The Choir of St. John's College, Cambridge
As I write this post I am listening to a CD of the St. John’s College Choir. Wooster had the wonderful privilege of being the last stop on their American tour yesterday, and the Hamptons had the wonderful privilege of hosting three of the schoolboy treble choristers overnight.
This post could take a serious turn or it could be lighthearted. I’d like it to be both but don’t know how to join the two felicitously…except to warn my readers of the mixed mood. On the serious side, the concert was incredible. Except for the encores, it was all religious music, enthusiastically received by a large and appreciative audience. The paired pieces that stood out for Chuck and me were the settings of Psalm 102:1, “Hear My Prayer, O Lord, ” by Henry Purcell and “My Prayer” by Bob Chilcott. The modern interweaving of the parts in the second one created such a sense of power; in fact, I felt as though the performed music and text could bear and then carry all the grief and anxiety of the last few months straight from me to God where I could leave them. We must not have been alone because when I was choosing between the two CDs for sale, I asked the choir’s agent if the choir had recorded these pieces and she said no but that I was the 900th person to ask her that!
As for the boys, what a blend of immaturity/innocence and learned sophistication! They were so cute, with the scrubbed choirboy purity and the all-boy playfulness. Toss in posh British accents, and what's not to love? Actually we had seven of them (half the little ones) at our house at one point or another: the original two we were to host (Angus and Luke), another one who got added because we had an extra bed (Teddy) and Charlie who had no place for the afternoon free time and Quintin and Stephen whose 83 year old host thought the boys would enjoy us more than her during that free time as well. Then after the concert Angus and George switched hosts because G had a cat allergy to his host's cat (thanks Werther for your sacrifice on G’s behalf). I had our buckets of lego and playmobiles out for these 10 – 12 year olds, and board games out as well. But it was the treadmill that caught their fancy. No amount of warning prevented one of them (the little more portly guy—identity protected here ☺) from setting it so fast that it flung him off. I had to get him ice to put on his rug-burned knees but later he sereptitiously gave me a peek at where his little bottom was red too. I couldn’t kiss it and make it better, alas, mummy substitute though I was. He survived a little worse for the wear. Luke had brought a football and within minutes our street became a soccer pitch. With all their rehearsal and travel time, they really needed to burn off energy, and a pick-up soccer game was a perfect solution. (Knowledgeable midnight discussions of Chelsea’s chances to win it all in England this year with their male host were appreciated by Luke and crew ☺) The old Wallace and Gromit videos were also a hit—made before some of them were born!
We had met George at the dinner preceding the concert when, after the decision to switch houses, he had inquired whether he would be rooming with Luke or Teddy. He was much relieved that he was with Luke in the blue bedroom and not with Teddy in the pink one; in fact, hand over his mouth, he chortled with glee that T would be in the girl’s room. Despite this teasing and the fact that he was only 11 and probably chagrined at his fate, T took his lodgings with good grace. (We told him he had the best mattress!) G at 9 was the youngest and smallest of the choir. He hardly came to the shoulders of the chorister next to him and he struggled to keep his medieval-style gown on his shoulders over his blazer, shuffled his music in his folder long after the other boys had found the right piece and looked as though he could fall asleep on his feet. I just wanted to take him home and put him to bed, but when he did get home after the reception at 11:00 p.m. (on time change night), he was the last one to fall asleep! I had to shush him after we finally got them all down, still talking away to Luke. (Teddy was blissfully asleep in the other room.) Perhaps he was chosen for the choir so young because of his perfect pitch. Luke said “B-flat,” George hesitated and sang a note. I raced to the piano to plunk out B-flat and sure enough it was B-flat. Amazing.
Because we were not allowed to leave these little guys alone, we had to figure out what to do during church this morning. We finally decided on no Sunday School, to church during the worship portion (I was singing this morning and couldn’t skip) and then back home to pack suitcases during the sermon (which was going to be taking the temperature of the congregation mid-way through some serious group reflection). Teddy thought it might be cool to wear his choir regalia, but decided against it (probably wisely) and wore his Winnie the Pooh sweater inside out instead ☺ Not surprisingly, though they could discuss the Faure Requiem intelligently and burst into parts of it as a matter of course, they knew none of our praise music. G, thumb in mouth, just snuggled up to Chuck for most of the worship time. Their discussion of that portion of the service as I took them home was fascinating. “Weird” was the judgment. No introit, no gospel, no epistle, no nothing that was familiar. (Ah, boys, if only you realized that most of the people in the church would judge your service as “weird” as well but we will leave you in blissful ignorance.) Teddy (whose father is a curate at an abbey north of Cambridge) and George continued a conversation that must have been on-going. “George, if you don’t go to services on Christmas and Easter, the two most important feast days of the church, then I just do not see how you could call yourself a Christian.” George protested that going to six services a week otherwise ought to count for something, but then the force of Teddy’s argument must have hit home. He allowed as how his father hadn’t felt well on Christmas and that’s why they had stayed home. I suppose I could have interjected something about how going to church does not define who is a Christian, but I did not. They turned to discussing how they organize their music during evensongs and when they had packed their suitcases (almost, in Teddy’s case—can you tell I really like Teddy?—forgetting to put in his concert trousers), they played a bit more soccer before it was time to meet the bus.
Lord, bless these precious little guys who sing the truth of your gospel every day, and bring them into your kingdom with all their rich gifts to serve you and others. Amen.
As I said, a wonderful privilege (and a nostalgic taste of our most favorite of all cities in the world).
