Lord Have Mercy
On the aesthetic rediscovery of an identity
Gregorian Easter may have been last weekend, but those using the Julian calendar celebrate Easter today. Let it be known I’m taking this second chance for an Easterpost seriously.
My sister turned to me, her mute speaker behind her, and asked if I liked Latin music. A few weeks ago, I was a guest in her dorm room, and before I knew it I was going to impose not just my presence on her but also my music taste.
In pretend confusion, I asked her to specify, “What kind of Latin music?” Masses surely count, don’t they; although I do listen to Spanish music now and then, the predominant mood these days consists of Vulgate choirs carrying me to exaltation on the subway. (I guess this is an indication of a dramatic personality, but trust me, if you listen to this stuff for a while you’ll start singing its praises too.)
What I like to do is close my eyes and imagine myself as a weary farmhand settling into his pew on a glorious Sunday in the 1600s. My ears are met with the superstimulus of voices singing like angels, notes descending and ascending with geometric precision, harmonies enveloping me with wrath and reassurance. (I crack open my eyes and see a rat scuttle under train tracks.) It’s hard not to be overwhelmed.
“Yeah, I listen to old Latin music.” And it’s as fun as it is sober, as dark as it can be enlightening.
Although this music listening is strictly untethered from the mythological, my upbringing in the church means I still have all the memories. Sometimes I read translations of the music I listen to and reminisce about this or that Bible story, and it reminds me of familiar times in church, which I never particularly loathed as a child. I grew up Protestant, which meant we had fog machines and electronic keyboards, and choirs, when they assembled, rarely inspired the reverence typical of a regular Catholic mass. Nothing felt forced or formulaic; church was just hanging out with God.
On an aesthetic level, and on my own, with no parents around to encourage me, I was starting to grasp the allure of Catholicism. So much so, that this past Holy Saturday, on Christ’s putative fight through Hell, I made a visit to an evening Vigil at St. Vincent Ferrer. It was as striking as a typical cathedral—you know, it had vaulted arches, gilded crosses, etc. So it was visually what I expected, more or less. What I hadn’t expected was that Catholics had their own fog machine, except theirs was portable, shaken back and forth, and emitted nice-smelling smoke. Very cool.
Alas, there wasn’t as much music as I’d hoped for, but even though I came for the music, I ended up staying for the uhh… immaculate vibes. Everything in the cathedral seemed specially cared for, nothing was placed haphazardly. Unlike the churches I grew up in, it seemed like attention had gone over every conceivable part of the building, adding theological significance to a place that for most people is a respite from the chaos of daily life. Partway through the service I could feel a strange weight come on me, something I chose to interpret as the accumulation of tradition and repetition that the liturgy represented, a link to the past made stronger each time a priest and congregation said it aloud. I felt like I got it.
At the same time, something felt off about it to me. It felt like a sacred experience was being manufactured instead of being allowed to form naturally, as if because of all the local grandeur a sense of the divine was being coaxed out of me. Maybe this was my childhood speaking out, or the distant voice of Luther, telling me that inner faith matters more than appearances, that God speaks through modesty as much as through grandeur. From what I remember about my childhood church services, what I liked was the promise of uniqueness in a service, the feeling of coming to a fresh and surprising event.
Of course, Easter services the world round are predicated on repetition—I visited a church for the first time in years on one of its most formulaic days. And all churches rely on some artifice to induce sacred experiences, their methods are just more or less transparent. I guess I prefer it when I forget the infrastructure is there, when I can close my eyes and hear the sacred without the feeling of tradition weighing on my experience. So, now when I listen to choirs, I try to listen to ancient music with new ears. Novelty doesn’t come from the notes.
My sister came over to mine for her spring break, just the week after I’d visited. As I took command of the speaker, to my surprise: “Can you play some of your Bach music?” Cue Kyrie Elieson (Lord Have Mercy)