Beneath an Orange Sky: A Triduum Folk Opera

Me: Guess what I'm doing this weekend!
Lee: What?
Me: Getting bagels in Reisterstown!
Lee: MARI. It's Passover. Every Jew on the eastern seaboard is in Florida. You're not getting any bagels from anyone this weekend.

It's that time of year, my dudes. The Mass Exodus of Reisterstown, the week when I might as well just camp out at church, and my Annual Triduum Playlist!

2nd annual, that is. This year, it's a musical. Consider it Godspell for the modern age. The Greatest Story Ever Told, by narrative folk singers.

The only way for Holy Week to make any sense at all is if I view it as a rehearsal. It's not once and for all. Good Friday isn't going to put anyone on Xanax. Easter isn't going to be the end to anyone's problems, unless your problem was giving up chocolate or alcohol for Lent, in which case, that's your own grave you dug and I can hardly feel sorry for you.

We know that we're rehearsing. We know it's going to happen again next year, same time, same place.

One of the greatest spiritual stories of our time is "Groundhog Day." This movie is all about liturgy. The Christian Life is practice, a process--not the final result. This is what liturgy is. This is what the Christian calendar does. It's not that Easter will conclude our pain or restore all our hope, but instead compell us to practice hope and rehearse joy.

The Passion Play, which nearly every liturgical church performs in some way or another during Holy Week, is the re-telling of a well-worn tale. It's a narrative, not a lecture; a story, not an essay. Like a song, like any form of art, a play can compell us and turn us toward something greater than ourselves, but it doesn't tell us what to do.

Here's my own musical version. We'll start at Maundy Thursday, which I guess is the prelude to the Triduum.

I begin with a song called "Hymn #101." Let's discuss it.

I spend a lot of time wondering why people go to church. I mean. I know why I go to church. But I can't really figure it out for anyone else. I guess some people go to escape the fiery pits of hell. But for hippies like me who doesn't believe in hell, there has to be a more proactive draw, and it's gotta be pretty proactive to drag people out of bed on a Sunday morning without the guarantee of mimosas.

So I'm especially intrigued/puzzled as to what came over the disciples that they would quit their fishing careers and follow a dirty socialist hippie who wasn't always nice to them all over town. Sometimes I think it's because wherever Jesus was, there was wine too. (I don't believe for a moment that those rambling tripped-out parables were told in sober daylight.)

But these guys were willing to die for his message, and it seems that they could just as easily get alcohol from crashing the nearest Canaan wedding. The Gospels describe these guys as just regular old schmucks, many of them really slow on the uptake, not terribly progressive, and not particularly well-spoken either. What did they see in Jesus? What reasons could they possibly have for adopting this radical lifestyle for which they risked ridicule, persecution, and death?

Well, I have no idea. But, I know why they would be his friend. In fact, I have found a poetic list of reasons, in the form of a ballad by 23-year-old Chicagoan, Joe Pug. I have no idea what Joe is actually talking about in this song; for all I know he's arguing the merits of his bowling league.

But it sounds a lot like going to church, of attending the Last Supper, of choosing this oft-unappealing lifestyle of wishing aloud among the over-dressed crowd, of testing the timber of one's heart.

 

This next tune is Jesus' solo. It begins with a plea for forgiveness (of others) and ends with a benediction: "Always remember there was nothing worth sharing like the love that let us share our name." From what I understand, one of Jesus' great offenses is that he called God "Father," and bid us to do the same. He told us that we were all his brothers, that we shared the same father, that we shared the same name--"child of God." 

No need to get over-alarmed; I'm comin' home.

If you want to completely obliterate my entire day, make me listen to this next song.

Justin Vernon, aka Bon Iver, begins the heartbreaker with the line, "This my excavation/Today is Qumran." He explains the Qumran reference in an interview: "It's referring to the excavations where they found the Dead Sea Scrolls. When they found them it changed the whole course of Christianity, whether people wanted to know it or not. A lot of people chose to ignore it, a lot of people decided to run with it, and for many people it destroyed their faith, so I think I was just looking at it as a metaphor for whatever happens after that is new shit."

What he said.

None of the apostles saw Good Friday coming. The Messiah wasn't supposed to die. It sort of ruined everyone's plans. I'm sure that their collective faith was dramatically shaken, and it's not entirely clear if any of them truly recovered. Once the initial shock wore off, they were forced into a melancholy decision: Would they run with it, or would it destroy their faith?

This song brings up a lot of these life-altering questions, and also just sets the tone for serious sorrow. I'm going to give St. John (the most poetic of the apostles) this solo.

Also, this is also a really great make-out song. But that is neither here nor there.

 

Ever the drama queen, this is Mary-Magdalene's solo:

 

I imagine this sung by the three Marys who went to visit Jesus' tomb. It has a sacred feel to it but it also sounds somewhat auspicious.

Early in the morning, I'll come calling, I'll come calling after you
Though you seldom answer, still I wonder, what will pass here when you do
Delicate in grasses, bright and ashen, breathing sweet a ruby nest
Early in the morning, in the morning, withered, singing we will rest

 

Our next tune brings us into the Great Easter Vigil, my favorite service of the whole wide year.

Alexi Murdoch's whiskey-warmed Scottish drawl would sound mighty beautiful singing fireside folk tunes into the morning. That is what this song sounds like to me. It comes across as an improvised mix of wise murmurs and long sacred silences, very much like the Easter Vigil itself. The silences aren't boring; they're filled with potential, they're heavy with suspence. Battered and broken-hearted though Murdoch would have us believe he is (judging by an unkempt beard and sullen eyes), he sounds downright joyful once he gets going in this song. 

 

The choral finale is springtime jubilation. The lead singer is St. Thomas, and of course the other apostles are the back-up dancers. Costume change involves sparkles and sequins.

Then all the actors bow, accept bouquets of flowers, autograph their headshots, and do it all again next year.