I’m a glutton for Handel’s music, but I often compare him to Bach. I’m torn because I adore them both. Bach’s music is cerebral, profound, and contemplative. Handel’s music is grandiose, opulent, and has more of an overt flair. Bach was considered passé, he died in relative obscurity, and he didn’t have hordes of adoring fans. Handel, however, had 3,000 mourners at his state funeral which was held at Westminster Abbey. He enjoyed notable wealth and fame in his lifetime.

In 1726, Georg Friedrich Händel was given British citizenship by King George the I who named him “Composer of Musick for the Chapel Royal.” From that moment on, he called himself George Frideric Handel. When King George I died, one of Handel’s first tasks was to compose music for the coronation of his successor, King George II. That event took place in Westminster Abbey on October 11, 1727, for which Handel wrote four of the most glorious choral masterworks of the Baroque period. Today you’re hearing two movements of Coronation Anthem No. 4.

Handel originally migrated to England in 1710 because of his growing fame as a composer of Italian opera. But by 1728, the English became tired of opera, and had developed more of an appetite for the oratorio (a multimovement, religious work for chorus, orchestra, and soloists to be performed in church, not on stage). Handel enjoyed a long career, becoming England’s most famous German composer. His prominence as a composer of oratorio culminated with Messiah, his magnum opus, which premiered in Dublinin 1741.

When I listen to Handel’s music, I’m swept away by its egoic splendor and majesty. The imperial image of God as supreme potentate appeals to part of me. But then, my conscience bothers me about being so self-absorbed in my own conquering hero image. When I listen to Bach, however, I hear how he plunged into the recesses of his soul, reaching levels of humility and compositional superiority that seemed unmatched by those who followed him. But then, I’m bothered if I become too reclusive, and then I feel I need to “get out more.”

What’s curious about the word bother is that at its root is the word BOTH. The plight of the human condition – on one side of the mask, you smile and on the other, you frown. But the two don’t know each other. This flip-flop is bothersome. I can’t be angry and loving at the same time. I can’t be here and there at the same time. Physically, I can be here and now. Conceptually, I can be there and later. Which one should I be? Perhaps I’ll be where I am, here and now. “Later and there” are the imposters, and they bother me if I let them have a place in my mind.

If I chose to take Johann’s music with me on a desert island, I’d be bothered if I left George behind. If I try to renounce my ego, I’d be bothered about not enjoying my earthly goodies. Likewise, if I try to deny my spirit, I’d be bothered for not deepening my awe and wonder. All this “both” business is exhaustively bothersome. Rather than being Bach-like or Handel-like, I’d prefer to be myself and focus on one thing at a time. That’s all I can do. When I hear Handel, I’ll bask behind that mask. When I hear Bach, I’ll bask behind thatmask. Why bother? Being torn just seems to make a whole lot of trouble, so I’m going to pull it together, enjoy one at time, and stay in one “peace.” Soli Deo Gloria!