An announcement goes out in September:
help perform Handel’s Messiah for Christmas
From pre-teens to late-seventies,
seven dozen motley singers gather weekly
All we like sheep that have gone astray,
are brought together by patient Choral Society leadership
A talented director, a pianist mastering complex accompaniment,
soloists with voices transcending all earthly bounds
Beginner singers learning to count rests and measures without
speaking, tapping, nodding or moving any body part
Keeping mouths round and voices resonant,
instructed to smile broadly if notes go too high or too low
Remembering to look up,
never buried in the score
Immersing in the music in between rehearsals,
even scripture readings float into arias
Practicing impossible runs of notes
in the shower and the car
Waking in the night to strains of the Hallelujah Chorus
yet the house is completely silent
Performance night is delight,
pure privilege to share this majestic masterwork
With an appreciative community who come,
young and old, to listen rapt
With glistening eyes, grateful smiles and glad hearts,
ready now to take on Advent in all its glorious expectancy
But thanks be to God, who gave us Handel, now departed 250 years,
who continues to move us, always, every time, through his music.
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(Reprint of my 2008 poem in honor of the Lynden Choral Society)
One small town
Containing more churches than banks,
A ninety year old choral society
With a Christmas tradition of singing Handel’s Messiah,
Sixty-some enthusiastic singers recruited without auditions
Through church bulletin announcements
Farmers, store clerks, machinists, students
Middle schoolers to senior citizens
Gather in an unheated church for six weeks of rehearsal
To perform one man’s great gift to sacred music.
Handel, given a libretto, commissioned to compose,
Isolated himself for 24 days, barely ate or slept
Believed himself confronted by all heaven itself
To see the face of God,
And so created overture, symphony, arias, oratorios
Soaring, interwoven themes repeating, resounding
With despair, mourning, anticipation
Renewal, redemption, restoration, triumph.
Delicate appoggiaturas and melismata
Of astounding complexity and intricacy.
A tapestry of sound and sensation unparalleled
To be shouted from the soul, wrung from the heart.
This group of rural people gathers to join voices
Honoring faith foretold, realized, proclaimed.
Ably led by a forgiving director with a sense of humor
And a nimble organist with flying feet and fingers.
The lilting sopranos with angel song,
The altos provide steadfast support,
The tenors echo plaintive prophecy
The base voices full and resonant.
A violinist paints heaven-sent refrain
In parallel duet of counterpoint melody.
The audience sits, eyes closed
As if in oft repeated familiar prayer.
The sanctuary overflows
With thankfulness:
Glory to God! For unto us a Child is born
And all the people, whether singers or listeners, will be comforted.
In my work, I see sorrow daily. It can look very different depending on the individual and circumstances, manifesting as a headache, or stomach ache, or back ache, or it can look like the tear streaked face of the deepest soul ache. Too often it is from the distress borne out of the sadness of broken relationships, from abandonment, betrayal, and dishonesty. Sorrow is a response to overwhelming sin.
Barnstorming 