politics of the Estates.

In the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna hangs one of the most arresting of sixteenth-century paintings, Pieter Bruegel's The Tower of Babel. It is the kind of work which repays diligent attention; not least because many of the pivotal aspects of the complex interaction between Christianity and the arts will be brought to the surface. To begin with the obvious, the painting reminds us that for large tracts of the church's history there has been a close intertwining of Christian faith and artistic practice. There have of course been times when the church's stance towards the arts has been marked by uncertainty and suspicion, but more often than not the arts have played a crucial role in her life and mission. More specifically, Christian doctrine has profoundly affected the form, content and development of the arts. (Despite the disdain in some quarters for treating the artist's circumstances as aesthetically significant, it would be hard to interpret Bruegel's output without any reference to the doctrinal traditions he espoused.) And this has worked in the opposite direction also: the arts have frequently had a decisive impact on the shape of Christian belief. In Bruegel's age, many received their doctrinal tutoring chiefly through one or more of the arts.

PROBLEMATISING THE RELATION BETWEEN DOCTRINE AND ETHICS

Any account of the relation between Christian doctrine and ethics must take account of this passage from Karl Barth. By 'take account' I mean at the very least we need to understand Barth's claim that the general conception of ethics coincides with the conception of sin.

The century now drawing to a close has seen a searching reconsideration by Christians of their relationship to the Jewish people. In part this new perception has stemmed from momentous historical events: the Holocaust, in which Christians have had to recognise their own complicity, and the return of the Jewish people, after two millennia, to the land God gave to Abraham. These events have forever altered the intellectual and social conditions under which Christian theology is practised. But Christian theologians have also found themselves prompted to re-evaluate traditional Christian assumptions about the Jews by reflection on some of their own community's most basic and central convictions. This too promises to have a far-reaching effect, the full extent of which is still not wholly clear, on what Christian theologians say about God and all God's works.

THE DOCTRINE OF CREATION

All cultures, ancient and modern alike, seek for a way of accounting for the universe that will give their lives coherence and meaning. Creation theology, in the broadest sense of an enquiry into the divinity or divinities that shape or make our world, is a universal human concern, however different the forms that it can take. But among all the theologies, myths and theories, Christian theology is distinctive in the form and content of its teaching. It is credal in form, and this shows that the doctrine of creation is not something self-evident or the discovery of disinterested reason, but part of the fabric of the Christian response to revelation. 'I believe in God the Father, maker of Heaven and Earth.' Here the word 'maker' is understood in a particular sense. As it stands, it is ambiguous. It may refer to one who is like a human maker, a potter for example, who makes an object out of a material that is already to hand. But Christian theology has rejected that sense as inadequate. The unique contribution to thought made by Christian theologians of creation lies in their development of a view that God creates 'out of nothing'. This became possible by virtue of the trinitarian form of the doctrine. When in the late second century Irenaeus taught that God the Father created by means of his 'two hands', the Son and the Spirit, he was able to complete one stage in a process of intellectual development during which the implications of the Christian form of creation belief were drawn out.