I recently asked a group of young musicians to point to the part of their body which contains the soul. Quite a few pointed to their torso, some to their head and others didn’t point at all, either because they didn’t know, or because they didn’t believe they had one. This is an interesting and revealing exercise for you to do now, as you read this column. Do you believe you have a soul – and, if so, where does it reside?

Until the middle of the 18th century, such a question would have met with a fairly unanimous response. Christianity lived quite comfortably alongside science and philosophy, and there was a general acceptance that human beings were equipped with two creative engines – the mind and the soul. The great paintings, sculptures and music of the Renaissance are testament to this powerful juxtaposition of the cerebral and the spiritual, and it is worth remembering that, in addition to his peerless mastery of the mathematics of counterpoint, Bach maintained that ‘all music should have no other end and aim than the glory of God and the soul’s refreshment.’

The Enlightenment, however, initiated a dramatic shift in how the Christian soul was perceived. Through much of the 1730s and 1740s, Voltaire studied the Bible and biblical commentaries in preparation for his scathing attack on the Church. Such risible theological questions as ‘how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?’ provided him with the perfect ammunition to argue that the Christian Church had lost its authority and relevance in contemporary society. Burgeoning scientific discovery further enabled him and others to undermine Christian teaching by replacing ancient ‘myths’ with much more rational explanations for the existence of humanity and the challenges it faced. As a result, the mind, with its superlative ability to reason, came to dominate the neglected and much maligned soul. The introduction to a series of philosophical essays published in 2001 put it this way: ‘somehow we misplaced the soul even as we developed a thriving science of the psyche.’

The effects of this realignment were difficult to recognise at first although Mozart could clearly discern a dark force at work. In a letter to his father in July 1778, he exclaimed, ‘the ungodly arch-villain Voltaire has died miserably like a dog – just like a brute. That is his reward!’ For Voltaire’s atheistic propaganda had struck a positively distasteful chord with the devoutly Catholic Mozart whose reaction to attacks on the Christian Church foreshadowed an increasingly bitter divide between philosophers and believers. In essence, the Age of Reason administered a slow-acting spiritual poison, and it is only now that the full effects on the church are becoming visible. Art in its many forms, on the other hand, showed clear symptoms of malaise well over a century ago.

In the field of choral music, we have only to consider works like Honegger’s heavily dissonant Le Roi David and Hindemith’s rather brutal setting of Apparebit repentina dies (both from the 1920s) to realise that early modernism desired innovation at all costs. The priority was no longer to nourish or satisfy the souls of an audience but to challenge their minds. In the concert halls and opera houses of the secular world this was one thing: in the sacred spaces of churches, abbeys and cathedrals it was another. As the 20th century progressed, thoroughly modernistic settings of the canticles appeared which challenged traditional warmth with emotional coolness, elusive tonality and frenetic rhythm. Congregations were ambivalent, and it is safe to say that such works have become overshadowed by those of a more lyrical nature, particularly the masterpieces of Herbert Howells, whose own agnosticism did not in any way inhibit music of great spiritual beauty.

In our own time, when new compositions are so plentiful, church musicians are increasingly challenged in terms of the repertoire they select. Practical considerations play a part, of course, as does personal taste, and yet the creative process of a piece of music may be questioned as well, in a way that it was not centuries ago. Which creative engine is at work – the soul or the mind? It is a vital consideration since, if the soul seems absent, then there is the risk that a congregation may be deprived of the very thing they are seeking. Hector Berlioz claimed that ‘to truly appreciate music, one must listen with both the mind and the heart.’ In our composing and performing, then, let us be sure to provide the soil in which such a multi-faceted musical experience may come to flower.

This feature originally appeared in the Summer 2025 issue of Choir & Organ – Subscribe today