Choir Life in a Japanese Church — When the Music Doesn’t Go as Planned —

A small note before we begin

In the Catholic Mass in Japan,
the responsorial psalm is often sung in a particular way.

In my parish,
the cantor sings the first line alone,
and then the congregation joins in.

In other churches,
everyone may sing together from the beginning.

There is a small variety of practice.

And within that quiet moment—
many things can happen.

“Wait… is that the right note?”

There is a very specific moment
that comes again and again.

The first reading ends.

The announcement is made:
“The responsorial psalm.”

I walk to the lectern,
open the music,
and exchange a small glance with the organist.

Then—the first note.

And immediately:

…wait.

That’s not the note we practised.

Inside my head, a very quick debate begins.

• The score says one thing
• My ear says another
• The organ says something else entirely

And within half a second,
a decision must be made.

In the end, there is only one option:

I begin.

The art of guessing the starting note

For the responsorial psalm,
there is no introduction.

The organist simply gives the starting pitch.

At least… in theory.

Sometimes, the note comes too quickly.

Was that it?

Sometimes, it is too soft.

Did I even hear anything?

And at that point,
it becomes a small act of courage.

When I first encountered this,
I remember looking very intently at the organist, thinking:

Please… just one more time.

But eventually, there is no choice.

I have made a rule for myself:

If I cannot hear it after counting to five,
I simply begin.

When the accompaniment disappears

One day, during the psalm,
something unexpected happened.

There were three verses.

But after the second,
the accompaniment stopped.

Completely.

And yet—
the psalm was not finished.

So I continued.

Alone.

Until the organ returned,
it became, quite unintentionally,
a solo performance.

Getting lost inside the psalm

Long psalms can feel a little like a maze.

Even with markings and notes,
it is still possible to lose one’s place.

At some point, while singing,
a quiet thought appears:

…this doesn’t sound quite right.

And somehow,
one must find the way back
without anyone noticing.

The face remains calm.

Inside, everything is moving at once.

A small kind of suspense

On certain days,
when everything feels slightly uncertain—

the pitch,
the tempo,
the memory—

there is a peculiar sense of tension.

Like a quiet kind of suspense,
where anything might happen next.

(Perhaps not dramatic—
but enough to keep the heart alert.)

Music, as it happens

When you sing in a church choir,
you slowly learn a certain skill:

to continue,
as if nothing unusual has happened.

Even when:

• the pitch is uncertain
• the accompaniment stops
• the verses become confused

the singing continues.

Calmly.

At least, on the outside.

And afterwards

And then, after everything is over—

there is often a small moment of laughter.

That was… quite something.

Somehow,
even the mistakes become part of the experience.

Because music,
especially in these moments,
is always something alive.