I left school on Friday afternoon after a week that felt like Friday should have happened on Tuesday. How is it that five days off makes the return to a full week that much more tiring? So I was glad to leave the building on Friday afternoon, anticipating a weekend and—special treat—beginning the Advent season at Duke Chapel, where we would sit silently for three hours and—bliss—listen to Handel’s Messiah.
It was all perfectly planned. We left the school at 3:30. There was plenty of time to get home, rest, and tidy up a bit. Then we would do our first Advent activity: put those lovely electric candles in the windows.
And I was So Prepared. I had already been to Wal-Mart, where I purchased new bulbs, a new extension cord, and a few new lights for the windows. And after that I would go pick up Nick, the babysitter. And after that Bill and I would leave for Duke.
It was going to be great.
But halfway home from school, William remembered to remind me that he and Everett had choir practice at the church building at five o’clock. And this made time for resting nearly impossible. And it made time for tidying utterly impossible. The candles were not going in the windows on Friday, and my carefully laid plans for the advent of Advent lay in ruins as I pulled back out of the driveway.
How is it that, at thirty-seven, I still fall victim to the wiles of idealism? And what makes me think that I am in command of anything these days—I, who walk with my head down all the time, simply doing the next thing. Plan ahead? Nice try, but it isn’t going to work.
Nonetheless, I was glad to arrive at Duke, to meet our dear Eric and Beth, and to walk inside together, where wreaths decorated the stone pillars and poinsettas were clustered at the foot of the chancel. We sat at the front, not the best place, perhaps, from an acoustical standpoint, but where I could see the violins and the expressions on the faces of the soloists.
I love to hear an orchestra tuning up. It is, in fact, among my favorite things. The first-chair violinist plays an “A,” and then all the other strings sing it back, adding to it the tones that run the bridges of their instruments. It falls just short of chaos, I guess, but it sounds like magic to me. I love it.
And then it began.
“’Comfort ye my people,’ saith your God. ‘Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her that her warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned.’”
The tenor’s voice was exquisite, gentle, strong. And he looked for all the world as if he knew what that comfort was, and that he was doling it out right there, to anyone who would have it, even to an overtired schoolteacher in the second row.
“Come unto him, all ye that labour; come unto him, yet that are heavy laden, and he will give you rest. Take his yoke upon you, and learn of him; for he is meek and lowly of heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.”
The sweet clarity and power of the soprano’s voice made me want to weep. She soothed me. She reminded me of someone. I wanted to ask her to lunch.
And when the choir joined the soloists, well, it just about took your breath. The sound welled above their heads in the chancel and then spilled out over all of us sitting in the nave. They could have been angels, for all their power and gentleness, for the precious glory of the gift they extended to us. This gift, this God, this baby—He is not what one might have planned for, not what one might expect.
“Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world.”
“Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him. And with his stripes we are healed.”
Is it my preparation and planning for Christmas that is going to make or break this holiday? We don’t have a tree yet; my Christmas letter is only in my head. The Christmas lights are still in a box in the basement.
“If God be for us, who can be against us? Who shall lay anything to the charge of God’s elect? It is God that justifieth. Who is he that condemneth? It is Christ that died, yea, rather that is risen again, who is at the right hand of God, who makes intercession for us.”
When it was over, I didn’t think the applause would ever end. We were on our feet. The soloists and conductor bowed and left and came back and bowed again, and still we applauded.
But it wasn’t they whom we applauded. Well, yes it was. We applauded the power of their voices, and the skill. We applauded the musicians, and a conductor who can draw from his artists such beauty. I applauded Handel, who wrote the entire thing in only 24 days.
But mostly I applauded Him, for whom this sound was, I’m sure, so familiar. I think it must have sounded like home—His home, where they sing His praises night and day. Yes, I applauded Him with a grateful heart, reminded again that all Necessary Effort was completed Long Ago, and that He is mine, and I am His, regardless of the Christmas lights.
“Blessing and honour, glory and power be unto him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb, for ever and ever. Amen.”
