About Ezequiel Menendez

Posts by Ezequiel Menendez:

Planning Music for Catholic Liturgy After Vatican II

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Following the reforms of the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965), Catholic liturgical music underwent significant changes. In many places, the Church moved away from an almost exclusive reliance on Gregorian chant and traditional sacred music to embrace a wider variety of musical styles. As often happens when new possibilities emerge, some communities moved toward an opposite extreme of relying primarily on contemporary and popular musical idioms, leaving behind the Church’s ancient musical traditions.

 

Over the decades, however, a healthier balance has begun to emerge. Today, many parishes are discovering that a rich and meaningful liturgy can draw from the full treasury of sacred music. In a single Mass, one might hear Gregorian chant, a traditional hymn from the Lutheran tradition, Renaissance polyphony, English chant, and contemporary sacred music. Such variety can enrich the worship experience and may be closer to the vision of the Second Vatican Council than either extreme.

 

The Council did not intend to discard the Church’s vast musical heritage. On the contrary, it reaffirmed the value of Gregorian chant and sacred music while encouraging the active participation of the faithful. As music ministers, we have an extraordinary wealth of resources from which to choose. Our responsibility is to remain open to the many forms through which people encounter God in prayer. What inspires one person spiritually may not resonate in the same way for another.

 

For this reason, I encourage Church musicians to study the treasures of the past while remaining open to worthy contemporary expressions. Excellent resources for liturgical planning include the Vatican II document Musicam Sacram, the National Association of Pastoral Musicians (NPM), and GIA Publications.

 

When planning for the liturgy, it is important to remember that participation takes different forms. We want the congregation to participate actively in singing hymns, psalms, acclamations, and responses. At the same time, we must recognize the value of contemplative listening. Listening attentively to a choir anthem, a solo, or an organ meditation is also a form of participation in the liturgy.

 

Every parish choir should ideally know at least two settings of the Mass Ordinary. These settings include the Kyrie, Gloria, Sanctus, and Agnus Dei. One setting might be more accessible and familiar to the congregation, while another may be more traditional in style. Since these texts recur throughout the liturgical year, familiarity allows the assembly to participate more confidently and prayerfully.

 

For the Offertory, a brief anthem, motet, or solo can be an excellent choice, particularly when a choir or schola is available. The text may reflect the Gospel, the readings of the day, or the liturgical season. Advent and Lent in particular have rich repertoire bases to provide countless possibilities to reflect the Mysteries being celebrated. At certain times of the year, Marian music may also be appropriate. For example, during the traditional Marian months of May and October, settings of the Ave Maria can be particularly effective. Beautiful settings of this prayer can be found by composers Jacob Arcadelt, William Byrd, Tomás Luis de Victoria, and Heinrich Ignaz Franz Biber, along with the traditional Gregorian chant of the text. 

 

For Communion, the music should generally reflect the Mystery of Christ’s Body and Blood and the act of receiving the Eucharist. Traditional works such as Ave Verum Corpus or Panis Angelicus, along with Eucharistic hymns, Gregorian chant, or the Communion antiphon of the day with psalm verses and organ improvisation can all serve this moment beautifully.

 

These reflections are intended as a starting point for music directors and liturgical musicians. The goal is not simply to choose music, but to help create an atmosphere of prayer in which the congregation can sing, listen, reflect, and encounter God through the rich musical heritage of the Church.

La Providencia: A Chance Encounter That Changed Everything

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In 1985, as a young student at the Conservatorio Gilardo Gilardi in La Plata, Argentina, I was enrolled in a class called Acústica—Acoustics. The professor, whose passion for sound was contagious, once brought in a vinyl record to demonstrate the capabilities of a particular brand of high-fidelity microphones. The record featured a performance by Thomas Murray, a name then unknown to me, playing the Mendelssohn Organ Sonatas on a magnificent Hook organ. It was a promotional gift from the microphone company, given to acousticians to showcase the clarity and richness of their equipment.

But for me, it became something much more. I was captivated—not only by the clarity of the recording, but by the majesty of the music and the instrument. I listened to that record obsessively. I couldn’t yet play the Mendelssohn Sonatas—I was just beginning as an organist—but I dreamed of one day being able to.

Fast forward to 1989. I was visiting my friend Dante Anzolini, who was studying conducting at Yale University. One afternoon, while Dante was in class, I wandered the campus and stumbled into a stunning building. Drawn by the sound of a mighty organ, I followed the music and entered Woolsey Hall.

There, someone was rehearsing. I sat alone in the vast space, listening in awe. After some time, the organist turned around and greeted me: “Hello.” “Hello,” I responded with my very limited English. He asked, “What do you do?” “I play the organ,” I said. “Come and play,” he offered.

So I did—I played a piece by Bach. It was the largest organ I had ever touched. When I finished, he said warmly, “That was wonderful. My name is Tom Murray.” And just like that, I realized: this was the Thomas Murray—my unseen mentor from those treasured recordings back in Argentina.

By divine providence—La Providencia—I had met the great artist whose playing had shaped my early imagination, though I had never known his face.

