It's a lament

Klagen. It's a German word, pronounced with an "ah" vowel. At the beginning the back of the tongue is up against the soft palate; you push air past it to release the k sound. The l is formed as the tip of the tongue touches the alveolar ridge behind the front teeth and then lowers; there's a little more pressure involved in German than in English. You need a big open space for the ah, especially if you're singing, with the tongue dropping to the bottom of the mouth. The g at the beginning of the second syllable is made like the k, except it's voiced, which means the vocal chords tense and vibrate as the air is released; put your fingers gently on your throat and you can feel the vibration. The e is a schwa sound, open, neutral, represented in the phonetic alphabet by an upside down lowercase e. Close off the sound with a final n, short but pitched if you're singing.

Klagen is the word for lament that lofts through the opening chorus of Bach's St. Matthew Passion: "Kommt, ihr Töchter, helft mir klagen" -- Come, you daughters, help me to lament. The ah sound makes room for the music, but the k in kommt and again in klagen brings the intensity. Choral directors want the vowel sound on the beat and the k in front of it, sent out into the room with emphasis and clarity. There is no soft edge on this grief, no sliding gently into it. It insists and is then sustained, on a long line of pulsing sorrow. 

The music goes on to call for witnesses: Sehet! See! See what? See the Lamb of God, suffering, slaughtered, patient, bearing the pain of the cross out of love and grace. A call for lament. A majestic piece of music, complex, graceful, intense, emotional.
Up until a few days ago, I was still lost in the details of this chorus as part of the choir preparing to sing the St. Matthew Passion this weekend. I'm in Choir 2, voices that interject questions—where, who, what—when called on by Choir 1 to join the lament. I don't want to screw up and sing those interjections on the wrong pitch, or worse, the wrong beat, so I focus on singing the notes spot on. Let the meaning of the words take shape in the ears of the audience. 

But last weekend I attended a memorial service online which began with Silence and Lament. Verses from the Psalms expressed sorrow and desolation. We read a Litany of Lament in which the congregation's response was "Living God, be with us in our pain." 

Not "Living God, take away our pain." 

No, we're came together to talk about grief and sorrow. The homily spoke of pain and protest. Mourners named what was lost and shared their deep grief. At the end, there was a prayer for consolation, and the life that was lost was commended to God's care. But there was so turning away from lament. I began to think of things in my own life that were, perhaps, insufficiently lamented.

The experience changed how I'm thinking about the St. Matthew Passion, about the word klagen and this chorus that invites listeners into the contemplation of Christ's death on Good Friday. Many, many words have been written to describe, analyze and explain this monument of western choral music and theology, a great work by a great composer. In the past weeks I've searched for a few choice words to describe it in publicity materials. Lament has not been one of the words that I've used. But now it's everywhere.

Somehow I missed this earlier. And it's not because of the challenges of singing in the chorus, of being ready to spit out fast-moving German texts at the drop of a downbeat. It may have something to do with the solo arias that express lament being long. They're gorgeous, each one unique and complex, with highly emotional, personal texts. But they're a lot to sit through under bright lights and the imperatives of looking interested and staying alert for what's next. 

There's a bigger reason why I haven't responded to the heavy call of lament before in this work. Ironically (perversely) it's bound up in being raised Lutheran on a steady diet of -- yes, I'll say it -- penal substitutionary atonement theology. I don't much care about the systematic theology behind it, or even how you get around it. But I will confess that it's left a grim residue in my celebration of Lent and Holy Week. "I crucified thee," we sing in a Good Friday hymn. There's heavy guilt there, self-accusation and deep feelings of unworthiness. As a child I took this way too much to heart. Decades later I squirm and resist, rather than wallow in shame. 

When I joined the lament in the memorial service last weekend, I felt my own grief and loss rise from heart to throat, remembering. At the next day's Passion rehearsal I felt the lament rise there as well—kommt, klagen. It's a lament for Jesus, yes. But as we feel things with one another, it becomes a lament for everything—so much grief, so many losses, the sorrow of the world. The sorrow of parents who've lost a child, of people who've lost a life partner. The sorrow of earthquake survivors in Turkey, of civilian victims of the war in Ukraine, of men of color suffering under police beatings in America. 

There is much to lament -- the world should not be this way. But Jesus in his Passion carries our sorrow, is with us. Laments with us. It doesn't take away our pain, but Bach's music reminds us that love -- love from God -- transforms it.