Seated in the choir stalls, you gather your surplice more closely around you and glimpse the deep red material of your cassock sleeve; you feel the part.
You look round at your fellow choir members, at their pensive and expectant faces; you feel part of something.
You contemplate the burnished wood of the stalls and the rood screen, the ornate bishop’s throne, the stained glass high above in the transept opposite; you feel humble in the face of what you’re part of.
You stand. The psalm is a daunting prospect: to keep an eye on the music of the chant, read the sixteenth century text, match the symbols of the pointing to the words, listen to the other singers and watch the conductor, all at the same time. It all unfolds as a serene, almost out of body experience and seems to go on for a very long time. The pauses in the final Gloria are spot on. You can do it, like generations of choristers before you; you feel part of a rich and timeless tradition.
The service setting is rich in emotion and word painting: soft and loud, high and low, fast and slow, matching the ebb and flow of the text. You all continually and subconsciously adjust your tone and volume to match the other singers, blending to sound as one; you feel together.
It suddenly bears in on you that this is for real. The hubbub of preparation which accompanied the final run-through has given way to a deep, respectful silence that the choir alone must fill. You sense the presence of the priest, the servers, the congregation. You can’t stop now and time moves inexorably on towards the end of the piece while seeming to stand still at the same time. After the uncomplicated immediacy of the practice, the music now sounds simultaneously very real and yet strangely disembodied and detached as it floats out into the expectant space; you feel as if you’re carrying a sparkling crystal glass bowl that you daren’t drop.
That awkward entry that kept eluding you in the practice passes without a hitch. You finally realised that it was better to get your note from one of the voice parts than from the accompaniment; you feel relief at not letting the side down.
The last few bars are quiet, sustained and exposed. The choir navigates the long pianissimo chords and the seemingly endless final diminuendo without sagging and places the final consonant together; you feel that the glass bowl is safely back on its shelf.
Today’s anthem is one of the big ones, a true classic brimming with the self-confidence and certainty of a bygone age, yet still moving and meaningful, still managing to speak to our own time. The organ build-up is majestic; you feel a shiver down your spine.
The choir comes in. All mental clutter has been banished and no thought from outside intrudes; you feel complete focus, total concentration, one hundred percent involvement.
The music is stately and magnificent now. Choir and organ are flat out. You’re engulfed by a thrilling wash of sound. This is one of the great moments of the Anglican choral repertoire; you feel totally in that moment, as if you’re riding the crest of a wave.
As the final chord resounds in the warm acoustic of the building, you catch the conductor’s eye. You know that all the hard work in rehearsal paid off; you feel the warm glow of having contributed a little to a job well done.
The final hymn begins. You take care to mirror your opposite number as the procession forms up and starts to move. Out of the corner of your eye you take in the faces of the congregation as you pass, proud of their choir and glad to have them there; you feel that you belong.
The choir gathers in the contemplative hush of the chapter house after the service. Not just another service; it’s never just another service. The Chorister Prayer is recited; you feel the power that called you to this place.
You look round at their faces one more time; you know that they feel it all too.
You take your leave and go out on to the green beside the river. People are strolling along the river bank, enjoying the spring sunshine. Everyday life resumes, the same as before, yet somehow not quite the same. Your perception of the light, the hum of activity, the stately flow of the river is heightened; you realise that a new chapter of your life has begun.
The Chorister Prayer
Bless, O Lord, us thy servants,
who minister in thy temple.
Grant that what we sing with our lips,
we may believe in our hearts,
and what we believe in our hearts,
we may show forth in our lives.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.
by Chris Smythe, Local Ambassador for Inverness