That same day, he said, “You should come to Yale. Study with me.” I later completed the formal audition, but that unexpected invitation, born of kindness and artistic kinship, was my first encounter with Professor Murray.

Today, more than three decades later, we shared lunch—still friends, still teacher and student. He remains for me not only a superb maestro but also a lifelong mentor and cherished friend. 

Mourning the Loss of Archbishop Henry Mansell

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It is with great sadness that I write these lines in honor of Henry Mansell, a shepherd with whom I had the privilege to work throughout his entire tenure as Archbishop of Hartford.

I served as Music Director of the Archdiocese and of the Cathedral of Saint Joseph at the time of his installation, and during those years I witnessed firsthand what I can only describe as one of the most visionary episcopacies I have ever known.

When Archbishop Mansell arrived, the cathedral’s music program was modest—faithful, but limited. He immediately saw something greater. Just one week after his arrival, we presented a concert in memory of Michael Conard featuring the Requiem by Maurice Duruflé, performed by 150 singers alongside the New Haven Symphony Orchestra. The cathedral was filled beyond capacity—so much so that we had to close the doors, and traffic backed up on Interstate 84. It was not merely a concert; it was a sacred moment, one of the most powerful in the cathedral’s musical history.

The next day, Archbishop Mansell called me personally. His words were simple but transformative: “Ezequiel, I want more of these concerts. I want the cathedral not only to be the mother church of the archdiocese, but also a cultural center for the city of Hartford.” That vision became a reality.

Under his leadership, the cathedral became a beacon of sacred and symphonic music. We presented monumental works: symphonies by Anton Bruckner, the Te Deum by Hector Berlioz, Symphony No. 2 by Gustav Mahler, the Requiem by Giuseppe Verdi, the Symphony No. 3 by Henryk Górecki, the Organ Symphony by Camille Saint-Saëns, and the Organ Concerto by Francis Poulenc, among many others. Great orchestras, international artists, and distinguished organists from places such as Saint-Sulpice and Notre-Dame Cathedral brought extraordinary artistry to Hartford.

But his vision extended beyond concerts. Archbishop Mansell understood that sacred music must live at the heart of the liturgy. With his support, we established the Schola Cantorum, a professional choir that elevated the musical life of the cathedral. We also founded the Solideo Gloria Orchestra and a brass quintet to serve the great liturgies of the Church.

He encouraged outreach across the archdiocese: consulting with parishes, installing and restoring pipe organs, relocating instruments from closing churches, and even sending a container with two pipe organs and three pianos to an archdiocese high in the Andes of Peru. He supported the creation of the Office of Sacred Music—something that had never existed before—ensuring that every liturgy was prepared with care, dignity, and beauty.

Archbishop Mansell was not only a patron of music; he was deeply knowledgeable. He knew hymnody, history, and repertoire with remarkable precision. I recall a “game” we often played during major liturgies: as the Gospel was proclaimed, I would search for a hymn that reflected its message, improvising on it as he processed to the pulpit. Without prior planning, he would arrive and name exactly the hymn I had chosen—sometimes even identifying it as Pange Lingua, written by Thomas Aquinas. His intellect and musical memory were extraordinary.

It is fitting that I write this on Good Shepherd Sunday. Archbishop Mansell truly embodied the Good Shepherd. He listened deeply—so deeply that conversation with him could feel one-sided at first. But when he spoke, his words were precise, insightful, and exactly what was needed.

He was a tireless worker. He began his days before 7:00 a.m., celebrating daily Mass at the cathedral—a Mass he himself established—and grounding his ministry in prayer before all else.

Archbishop Mansell transformed not only a cathedral, but an entire culture of sacred music. His legacy is not only in the institutions he built, but in the countless lives he inspired, the beauty he fostered, and the faith he strengthened through music and worship.

May he rest in peace, and may his example continue to guide all who seek to serve the Church with excellence, vision, and devotion.

The Cavaillé-Coll Organ of the Basilica of Luján

By Ezequiel Menendez

If someone were to discover a painting by Van Gogh, a manuscript by Mozart, or a violin by Stradivarius in their home, they would surely take every possible precaution to preserve such a treasure. That is precisely the feeling we organists experience when we have the privilege of studying, researching, and dedicating our lives to this noble art—especially when we sit at the console of a historic instrument such as the magnificent pipe organ built by the house of Cavaillé-Coll in the Basilica of Luján, Argentina.

For me, the emotion is even stronger. Though I no longer live in Argentina—a country that remains, in every sense, my home—I feel a profound responsibility to help, in whatever way I can, to ensure that this instrument is restored with the utmost care and reverence. We must treat it as we would that painting, manuscript, or violin mentioned above: as a priceless work of art.

Speaking about pipe organs is not a common topic; few outside the musical world truly understand their complexity or significance. The purpose of this article, therefore, is to raise awareness of the extraordinary historical and artistic importance of the organ housed within the Basilica.

The history of the organ stretches back to the second century B.C., developing over the centuries and reaching moments of true splendor during the Renaissance and Baroque periods. Naturally, when one speaks of the instrument’s golden age, the name Johann Sebastian Bach immediately comes to mind. Yet, in the latter half of the eighteenth century, the organ fell into decline. The fortepiano—later known simply as the piano—became the favored instrument of composers and performers, prized for its expressive range and dynamic control, which could be achieved without changing stops or registrations.

