The cyclical nature of the liturgical year allows for the building of memories tied to very specific moments in one’s life. Christmas is a highlight for many people; even for those who wouldn’t opt to worship regularly in the other 51 weeks of the year, many are drawn back to church for Midnight Mass. Some twice-a-year worshippers also stretch to include Easter Sunday (the term “Creasters” is sometimes used to describe such people).
As a church musician, and someone who goes to church for work every day, let alone every Sunday, I find Holy Week and the Triduum (the period of three days that begins with the liturgy on Maundy Thursday, reaches its high point in the Easter Vigil, and closes on Easter Sunday) a highly evocative time for me. Every year I find myself reflecting on past versions of the same or similar liturgies, and because I have been participating in Holy Week liturgies for a couple decades now, I’ve accumulated a fair number of memories, many of which pop up unexpectedly after being triggered by a psalm verse, hymn, anthem, or prayer. Having hopped around a few different denominations, I’ve also developed preferences when it comes to different hymn harmonizations, anthem settings, and other liturgical elements. It’s not truly Holy Week without experiencing several favorites: Duruflé's Ubi caritas, Sanders’ setting of The Reproaches, Lotti’s Crucifixus, Bach’s O Mensch bewein, and so many heartfelt hymn texts. And what a powerful moment in John 20, when the risen Christ exclaims, “Mary!”
Because I began singing as a chorister at the tender age of 8, my memories of Holy Week go hand in hand with the shifting stages of life. I used to throw my voice at Allegri’s top Cs on Good Friday, and sometimes I featured as Pilate in the chanted Passion Gospel, but as I got older my responsibilities changed, especially after taking up the organ. I recall a few Holy Weeks that coincided with Spring Break from school, which annoyingly meant none of the choristers could travel that week. Secretly, I was quite happy to spend more time at church and less at school, as the choir was my only real source of social life. After leaving Evanston for Rochester and while holding ‘real’ organist jobs for the first time, Holy Week was of course an intense time, especially as degree recitals and juries beckoned at the end of April. Even so, participating in as many liturgies as I could was always a priority during the Triduum. The next chapter, having begun in the last couple of years (i.e., life after school and organ scholarships) has maybe taken away a bit of the novelty of Holy Week that I enjoyed in my childhood; now the magic of the liturgies competes with the stresses of preparing to present a large volume of music in quick succession; will I utterly flub the final bars of the Widor Toccata? Will the brass mis-count their entrance again in the hymn introduction? Will the choir remember all of the intricate details we worked so hard to iron out in the past weeks’ rehearsals? Will the office photocopier hold out long enough to print the hundreds of orders of service needed for the long weekend?
Inevitably, some of the memories that surface each year during this week are unpleasant or frustrating. There was the champagne reception late on Saturday night after the Easter Vigil one year when an adult member of the back row drank too much and acted inappropriately to a young chorister (thankfully, another adult stepped in and I have since recovered). Or the Maundy Thursday when it was announced that a long-serving volunteer and member of the congregation passed away, coloring the service with an extra dimension of sadness. Or the particularly unpleasant Easter brunch at which a relationship ended. Or most recently, the gaping absence of services in the spring of 2020, when COVID denied us all the opportunity to worship together, leaving us to make do with archival recordings and hastily put-together broadcasts. Especially in the UK, where it marks the end of a school term, Holy Week has sometimes coincided with a changing of the musical guard and the pressures that accompany that transition for everyone involved. Still, even if the stakes feel higher due to these varied associations, the profundity of the scripture, music, and liturgy (ideally) overcomes such stressors.
I think it’s important to appreciate and acknowledge these bits of nostalgia, but I do my best not to get too drawn in by them, as the themes of the Triduum are far more important. This year, I have been especially mindful of how many stories mirror that of Christ’s, being put to death as an innocent man. I would imagine this year’s celebrations and commemorations are especially hard for families still reeling in Nashville, for refugees the world around, and for those in Ukraine and elsewhere experiencing an unrelenting war. The narrative of this week allows us to reflect on those in this world who suffer as a result of choices made by others who wield power over them: from war, from guns, from the bigotries of racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, and from every other injustice. Just as the anticipation of Advent is necessary for a fuller appreciation of Christmas, the anxiety, sadness, and confusion of Lent and Holy Week is what makes Easter all the sweeter. May we all reach that sweetness in due course, after weathering whatever wilderness we find ourselves in.
Noli me tangere -Titian