On Sunday, the English National Opera (orchestra and chorus) gave a benefit performance of "A Child of Our Time," by Michael Tippett, at St. Paul's Cathedral, as a memorial for victims of the tsunami. Gjertrud and I lined up outside St. Paul's at about 4:30, just as the light was fading. By 5:00, when the doors were meant to open, there were hundreds of people lined up down Fleet Street. It was brisk, but clear, so we weren't standing miserably in the rain, and we managed to get great seats, right under the mammoth dome. It was the first time either of us had been inside St. Paul's, and we spent the better part of the hour before the service began craning our necks to look at all of the detail in the frescoes and carvings throughout the cathedral. The place was packed by the time the service started; I don't think I've ever said the Lord's Prayer with so many people before.
"A Child of Our Time" is about Kristallnacht and the persecution of Jewish people during World War II, but its sadness, and final message of hope, was more than fitting to mark the occasion of the tsunami, which was of also a tragedy of incomprehensible scope and scale:
Is evil then good?
Is reason untrue?
Reason is true to itself;
But pity breaks open the heart.
The English National Opera orchestra and chorus (and soloists for that matter!) were incredible, and their sound resonated through the cathedral. The 1000-plus audience, including the kids who sat directly in front of us, were riveted. Nobody moved, no one rustled a program, nothing. The piece is so powerful, and the soloists were so engaging, that we were all wrapped up in the moment. When they finished, the whole gathering sat in silence for a minute, in contemplation, before beginning the thunderous applause. I saw alot of tears on my way out of the cathedral. I'm sure there were alot of happy UNICEF volunteers that night, who were placed at each door with donation buckets at the end of the evening.
The piece is a narrative, between a mother and son separated in the pogroms, woven around African-American spirituals. "A Child of Our Time" is a wonderful modern requiem, in that it invokes the suffering of so many times and places; the holocaust, slavery (and in the music of that time, the Hebrews' exodus), and now, the tsunami. Suffering is universal, and ageless. But what I loved is the final, comforting message of the work:
Here is no final grieving, but an abiding hope.
It seems, then, that hope and redemption are universal, too.
The final spiritual:
Deep river, my home is over Jordan,
Deep river Lord,
I want to cross over into camp-ground.
O, chillun! O, don't you want to go,
To that gospel feast,
That promised land,
That land where all is peace?
Walk into heaven, and take my seat,
And cast down my crown at Jesus' feet.
Deep river, my home is over Jordon,
I want to cross over into camp-ground,
Lord!
"A Child of Our Time" is about Kristallnacht and the persecution of Jewish people during World War II, but its sadness, and final message of hope, was more than fitting to mark the occasion of the tsunami, which was of also a tragedy of incomprehensible scope and scale:
Is evil then good?
Is reason untrue?
Reason is true to itself;
But pity breaks open the heart.
The English National Opera orchestra and chorus (and soloists for that matter!) were incredible, and their sound resonated through the cathedral. The 1000-plus audience, including the kids who sat directly in front of us, were riveted. Nobody moved, no one rustled a program, nothing. The piece is so powerful, and the soloists were so engaging, that we were all wrapped up in the moment. When they finished, the whole gathering sat in silence for a minute, in contemplation, before beginning the thunderous applause. I saw alot of tears on my way out of the cathedral. I'm sure there were alot of happy UNICEF volunteers that night, who were placed at each door with donation buckets at the end of the evening.
The piece is a narrative, between a mother and son separated in the pogroms, woven around African-American spirituals. "A Child of Our Time" is a wonderful modern requiem, in that it invokes the suffering of so many times and places; the holocaust, slavery (and in the music of that time, the Hebrews' exodus), and now, the tsunami. Suffering is universal, and ageless. But what I loved is the final, comforting message of the work:
Here is no final grieving, but an abiding hope.
It seems, then, that hope and redemption are universal, too.
The final spiritual:
Deep river, my home is over Jordan,
Deep river Lord,
I want to cross over into camp-ground.
O, chillun! O, don't you want to go,
To that gospel feast,
That promised land,
That land where all is peace?
Walk into heaven, and take my seat,
And cast down my crown at Jesus' feet.
Deep river, my home is over Jordon,
I want to cross over into camp-ground,
Lord!
