It was the Easter Vigil and my wife and I sat in our pew. The Vigil is part of the three day spiritual marathon for Catholics known as the Easter Triduum. Spread over three days, the services are all part of one long theatrical event. Some of the performances are amazing. You might be at a Broadway show. At least, that’s what I was hoping for this Easter.
I opened my Playbill –I mean, missal. It is like a Playbill though. It lists all the cast members, all the musical numbers, usually has plenty of advertisements in back. You can check out the readings if you’re looking for a plot summary. Easter Vigil? Let’s see, that takes you right back to Genesis. Don’t miss the plot twist at the end of Act I when Moses parts the Red Sea. And that Resurrection climax? Wow!
My plan this Easter was to settle in after Genesis and close my eyes. Psalms separate the readings, and I was ready for their sweet lullabies to roll over me and trigger a soothing release of melatonin to knock me out. The candles, the dim lighting, the heavy blanket pulled up to my chin – so what if people stare – had all created a lush experience for a nice nap in the pews. All I needed were those soothing modal melodies to wash over me, and my circadian rhythm would waltz me to sleep.
I was just about to nod off when I heard them begin: “Looooooord, send out your spirit, and renewwwwww the face of the earth.”
Heavens, what was that? I sat up and searched for the source.
“Bless the Lord, oh my sooooouuuul.”
Had the King of Cacophony, the Duke of Dissonance, the Lord of the Locrian shown up? Was it the Devil himself?
“Oh, Lord, my God, you are great indeeeeeeed.”
It was the screech of tires before an accident, the battle cry of Apache warriors, the howl of the banshee, anything but the sound of praise. I stared in horror at my wife, and looked again at the Playbill.
There it was: the “B” Team Choir. What had happened to the “A” Team? Sure, they didn’t advertize themselves as the “B” team. They didn’t announce that they would sing off-key and be incapable of matching pitches with other choir members, but they couldn’t fool me. I could read between the staves.
I turned to my wife and whispered, “Look.” I pointed at the cast members. “The ‘B’ Team, the second stringers, the pew-warmers, the scrubs.”
She furrowed her brows and stared at me. “Just take off your slippers.”
“We’re in for a long mass,” I said. “And I told you, they’re driving moccasins.”
You want to like these people. You’re rooting for them. Heck, I want to give them a standing ovation and call them back out for encores. You hope for the best when it comes to the cantor and choir, but this wasn’t one of those masses where my hopes would be rewarded.
Two and a half hours later, my head pounding from the aural ice pick chipping away at my eardrums, it was time to go. I knew I would need counseling after this assault. Let the healing process begin. Has this happened to you?
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