On the Eighth Day of Christmas: Eight Hallelujahs!

I was a senior in high school when I first had the opportunity to sing Handel’s Messiah. With two of my friends, I auditioned at a large church in West Hollywood Florida, singing a few phrases from the alto line from And the Glory of the Lord. All three of us were welcomed into the Hollywood Community Chorus and for eight weeks we rehearsed with an amazing group of singers, preparing for two Christmas performances. Even with the stop and start nature of the rehearsals, becoming familiar with the text and music was theologically and aesthetically soul filling. But as we rehearsed I longed not only to sing but to also be part of the audience in order to hear all the vocal parts and instruments. As a solitary singer focused on the alto line, I knew and lamented the fact that I was experiencing only a small part of the whole.

When the day of the concert arrived, I was, from the first tenor solo Comfort Ye, uncharacteristically able to step aside from my normal self-consciousness and enter into the transcendence of the work. As we concluded the glorious Hallelujah Chorus, the lights of the spacious sanctuary grew brighter and brighter with each “Hallelujah” until the whole space was one bright, beautiful offering of worship and praise to God. I could have died happy that night.

As my friends and I drove the next evening to the second and final performance, a guy in another car misjudged the distance between us and himself, gunned his car from the parking lot where he was waiting for a break in traffic and broad-sided us in the back passenger side of our car, right where I was sitting. Thankfully none of us were broken or killed, but the impact was jarring and deeply upsetting. Not only that, but between waiting for police to arrive and the time it took to figure out whose fault the accident was, we missed the beginning of the concert. Unfortunately, this was the one my mother was attending and there was no way to let her know that my friends and I wouldn’t be present with the rest of the choir. When we finally got free of the police and the offender who kept insisting that the accident wasn’t his fault but that our vehicle had appeared out of nowhere “like a bat out of hell,”* someone drove us to the church.

Still shaking, I entered the sanctuary, sat down in an aisle seat near the back and scanned the enormous space for my mother. When the choir recessed for the intermission, I spotted her in a seat near the front; I watched as she stood, step into the aisle and begin running towards the back of the church. Focused as she was, she didn’t see me as she approached, but I, of course, saw her. Even at age 17 I recognized the look of anguish on her face; it’s a look my face has no doubt worn many times in my own various experiences with my beloved children. Even for a moment, I did not enjoy being the star of her worry.

I reached for her hand as she passed by and watched as her face dissolved into tearful relief. We left the auditorium to find a quiet place to recover, and I explained the reason for my absence. Before the intermission was over, we returned to the pew where she had been sitting and waited for the choir and orchestra to reenter for the second half of the concert.

At some point that evening I realized that I had been granted my wish to both sing and listen to Handel’s magnificent work. In the joy of having been granted more life as well as the comfort given me from my mother's love, I fully enjoyed the remains of the concert. But despite being able to hear all the voices and appreciate more the whole work and experience, I left the church absolutely sure that singing Messiah trumped watching and listening to others perform. At the same time, given the events leading up to the concert, I was thankful for the continued ability to do either.

*Given our physical and emotional trauma resulting from his misjudgment, this twit had the gall to slam us spiritually as well!