This post could take a serious turn or it could be lighthearted. I’d like it to be both but don’t know how to join the two felicitously…except to warn my readers of the mixed mood. On the serious side, the concert was incredible. Except for the encores, it was all religious music, enthusiastically received by a large and appreciative audience. The paired pieces that stood out for Chuck and me were the settings of Psalm 102:1, “Hear My Prayer, O Lord, ” by Henry Purcell and “My Prayer” by Bob Chilcott. The modern interweaving of the parts in the second one created such a sense of power; in fact, I felt as though the performed music and text could bear and then carry all the grief and anxiety of the last few months straight from me to God where I could leave them. We must not have been alone because when I was choosing between the two CDs for sale, I asked the choir’s agent if the choir had recorded these pieces and she said no but that I was the 900th person to ask her that!
As for the boys, what a blend of immaturity/innocence and learned sophistication! They were so cute, with the scrubbed choirboy purity and the all-boy playfulness. Toss in posh British accents, and what's not to love? Actually we had seven of them (half the little ones) at our house at one point or another: the original two we were to host (Angus and Luke), another one who got added because we had an extra bed (Teddy) and Charlie who had no place for the afternoon free time and Quintin and Stephen whose 83 year old host thought the boys would enjoy us more than her during that free time as well. Then after the concert Angus and George switched hosts because G had a cat allergy to his host's cat (thanks Werther for your sacrifice on G’s behalf). I had our buckets of lego and playmobiles out for these 10 – 12 year olds, and board games out as well. But it was the treadmill that caught their fancy. No amount of warning prevented one of them (the little more portly guy—identity protected here ☺) from setting it so fast that it flung him off. I had to get him ice to put on his rug-burned knees but later he sereptitiously gave me a peek at where his little bottom was red too. I couldn’t kiss it and make it better, alas, mummy substitute though I was. He survived a little worse for the wear. Luke had brought a football and within minutes our street became a soccer pitch. With all their rehearsal and travel time, they really needed to burn off energy, and a pick-up soccer game was a perfect solution. (Knowledgeable midnight discussions of Chelsea’s chances to win it all in England this year with their male host were appreciated by Luke and crew ☺) The old Wallace and Gromit videos were also a hit—made before some of them were born!
We had met George at the dinner preceding the concert when, after the decision to switch houses, he had inquired whether he would be rooming with Luke or Teddy. He was much relieved that he was with Luke in the blue bedroom and not with Teddy in the pink one; in fact, hand over his mouth, he chortled with glee that T would be in the girl’s room. Despite this teasing and the fact that he was only 11 and probably chagrined at his fate, T took his lodgings with good grace. (We told him he had the best mattress!) G at 9 was the youngest and smallest of the choir. He hardly came to the shoulders of the chorister next to him and he struggled to keep his medieval-style gown on his shoulders over his blazer, shuffled his music in his folder long after the other boys had found the right piece and looked as though he could fall asleep on his feet. I just wanted to take him home and put him to bed, but when he did get home after the reception at 11:00 p.m. (on time change night), he was the last one to fall asleep! I had to shush him after we finally got them all down, still talking away to Luke. (Teddy was blissfully asleep in the other room.) Perhaps he was chosen for the choir so young because of his perfect pitch. Luke said “B-flat,” George hesitated and sang a note. I raced to the piano to plunk out B-flat and sure enough it was B-flat. Amazing.
Because we were not allowed to leave these little guys alone, we had to figure out what to do during church this morning. We finally decided on no Sunday School, to church during the worship portion (I was singing this morning and couldn’t skip) and then back home to pack suitcases during the sermon (which was going to be taking the temperature of the congregation mid-way through some serious group reflection). Teddy thought it might be cool to wear his choir regalia, but decided against it (probably wisely) and wore his Winnie the Pooh sweater inside out instead ☺ Not surprisingly, though they could discuss the Faure Requiem intelligently and burst into parts of it as a matter of course, they knew none of our praise music. G, thumb in mouth, just snuggled up to Chuck for most of the worship time. Their discussion of that portion of the service as I took them home was fascinating. “Weird” was the judgment. No introit, no gospel, no epistle, no nothing that was familiar. (Ah, boys, if only you realized that most of the people in the church would judge your service as “weird” as well but we will leave you in blissful ignorance.) Teddy (whose father is a curate at an abbey north of Cambridge) and George continued a conversation that must have been on-going. “George, if you don’t go to services on Christmas and Easter, the two most important feast days of the church, then I just do not see how you could call yourself a Christian.” George protested that going to six services a week otherwise ought to count for something, but then the force of Teddy’s argument must have hit home. He allowed as how his father hadn’t felt well on Christmas and that’s why they had stayed home. I suppose I could have interjected something about how going to church does not define who is a Christian, but I did not. They turned to discussing how they organize their music during evensongs and when they had packed their suitcases (almost, in Teddy’s case—can you tell I really like Teddy?—forgetting to put in his concert trousers), they played a bit more soccer before it was time to meet the bus.
Lord, bless these precious little guys who sing the truth of your gospel every day, and bring them into your kingdom with all their rich gifts to serve you and others. Amen.
As I said, a wonderful privilege (and a nostalgic taste of our most favorite of all cities in the world).
posted by Barb @ 9:25 PM
1 Comments:
At 1:27 PM,
Anonymous said…
Amelia, you are "mummy-ing" with the best of them. I am praying for great blessings on your important work, the results of which probably won't be measureable by the world's standards but are so important to us all.
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