boy, those lutherans sure can sing

I speak in particular here of the National Lutheran Choir, whose annual Advent concert Steve and I attended Saturday night at the Basilica of St. Mary (our second "date" without Daniel since he was born), as we have for the past four or five years. The choir aside, it seems like most of my Lutheran friends are musical in one way or another. Maybe it's because they went to St. Olaf College, where music reigns supreme, or maybe there is something larger about the Lutheran zeitgeist that fosters a love for singing. I remember reading an essay by Garrison Keillor, posted on my very musical, Lutheran friend Liz's blog a while back: "We make fun of Lutherans for their blandness, their excessive calm, their fear of giving offense, their constant guilt that burns like a pilot light, their lack of speed and also their secret fondness for macaroni and cheese," he writes. "But nobody sings like them."

Anyway, the concert was exquisite, magnificent, even mystical in parts. At one point, the choir was spread throughout the whole, huge basilica, the singers in their black robes and cross pendants lined up and down the aisle, sustaining a series of undulating notes that would have reminded a more cynical me of an episode of Star Trek but which, at the time, felt like being carried along on the breath of angels.

This year, I find that I am especially drawn to images of Mary holding her sleeping infant son. I have always found the paintings beautiful and interesting (and sometimes funny, when the image of Jesus looks like a miniature grown man), but now I linger at the paintings and think about how familiar that pose is, how it reminds me of the way I cradle my own son in my arms, how he sometimes looks like a wise little man hands himself when he holds his hands out in a certain way. The same with music: As the choir and audience sang Silent Night together that night — "Holy Infant so tender and mild" — tears rolled down my face. As a Catholic of the post-Vatican II generation, I have never been really into Mary, the way some women of my mother's generation are. But now I'm thinking that becoming a mother has given me a new soft spot for her. When I think of all she went through with that son of hers, it's easier to put myself in her shoes and imagine what a strong, brave, patient woman she must have been.