The Voices Sing

I had the opportunity, moreso, privilege to experience the choral stylings of the William Baker Festival Singers last night. The concert was held at Peachtree Christian Church-- a building that has seen so much history, so many families and friends come and go throughout its numerous years of standing there. You can feel the heaviness in the air of all the laughter, tears and hugs that were once exchanged within its walls.

Getting off of the elevator, there was a straight-shot view between myself and the woman taking the tickets. Behind her the choir was getting ready to go on stage. There was a faint cloud of titters and laughter, pats on the back and hand motions while they went over lyrics at the last minute. My eyes shifted to the choir and then fell back on her, and I had to remember to smile as I approached. I can feel the ache in my shoulders from the day's stresses tense up and relax a little bit as I silently agreed to leave work, at work.

Taking my ticket with a smile and a thank you, she pointed me in the direction of the back of the sanctuary. "Don't want you to have to step over any of the choir members to find a seat," she mused. I obliged with a smile and an assured "Oh! Thank you!" and rounded the corner to the side cooridor.

As I turned the corner from the corridor to the main hall in the back of the sanctuary, my steps were padded by the deep, velvety carpet that softened the area. Though it seemed to add a sense of commandment to the space, my eye was immediately drawn upward to the paintings of past leaders of this said church. Old, dead white guys adorned in robes and holding a bible in a half smile. I hesitated for a moment to walk over and look at the dates of their sovereignty in this church, only to be interrupted by an alter boy in a black suit and no smile to hand me a program. I flash him an oh-you-caught-me-off-guard smile and he turned and opened the door for me.

The inside of the sanctuary is what I had imagined, and more. A cool breeze glided past me as my eyes shifted upward to the massively tall ceilings, adorned with paintings and beautifully carved wood trimmings. There was a deep-red runner that lead from the door straight to the pulpit where the choir stood. I walked one, two, three, rows from the back and sat down, not realizing how old the pew must have been: as I sat down it made an uncomfortable creaking noise that resonated throughout the room. I had decided, then, that whatever position I settled in, that would have to be it for the next hour. No exceptions.

Stained glass surrounded the sanctuary: a different set of stories for each facade the space offered. The evening light coolly illuminated each feature, allowing the rich colors and textures of each piece of broken and mended glass to glow. It was hard to focus on the choir at first, especially with the largest piece directly above them: a comforting picture of Jesus Christ calling forth His lost and showing them pathway to irreplaceable love.

The conductor approached his stand immediately after I sat down and began to give his introductions of the group that stood in formulaic unison behind him. He spoke with a very easy, consistent tone while surprisingly keeping his hands very still. After the introduction he turned to the choir with a boldness and confidence I haven't seen in a while-- and with one raise and fall of his hand, they began to sing.

As the tenors started singing the first verse of the song my eyes immediately slid closed. The unison of their voices was as warm as a genuine embrace on a cold day. As they effortlessly chanted, my heart slowed to the rhythm of the song. I was surprised at the power that these voices had over my body: the security and safeness that I felt by just listening to them sing the beginnings of this German Requiem.

The sopranos and altos blended in with the tenors like cream and sugar into a rich cup of coffee and I enjoyed drinking in every last sip. They sang from the texts of William Shakespeare, renditions of Bach and Mozart and intricately written pieces from the British and German cultures. The female soloists offered an enthralling and piercing sense of settlement and peace with their voices, causing me to sit up just to see who (and how) such a person could sound so effortlessly angelic.

The ensemble rounded out their concert by singing folklore songs from the times of slavery-- clearly enjoying every crescendo and sharp each song mandated. I unconsciously nodded my head and tapped my foot as the choir did, but was just thrilled that I could actually recognize the words.

At the end of the concert, the conductor turned and bowed joyfully to the audience, quite assuredly smiling inside. He had done it again and there was a group of people that could completely agree and appreciate him for it. I stood and clapped, allowing myself a few seconds to give my offering of hand praise to the group. After a short while, I grabbed my things and tip-toed out the back before the room had completely settled after the final applause. As I emerged from the church, I took a deep, alighting breath to realize that this was truly, indeed, a very wonderful, wonderful experience.