The roots of the Taizé community, in the Burgundy region of France, began in 1940, when a young monk, Brother Roger, from the Protestant Reformed tradition, left his home in Switzerland. He settled in the village of Taizé, near the demarcation line that split France into unoccupied and Nazi territory. Roger had suffered from tuberculosis for a long time, and during a long healing process he had become convinced that he was called to bring people together into community. He also saw that his new location near that border would be ideal for sheltering refugees, including Jews, who were fleeing the war — similar work to what his grandmother had done during WWI. Helped by his sister, he did this work quietly until 1942, when they were forced to flee to Geneva. They returned to Taizé in 1944, and Brother Roger was eventually joined by seven other young men with whom he formed the original Taizé Community, committed to a life of celibacy and simplicity. Roger’s vision was one of ecumenism and reconciliation, and the community has continued to live that out. He was killed during a service at age 90 by a mentally-ill woman, and his funeral was attended by 10,000 people and presided over by leaders of many religious traditions.

Today the Taizé Community includes eighty brothers from different traditions — Catholic, Anglican and Protestant — and thirty countries. Most live there, in France, but some live in temporary missions in various countries. Most notably, they welcome over one hundred thousand visitors every year, a majority of whom are young people, from all traditions and none, who come in search of peace and spiritual sustenance, and to participate in the unique mixture of silence, prayer, and contemplative chanting that has become known, worldwide, simply as “Taizé.”
A typical chant from the official Taize songbook - words are given in many languages, which was part of Brother Roger’s ecumenical vision.
Here in Montreal, our cathedral Dean, who was originally from France and then from England, has a particular affinity for this type of worship. As we gradually returned to church after the pandemic, he encouraged the start of a weekly Taizé service, on Wednesdays at the close of the workday. I’ve always been attracted to this kind of simplicity and quiet, which reminds me of the Zen meditation that was transformative for me in my 30s and 40s, but with the addition of music. When I attended (sporadically I must admit) the services in previous years, I loved the combination of a quiet piano and a cello that accompanied our singing of simple chants. The cellist, unfortunately for us, has moved to Toronto.
Around the same time, I took up my flute again after, essentially, a 50-year hiatus. In the absence of our cellist, the Dean asked if any instrumentalists would like to play for the Taizé services. I hesitated for a long time, and then showed up one week, my flute case clutched nervously in one hand. My first attempt was pretty rocky, and convinced me that it was time to get serious about my playing and buy a better instrument. We had just sold my father’s house and, considering my dad’s love of music and support of my own musical life from a very early age, I thought an appropriate use of some of that money would be to buy a good flute. I did, and immediately it made a big difference. I practiced hard for some months and then tried again. It went much better, and the other Taizé participants encouraged me to keep on. I was helped the most by one of the two regular pianists, Mouse, and soon I asked if they would like to work on some sonatas with me. I practice at home every day, and haven’t found that onerous at all — I’ve always liked practicing. Mouse and I developed a routine of meeting on Wednesday afternoons at the cathedral, a couple of hours before the services, working first on Handel, Vivaldi and Bach flute sonatas, and more recently branching out to some Fauré and César Franck.
At first I was very nervous about playing in front of other people, especially after such a long time away from the instrument. Practicing in the cathedral and playing for the small Taizé group has been an ideal re-entry; the group is very kind and supportive, but at the same time, strangers are always coming into the cathedral off the street — some are tourists, some are homeless, some are local people seeking a few moments of quiet, others are parishioners who happen to be downtown. I was surprised when people began to sit down and listen to us, and some would nod or say thank you when they left. The flute, too, sounds especially wonderful in that resonant, acoustically-supportive space, so I was getting a lot of helpful sonic feedback.
Yesterday we took our first leap into a much more public performance. The cathedral’s organist and interim music director was away on vacation, so the Dean had asked if we would play for two Taizé Eucharists, one for the francophone congregation at 9:00 am, and one for the bilingual service at 10:30, where the Dean of the Toronto Anglican cathedral would be the guest preacher. These services would introduce the larger congregation to this style of worship and give them, perhaps, a welcome space of peacefulness and simplicity in the midst of all the world’s troubles. Everyone could participate in the chants. Mouse planned the music, and we were joined by Lukas, who acted as cantor, leading all the sung portions of the service. Mouse and I played instrumental preludes and postludes.
I was quite worried that I would be nervous, because I used to suffer from pretty bad stage fright when performing solo on flute or piano or voice. But I guess all these years of performing with the choir, sometimes in fairly high-stress situations, has taught me something — and I’m also just older and more able to manage myself. I felt very supported by my two colleagues, and reminded myself that I was there to give the best of myself, that I was well prepared, and to just trust in the moment and in the music. In any case, it went well. There were a few inevitable bobbles through the course of the morning, but nothing particularly obvious or serious. It was also a very hot day — 91 degrees — and the air conditioning was not working, so my hands kept getting sweaty; I’d had the foresight to bring both a cloth and a water bottle. But for a first attempt like this, I was happy, and delighted to be able to perform with the two excellent musicians who formed our little group. Afterward, a number of friends who didn’t even know I played came up, with surprised faces, to say thanks, and others said how much they had appreciated the meditative quality of the music. What I had hoped for was to help create an open, quiet ambience of solace and reflection, and I think we were able to do this. The music is simple and transparent, with beautiful melodies — but sometimes simplicity is the hardest thing to convey.
There is such a deep pleasure in being able to give music to others — I missed that so much during the pandemic when I was no longer able to sing. Mouse and I will be playing again in September at the annual Journées de la Culture, a citywide event where institutions open their doors to the public, and offer programs that showcase their strengths. That will probably be a short program of Handel and Fauré. And I’ll continue to play for the weekly Taizé services, which give me more than I give — I love that quiet, contemplative hour in the middle of the week, and it really helps me.
Lying in bed early this morning, I was thinking how life keeps giving us surprises, if we’re open to them. Returning with real intention to this instrument is not something I would have predicted. Yet it’s been one of the most satisfying musical things I’ve done, in a long lifetime filled with music as a serious avocation, and I plan to keep at it as long as I can.