Author’s Note on a Previous Post

[content warning: David Haas]

Each post on Liturgy and Life is a snapshot in time; I don’t tend to edit or update posts after the fact, except to fix the odd typo. I’m making an exception for this post, because it hasn’t aged well. I am grateful to those friends who took the time to help me understand how the phrase “cancel culture” hurts more than helps; I relied too heavily on it in this piece, and I apologize. One person’s wise words sum up well the problem with the phrase, in that it “purports to describe too many things to be useful as a category for deep reflection.” Conflating too many concepts in one phrase, they went on to say, risks dismissing behaviors or actions that are unacceptable, and those who bravely call them out. Soon after I wrote the piece, I tried to correct my error by adding the footnote that follows the piece, but alas, more of a clarification was needed. This note seeks to provide such clarification.

I continue to stand by what the original piece calls into question, namely: 

• wedding an artist too closely to their art (I am particularly opposed to this in most cases, as an artist and a sinner, and as someone whose artistic heroes were not always perfect)
• banning art for any reason (which also doesn’t age well)

Survivors of abuse, as you can see from the comments, had much to say in response to the original post. I posted a sampling of their comments, representing about half of those I received. I appreciate the contributions of all who shared their views. Of particular note was the repeated argument that music composed specifically to aid in grooming or abuse presents a compelling objection to the “death of the author” argument. I don’t believe it invalidates the wisdom of separating the artist from their work in most cases, but it is another layer of complexity to consider in an individual case. Thanks to all who weighed in on the original piece: Christina Logan, Frances Chavez, L, Survivor #23, James, Vicki, Laura Delgatto-Whitten, FC, KP, and A person in the pew… My gratitude and prayers go with you.

As a Church musician, I have made the choice to scrupulously avoid programming the music of David Haas going forward, and I encourage others to do the same. This choice will hardly alter my liturgical music schedule—I was never a fan. My choice is not in response to a diocesan ban; it’s a “won’t” rather than a “can’t”. I prefer it that way. “Can’t,” that is, not using his music because my diocese told me I may not, reminds me of stories I’ve heard about letters Black musicians received in the late 1950s from their dioceses, telling them they can’t have drumming or African music in Mass. It reminds me of bans against guitars, drums, Spirituals or folk music in Mass in dioceses like Milwaukee, Lafayette, LA, San Francisco and others in the late 1960s. Of course, these bans were for very different reasons, but banning art in general never seems to age well, for a variety of reasons, including its unintended tendency to fan reactionary desire for the thing being banned.

Local, effectively-trained pastoral musicians should rightly be the ones to, under guidance (not orders) from regional and local authorities, make pastoral decisions about what music we sing at Mass. I hope my colleagues in Church music make the same decision as I have about Haas’ music, but I can’t make them. Or at least, I shouldn’t. We should respect the pastoral musician’s freedom and competence to judge a particular piece in a particular place and time on its ability to help the particular people gathered enter more fully into the Paschal Mystery of Christ, not on anything else, including the merits or crimes of its composer. 

One final note. I won’t post about David Haas again. I know opting out of the conversation is the privilege of someone who was not one of his many victims, and I would never deter others from talking about whatever they need to. But for me, since I never found his music to be worthy anyway, I’d prefer to talk about less-understood, less-sung, more-talented composers, like Fr. Clarence Rivers and Leon Roberts, like Kenneth Louis and Wylie Howell. 

More importantly, I’d prefer to sing their music in Mass. 

Emily Strand

14 December 2021

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Original post, entitled “Cancel Culture and the Death of the Author”, originally posted 3 July 2020 by Emily:

When I began this blog, I devised it as an umbrella space for my admittedly diverse interests, ranging from liturgy to literature. I could never have guessed I’d write about liturgical music composer David Haas and Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling in the same post. It’s been a wild couple of weeks. Rowling has made new public comments (and doubled down on past ones) that, at best, fail to support the rights of transgender people. (You can read her statement here.) David Haas, one of the foremost North American Catholic liturgical music composers of our age, has been credibly accused by more than twenty women of inappropriate sexual behavior, predatory grooming, spiritual manipulation and sexual assault. (Read a more detailed report of the allegations, with survivor interviews, here.)

I do not defend either Rowling or Haas. I disagree with Rowling, though I sympathize with her as a survivor of sexual assault and find her account of being cyber-bullied for her views very troubling. As a Catholic steeped in the social teaching of my Church, which asks me to prioritize people most in need of mercy and care, I am frustrated with Rowling’s lack of charity toward such a marginalized group. As for Haas, I unequivocally believe and stand by the many brave witnesses to his abuse.

But there’s an important thread running through these two messes – one we could learn from. On the surface, these troubling situations don’t have much in common. But our collective cultural response links Haas and Rowling in this moment, for we live in the Cancel Culture.

Cancel Culture refers to the practice of withdrawing support, shunning, publically shaming or harassing individuals of celebrity when they make or engage in objectionable or offensive statements or behavior. Cancel Culture also shames those who would support such celebrities, or even those who would simply continue to use or enjoy their works.[1] Since Rowling’s statements revealing her deep mistrust of trans women (particularly), I have seen myriad tweets, hot-takes and full-on manifestos declaring Harry Potter officially “cancelled”. One social media post boldly claimed Rowling (which the author spelled R*wling, as if her name is now an obscenity) is not only anti-trans, but if you look at her writings through the lens of her anti-trans statements, it is clear she is also anti-Semitic (because of the Goblins in Potter and their love of gold) and racist (the house-elves, of course).

