Good Friday

Here it is Good Friday, already. I'm tired, awake early, and probably grumpy. But since nobody else is awake, I haven't yet had any human interaction to test that theory. :-)

Irina tagged me to answer a quiz regarding books and fictional characters. I already pretty much know how to answer it, but I'm too lazy to do that today. Perhaps tomorrow. I am a committed procrastinator, you know.

Yesterday was an adventure that I want to get down in writing, if for no other reason than that I want to remember it. I arrived at work an hour early yesterday so that I could leave an hour early. Although I've been involved as a singer for a few years, is the first year I've been a more or less full participant as a musician in the Maundy Thursday "band." I've augmented the group with a Stratocaster sound on the guitar.

This year our practice schedule was next to nill; we had only had a single practice. I hastened to our downtown church to so I could be there to go through the rehearsal material with the musicians and singers. Someone I shall call C is the piano player who oversees all of the big musical events (where the choirs combine.) He is married to my younger daughter's old grade four teacher. When I arrived he was playing merrily away on the piano, making some ditty up using the kind of Rhodes piano sound you might hear on old Stevie Wonder albums. It occured to me, this is the only time for the next three hours C is going to have any fun!

Before I had time to get my guitar out and turn all my equipment on, one of the volunteers pressed me into service helping to move a statue to the back of the sanctuary. Over the course of the evening, I ended up doing little odd jobs like this a few times, anxious each time that I would tear my suit pants on something sharp (which happens to me more often than you know!)

A fellow I shall call M, who plays guitar in the band, was unpacking his instrument when I returned. He always seems so glad to see me. M is a model train enthusiast, and to say he is a model enthusiast is an understatement. In truth, he is a recreator of worlds; he builds entire small towns, with small people, vehicles, foliage, buildings and homes. He takes incredible care with the houses and buildings. He makes them the way you would make a real home - putting up scaffolding, framing, and then bricks and roofing. I imagine the electrical work is the only portion he leaves out! These recreations are so incredible (even to the point of incorporating natural lighting), that when he takes photographs of his miniature railroad lines and towns, you cannot tell - I mean it - that the picture is not one of a real town.

As we began tuning and testing, some of the singers began to arrive for the scheduled 6 PM meet-up. Beside us, on the altar, our pastor and the young men he had recruited were rehearsing one of the acts of their play, a recreation of the last supper. Even though we were making lots of noise, as were they, each team was completely oblivious to the other. I smiled to myself upon noticing this, since, in this play, the music and actors are completely interwoven, each taking cues from the other. (This interplay is challenging, I should note, as the musicians perform behind a curtain: we cannot see the actors and they cannot see us.)

We spent about a half hour sorting out our sound. We do not have a sound guy, which makes this insanely difficult. For a half hour, we played a small segment of song, while one of us would go out into the pews and tell us what to turn up or turn down. What made this difficult is that the different people who went out to check how we sounded had different opinions on what to do. "The instruments are too loud," D (the leader of my 8 PM folk group) said. A few minutes later, our oboe player told us that it was all vocal, and she could not hear the musicians. I thought poor C was going to have a stroke!

The last song we tested was a number from Andrew Lloyd-Weber's Jesus Christ Superstar, "I don't Know How to Love Him." As the notes of the last chord faded away, C2, the woman who sings it, turned to me and frowned with worry, unssatisfied with her performance. "I haven't sung in months," She said. "Not true," I teased her, "I just heard you singing!"

"No, I'm serious," she said, with a melancholy look you only see on musicians who aren't playing anymore. I know the feeling. You kind of die inside.

It was about 6:30 PM, and the congregation began to arrive, so C, M, and all the singers marched towards the stairs to the basement, so we could rehearse the newer songs. As I passed by my wife, who had not seen me and was talking to someone, I tapped her on the shoulder and walked past, non-chalantly.

The two new songs for this year could not have been more different. One is an upbeat and rocking gospel song. The other is an ancient Latin chant. Fortunately, we have an incredibly skilled group of musicians and singers, who can switch genres (and even centuries) with ease. :-)

It went spectacularly well. At one point, a baby started crying, and our pastor (who played Jesus) rather cleverly worked it into his lines. We all had to be super-quiet, as the microphones were on us. The hour and a half was all sign language, desperate gestures, and lip reading. After the last strains of "I Don't Know How to Love Him" faded, and the lights came back on, I hugged C2, saying, "You still have it. That was beautiful."

"Thank you. I haven't sung in months," She repeated, but a little less glumly this time. :-)

A few parishioners and friends crowded back behind our already crowded curtain, to say their hellos or seek out the ones they were driving home. I overheard one woman telling C that this year was the best we've ever done. That is no small compliment; before I joined up a few years ago, I attended Holy Thursday. I've heard what it sounds like out in the sanctuary, and it is gorgeous. But the credit is not due us, of that I am sure.

Downstairs, a buffet table is laid out with the kinds of foods that would have been present at the Last Supper - essentially a first century Sedar meal. Three hours of stress takes it's toll. As I stood there eating all the grapes and matzoh, one of the parishioners was complimenting our pastor on how wonderful everything was, and he said, "Well, we made a CD of our christmas music. I think we have to make a CD of our Easter music!"

Turning to me he said, "Right Richard?"

"Uh huh," I said with a mouthful of food, nodding. Uh huh, I thought, remembering how unwelcome that notion would be with poor C, whom I had discussed a similar idea with. He gave up almost a month of evenings to do the first one. And as a schoolteacher, that had been no easy task.

I meant to go at 3 AM this morning to the Liturgy of the Hours at the Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament. They couldn't wake me; I was worn out, but I wish now that I had gone.