The “King of Instruments” seemed destined to disappear, until a young and gifted Frenchman, Aristide Cavaillé-Coll, breathed new life into it. Cavaillé-Coll founded an entirely new school of organ building. He transformed the organ into an expressive, even symphonic instrument—something completely revolutionary for his time. Through his inventive spirit, his experiments, and his collaboration with composers and fellow builders, Cavaillé-Coll became the very symbol of renewal. His passion for his craft, his humility, and his willingness to listen made him—and his creations—a cornerstone in the history of organ building.

Cavaillé-Coll also belonged to that rare lineage of master craftsmen who valued the perfection of their work far above financial gain—an attitude increasingly difficult to find today. During the second half of the nineteenth century, his firm produced its most celebrated instruments. Those of Notre-Dame and Saint-Sulpice in Paris are perhaps the best known, though many others exist throughout France and beyond.

Much has been debated about who actually built the organ of Luján: Aristide Cavaillé-Coll himself or his successor Charles Mutin. The beautiful bronze plaque on the console bears the name of the former. Yet, the instrument was inaugurated twelve years after the master’s death, leaving questions still to be explored.

What seems likely is that the organ was either designed by Cavaillé-Coll and completed by Mutin, or built entirely under Mutin’s direction. We know that Father Salvaire, one of the Basilica’s great visionaries, studied in Paris between 1861 and 1871 and returned in 1886 to commission the crown for the Virgin. It is entirely possible that he met with Cavaillé-Coll on that occasion and began discussions about the organ—though the Basilica itself was not yet ready to receive it for several years.

The Cavaillé-Coll organ of the Basilica of Luján has been silent for many decades. Yet, by the grace of Providence—or perhaps through a miracle of the Virgin—most of its parts remain in their original state. Other instruments, even in wealthier countries, have not been so fortunate.

Fashion and misguided notions of “modernization” have destroyed countless historic organs—changes that cannot be undone. The organ of the Basilica narrowly escaped this fate on several occasions, each time protected, it seems, by a divine hand.

An anecdote from World War II illustrates this vividly. The parish priest at the time, a man of French descent, was climbing the stairs to the choir one morning when he encountered workers carrying a new console—the keyboard section of the organ. When he asked what they were doing, they replied that they were modernizing the instrument. Upon noticing that the “modern” console was of German manufacture, he promptly declared: “As long as I am here… nothing German.”

He could not have known the immense service he rendered to the principle of artistic preservation by refusing that alteration, which would have compromised the organ’s integrity and style. This was not a rejection of German organ building, but rather a stand against an aesthetic absurdity born of ignorance.

Such stories abound—some tinged with corruption, as funds intended for the organ vanished or were misused. Ironically, these very mishaps allowed the instrument to survive into the twenty-first century in its original condition. It stands today as one of the few of its kind in the world—a true rara avis.

If restored according to the highest international conservation standards, and thereafter maintained with the same devotion one would give to a Van Gogh, this organ could become one of the most significant in the entire American continent—an ideal instrument for both liturgy and concert performance.

The great works of César Franck, Louis Vierne, Charles-Marie Widor, Olivier Messiaen, and others could find no more perfect medium. Argentina would possess a splendid venue for international organ festivals, within the equally majestic setting of the Basilica of Luján.

Today, only a few of the organ’s stops still function, yet even the limited sound it produces is celestial and magical. Not every builder achieves greatness in every instrument, but this organ possesses something inexplicable—an inner angel, so to speak.

Some years ago, I happened to visit on a day when humidity and temperature aligned perfectly, allowing many of the stops to speak. As I began to play, people entering the Basilica turned toward the choir loft and stood motionless. Priests emerged from their confessionals, astonished, and the sacristan who had accompanied me up the stairs wept with emotion. None of us could believe the beauty we were hearing. We were all transported by that old instrument.

Hearing a renowned organ in Holland, Germany, Italy, or France is always a profound experience—but it is even more moving when such a moment occurs in one’s own homeland. We have our own Van Gogh, and we must be proud of it—and protect it.

In conclusion: whenever we replace even a single screw on this magnificent instrument, we must ensure that it matches the material, shape, and color of the original. Just as we would never allow a street portraitist to apply any random varnish to a Van Gogh painting, were it ever damaged, however slightly.

But for this to happen, we must first be aware of what we possess. Knowledge leads to preservation, and preservation to love. And how much beauty, in return, such love can bring!

The Basilica of Luján is currently under reconstruction and has rightly been declared a National Monument. In the final stages of this great work, efforts will be made to restore to the Argentine faithful the voice of its Great Organ. Will those entrusted with this task rise to the noble ideals of Aristide Cavaillé-Coll? Will love for the work of art prevail above all else?

Amen.

With heartfelt thanks to Rafael Ferreyra, Mercedes Featherstone, Fernando García Enríquez, and Nelly Cedola for their collaboration in the preparation of this article.nt

Ezequiel Menéndez
Avon, CT
860-836-0193