Not only do these conclusions seem unnecessary, they do not represent good literary analysis. Any Goblins-as-Jews reading seems, to this critic, just as much read in to the story as written in, and ignores other source material Rowling may have used to shape the Goblins. With regard to house-elves, existing scholarship reveals a variety of interpretations as to their ultimate meaning. While some early scholarly commentary on house-elves did focus on a “happy slave” reading, these are not the most compelling readings of house-elves, largely because they ignore the inconsistencies within the text itself (hello, Dobby) and fail to explain why we find happy slaves in a narrative which overwhelmingly expresses liberal values, affirming at almost every opportunity that all beings deserve freedom, rights and a chance at happiness, no matter their origin, age, gender, health status, bloodline or species. (For my own take on house-elves as robots who prompt discussions of universal human rights, see my October 2019 essay for the journal Mythlore, available in full here. My take draws upon Kathryn McDaniel’s influential reading of house-elves as house-wives.)

Frankly, cancelling Harry Potter is not the solution to Rowling’s problematic statements about trans human beings. The solution may be to ask Rowling to re-read her own books, to take her own stories more to heart.

Now the allegations against David Haas are much more serious – I want to be clear to draw that distinction. Haas’ is also a developing situation that may result in criminal charges. But the response is much the same. Tweet after tweet, post after post, even diocesan memos call for the removal of all David Haas’ music from celebrations of Catholic liturgy. And I experience the same conflicted response: is this really the answer?

The phrase “death of the author” in literary criticism was coined by French theorist Roland Barthes in 1967 (and supported by others such as Foucault, Wimsatt and Beardsley, etc.) to liberate texts from the limiting influence of their authors’ intentions. The power of interpretation, says this theory, lies in the hands of the reader and should derive from the text itself, not the author’s biography, biases, behavior or intentions in writing. It makes a lot of sense, particularly to me as a parent, who often finds herself in conversations that sound (from my side) like this: “I know you didn’t mean to step on my toe, but that doesn’t keep my toe from hurting, which means you need to say sorry.” Authors may intend a story a certain way, but the words on the page and our interpretation of them are the best evidence for whether their intentions were realized.

What’s great about death of the author is that it frees us as readers to read works on their own terms, without the often confusing or limiting influence of their authors. In divorcing the author from their works, I can take a step back and look afresh for textual evidence in Rowling’s works for fear or dismissal of trans people, which I plan to do. She does not get to control my interpretation of the text – the death of the author approach says the author might as well be dead. (For the record, I sincerely hope Rowling lives a very long life and writes lots more stories for us to enjoy on their own terms.)

Death of the author is an important theory to remember in the case of David Haas’ music as well, although perhaps not to the same degree as in the Rowling example. After all, Haas writes music for use in Christian ministry and liturgy, and we must have very high standards of behavior for those in such positions of influence. Further, victims of abuse may be triggered by hearing Haas’ more famous pieces, and this is a good reason to let go of many of his better-known titles. Perhaps this is no great loss; I welcome the opportunity this unfortunate situation offers us to program different composers (more women, more people of color) whose music is of a higher quality, less self-referential, with a stronger we-thou orientation. But it feels hateful to “cancel” Haas’ music altogether – to pass up one of his contemporary psalm arrangements, just because it has his name on it. Applying the death of the author in his case means acknowledging that his music is one thing; he is quite another.

An important argument remains: some wish not to further enrich Haas, Rowling, and other poorly-behaved creators by continuing to buy their creations. This is a good argument, and I applaud scrupulous purchasing behavior. We ought to scrutinize all our purchases, asking “who am I enriching, and are they or their practices worthy of such enrichment?” and quickly discontinue any that support injustice, prejudice or a disregard for human or creaturely rights.

(Another approach: get Rowling’s books at the library from now on, and only sing Haas songs your parish has already purchased. Yes, there may still be some financial kick-back to the creators with this approach, but you’ll have intentionally lessened it.)

If we disavow all David Haas’ music because of his abuse, if we quit reading and discussing J.K. Rowling’s stories because of what she said about trans people, who or what will be cancelled next? Many people can’t fathom why anyone with half a brain would still be Catholic after the clergy sex abuse scandal. I encounter such disdain on an almost daily basis – if you’re a Catholic and you’ve never had to face it, you probably need to get out more. One new Catholic told me she’d been pressured by her more secular friends not to complete the RCIA process, because, as one told her, “every dollar you give in that collection plate goes to defend pedophiles.” Is this true? No. But it is true that she and I both monetarily (and otherwise) support an institution that facilitated the abuse of children and others. Should we have cancelled our Catholicism? Because we didn’t, does this mean we’re cancelled? Because we want to help redeem this institution, not abandon it?

I oppose Rowling’s statements on and fear of trans people, and I support the survivors of any form of abuse by any Church leader. I wish I could sit down with both David Haas and J.K. Rowling, and share my reaction of deep disappointment with them. Ironically, it is a reaction based, in part, on these authors’ own works, for I am gratefully steeped in stories which advocate protection for the marginal, in lyrics that challenge me to speak against injustice and oppression, in sagas and songs in which love triumphs over death. Sadly, there’s very little room in the Cancel Culture for that kind of dialogue. That kind of dialogue is cancelled.

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[1] I wrote this piece before President (and I use that term loosely) Trump made his “Cancel Culture” speech at Mt. Rushmore on July 3, 2020. I completely disagree with his use of this term, which is meant to divide us by by taking a legitimate critique and applying it illegitimately. Demanding justice is not Cancel Culture. Refusing to honor villains as if they were heroes is not Cancel Culture. Expecting accountability is not Cancel Culture. Changing society for the better is not Cancel Culture. If it is, then some things really ought to be cancelled.