Among the culinarily blessed, improvisation á la cuisine can yield many a memorable meal. Lesser mortals might do well to hold fast to the recipe at hand. Some of us, myself included, should abandon our gastronomic ambitions to the skill of others!

Improvisation, in the musical sense, is rather like enlivening a proven recipe - a sonata, say, or a fugue - with ingredients instantaneously chosen and combined. An improviser ornaments and enlarges a given theme, often a hymn tune or chant, with every resource of melodic invention, harmonic motion, structural coherence and color. The resulting creation may, and ideally should, sound as if it were previously composed and notated; but quantitatively it exists neither before its performance nor after. It is "of the moment" and by definition unrepeatable. Herein lies the peril of liturgical improvisation - and its power.

On sabbatical leave from my parish, I spent January in Paris, studying improvisation with a virtuoso practitioner, M. Philippe Lefebvre, organist of Notre Dame Cathedral, absorbing the work of his noted colleagues, and relishing the civilizing charms of that great city.

It is the French organists who maintain a strong link to the tradition of centuries. Today's concert goers might easily forget that much of the well-known European repertoire was directly inspired by the improvisations of its composer, be it J.S. Bach's Musical Offering (an ingenious working-out of a theme presented to him by King Frederick the Great) or the pianistic marvels of Franz Liszt. Mozart's improvised cadenzas within his piano concertos were legendary. Figures as diverse as Frescobaldi, Handel, Mendelssohn, and S.S. Wesley were all noted for the artistry of their spontaneous music making.

For the French organist, improvisation is not merely some spiced-up "noodling" to "fill in the gaps of the service," but rather a veritable menu gastronomique comprising sizable "pieces" for entrance, exit, offertory and communion. On one of my Sunday visits to the Church of St. Eustache, for example, organist Jean Guillou embarked upon his entrée in a strict though modernist fugal style. Relentlessly dancing through many keys and thematic permutations (an aural equivalent, as it were, of the densely interweaving Paris Métro lines), this was music complex yet well ordered. Some 10 minutes later, at the entrance of the thurifer, acolytes and clergy, the now-apocalyptic work built inexorably toward a blazing climax on full organ. With echoes of its final chord still lingering in the vast church, the liturgy then unfolded in suitably measured majesty.

The architectural placement of French organs differs greatly from the English and American model. The smaller "choir organ" is located in the chancel and is designed to accompany the choir, chant and hymns. Perched high on the liturgical west wall, over the entrance, another organist plays the grand orgue, which is used for improvisation and organ repertoire. The resulting sonic effect, especially in a resonant stone church, is archetypically French and very often sublime.

At its most noble, improvisation is much more than some musical parlor trick calculated to impress; it is a liturgical offering in its own right. I recall a Mass on a frigid Saturday evening in Chartres Cathedral, with its organist furnishing an evocative and lengthy sortie worthy of an archiepiscopal enthronement or the like, seemingly without regard for the rather pedestrian liturgy occurring down below and the shivering few in attendance. It was, quite simply, his gift.

It is the chant, of course, which has through the centuries inspired countless organ improvisations. Many of them were later notated in published compositions, such as the work of Charles Tournemire (1870-1939, organist of Sainte Clotilde), and the last two symphonies of Charles-Marie Widor (1844-1937, organist of St. Sulpice). Even today at Notre Dame, one delights in recognizing Pange lingua or Adoro devote artfully hidden within Philippe Lefebvre's improvisations, often played in the 17th-century style contemporaneous with much of that cathedral's grand orgue.

Lefebvre ardently promotes the continuing value of improvised music, entirely unique to its occasion, its acoustical space, its given instrument. "A sonic impression," he says, "then gone forever." (Alas, he is understandably reluctant to record his creations for our benefit.) Playing written compositions at liturgies, Lefebvre suggests, lacks the immediacy, the intimacy, the "risky business" inherent in extemporization.

If instant music is like instant conversation, we organists are tongue-tied or beset with small talk at our keyboards. Perhaps it's only midweek in the empty church that an organist improvises with utter abandonment, setting aside all fears of musical meltdown and public humiliation. Regular practice links the fingers more intimately with the mind, which must make microsecond decisions about what note to play and when. If one's melody, for example, appears in the pedals, can the hands make independent and interesting lines to complement? Can one play a given theme in any key? Can the fingers and feet find their way to new tonal centers and safely home again? Does a Handel pastiche sound too much like a Howells; a Buxtehude like Brahms?

"Consider how much we need to practice our literature, our Bach and Franck," Gerre Hancock often tells his students, "then consider how rigorously we need to practice music which isn't even written down!" Hancock is organist of St. Thomas Church, Fifth Avenue, and one of America's most celebrated improvisateurs.

Teachers of the art function much like coaches of a college debate team, or, in another epoch, a master in the art of rhetoric. It is quite possible to teach by example, and most instructors eventually find their way onto the bench to suggest or demonstrate. With the musical equivalent of photographic memory, the great teachers pinpoint intellectual and technical weakness and offer a student the means of achieving a more satisfactory result. While a good teacher can encourage, enliven and discipline, it is, of course, the student who must possess the charism, a certain inner spark, or at very least a desire to risk "playing it by ear."

Liturgical improvisation is much akin, it seems to me, to extempore preaching. In both cases the listener wants to experience a beginning, middle and end with something memorable along the way. There is in both arts and immediacy - an eye contact in one case, an "I-contact" in both - which is worthy of our encouragement.

That the Sacred Muse of Ad Libitum descends only upon a chosen few is a common fallacy, expressed even among organists. With the aid of a teacher or a published method book, musicians at any level of expertise can indeed create their own music. Improvised music need not be elaborate in order to be effective; indeed, sometimes the simplest materials offer greatest reward. Most congregations will appreciate hearing a home-baked prelude based upon the opening hymn or a set of variations during communion. In fact, the common Episcopal practice of extending a hymn to cover a procession, or linking one piece of music to another (as in an offertory presentation) is very much more difficult for the player than creating a short, self-contained piece on its own terms. While there are perhaps fewer opportunities for extended improvisation in the Anglican liturgy, Episcopal organists might well benefit from the lively sense of freedom and freshness in the work of their French counterparts.

My time among the Parisian masters was an intense exposure to their living tradition. Upon return to my parish, I hope to infuse my own practice with the inspiration of the visit. And while I've savored much of their musical art, my continued ineptitude in the kitchen is a dissonance unresolved even by the French. o

Jeffrey Smith is music director of St. Paul's Parish, K Street, Washington, D.C.