"She wept, she melted. Her heart melted.
Her body melted.
She melted with kindness.
With charity.
Only her head did not melt.
She walked on as if against her will.
She no longer knew herself.
She no longer bore any grudge against anyone.
She melted with kindness.
With charity.
It was too great a misfortune.
Her sorrow was too great.
It was too great a sorrow.
You can't bear a grudge against the world for a misfortune that is greater than the world.
It was no longer any use bearing a grudge against the world.
A grudge against anyone.
She who in the old days would have defended her boy against wild animals.
When he was small.
Today she abandoned him to that crowd.
She let him go.
She let everything sink.
What can a woman do in a crowd.
I ask you.
She no longer knew herself.
She had changed a lot.
She was going to hear the cry.
The cry that never will be quenched in any night of any time.
It wasn't surprising that she no longer knew herself.
Because she wasn't the same.
Up to that day she had been the Queen of Beauty.
And she never again would be, she would never again become the Queen of Beauty except in heaven.
The day of her death and her assumption.
Eternally.
But today she became the Queen of Mercy.
As she will be forever and ever."
- Charles Péguy, The Mystery of the Charity of Joan of Arc
April 11, 2020 - Holy Saturday
During a zoom call a few minutes ago with some of my friends in my fraternity, one of my friends remembered this quote about Mary from Charles Péguy. I had been talking about my experience listening to
Pergolesi's Stabat Mater during the previous 45 minutes while running around my neighborhood.
Why does this music sound joyful?
I compared the experience of listening to what seemed to be inappropriately joyful exultations there at the beginning of the hymn, particularly when the first words specifically state,
Stabat Mater dolorosa - Iuxta crucem lacrimosa - Dum pendebat Filius.
The grieving Mother - stood weeping beside the cross - where her Son was hanging.
This experience doesn't sound very joyful! But I remembered watching
Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ last night, and what was so profoundly compelling was Mary's presence. Literally, jsut the fact that SHE WAS THERE! She followed Jesus every step of his sorrowful path to Golgotha. She was there. This particular version of the passion even shows a seen of Mary asking John, "Can you get me closer to him?" And John, the obedient, loving son, finds a way to get her closer to Jesus.
The song which joyfully sings out "The grieving Mother stood beside the cross..." somehow is joyful, but ow I understand why. SHE WAS THERE, she accompany him, she wiped up his blood, she felt his presence and would never leave him. She knew he had to do his father's will, but like a true mother, could not abandon him. She wanted him to flourish; she recognized in her joyfulness AND in her sorrow that his flourishing lay in his obedience to his father's will, and therefore, obedience to his criminal, unjust death. So how could she be joyful? It's the same way a mother is joyful when she attend her child's wedding, or when she learns her child has been accepted into the college of the child's desiring, or the child has achieved a well-earned accomplishment. She could be joyful because she knew her Son was fulfilling his purpose for being sent to the Earth. The only words on her mouth were precisely the words that changed the history of the world: "Let it be done according to your word." Somehow, accepting an unjust, violent death for her dear Son could be a source of joy because it was done out of pure obedience and unity with God the Father.
Two voices
Another thing that struck me about Pergolesi's Stabat Mater were the moments there were two women's voices meant to sing the one voice of Mary. Why two voices? One could argue that artistically, having a soprano and alto voice are so beautiful complementary; together they help elevate our experience of the music and attune our attention, fascinating us and awakening our heart's desires the way all beauty does. However, I cannot help but think there is a second, more theological reason for the second voice. Most of the music sounds relatively joyful and the soprano line follows the joyful attitude. Maybe the alto line instead is meant to communicate the deeper sadness-- that is, what the words themselves really are communicating. It's the lower, more solemn and serious alto line whose voice is more believable when singing,
She saw her sweet child - die desolate, - as he gave up His spirit.
The two voices are necessary because Mary's heart in front of her suffering, victorious son embodied yet another paradox which we experience in our Christian faith: the word became flesh. The poor in spirit shall inherit the kingdom of heaven. He has filled the starving with good things; the rich he has sent away empty. Mary offered her cousin Elizabeth a litany of paradoxes when she stated her Magnificat. Now she is experiencing one in her own flesh: I am so happy and proud of my son, and yet my heart mourns, my "soul weeps" at seeing my Son crucified. I can walk, I can accompany my son because I am so confident He is doing his Father's will-- this brings total joy to a Mother! And yet, she is "sad and afflicted," because no matter what, at the end of the day, that is her Son, her baby boy, her source of joy, her reasons for living-- her very flesh, she she carried for nine months, gave birth to, and ultimately nurtured for 30 years. That was her Son. But He was also God. Mary understood her Son was also God, and God had a task on Earth. He had a task that only He could do, even if it seemed violent and tragic and sad. In Mary's heart she pondered her Son's task. And in this I believe lies the genius of the soprano and alto. The soprano voice echos Mary's elation at her closeness to her Son and he sense of joy that He is indeed accomplishing his life's work. Meanwhile the alto voice communicates Mary's grieving, weeping, human sadness in front of her Son's pain. How beautiful a paradox! Only such a paradox can explain Mary's gaze on that Good Friday as she accompanied her Son and loved Him-- both in torment and in gladness.
