The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) (7 page)

"You fixed supper?" Meg asked. "I haven't been home since I left this morning and I'm starved."

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"Well?" she asked.

"Hasenpfeffer," I said. "I got the recipe from Anka Hoffman at the Heidelberg Haus when I was there last week. Delicious! She gave me a couple of rabbits, too. They've been in the freezer."

"Rabbits?" said Meg, the color draining from her face. "I thought those things in the freezer were for Archimedes."

Archimedes was a barn owl that shared our home, but was definitely not what you'd call "tame." He came and went as he pleased, thanks to an electronic window in the kitchen, but spent much of the winter settled either on the head of the stuffed buffalo or on a perch that I'd fashioned above the fireplace in the living room. I supplemented his diet during the cold months, either with baby squirrels or chipmunks that I got from my friend Kent Murphee, the medical examiner in Boone. In the summer, I switched Archimedes' complementary comestibles to mice. No sense in spoiling him too much. Besides, he could always eat bats and feast on the fledglings in August.

"Well, they were hares, actually. Hasenpfeffer is sort of a stew. Very tasty. I left it simmering, so if Baxter hasn't climbed onto the stove, removed the lid and eaten the whole thing, it should be ready when we get home." Baxter was a large dog, but not prone to climbing on stoves. I figured we were safe on that count.

"
Hasenpfeffer
?" said Meg again. "
Really?
"

"You'll love it," I said. "Just don't ask what's in it."

"Well, thanks a lot. Now I have to know."

"Hmm. Well, there's the rabbit. Onions, a lot of pepper." I thought for a moment. "Garlic, lemon, thyme, rosemary...a bunch of spices like that. Oh, yeah. Juniper berries and cloves. And wine. A whole bottle."

"I've never had rabbit, but that doesn't sound too bad. Anything else?"

"I can't remember," I lied, choosing not to tell Meg about the part of the recipe that included braising the pieces of meat in a marinade thickened with the poor bunny's blood. Instead, I changed the subject.

"I thought the cantata went okay considering that it was our first time through it."

"You're dreaming," said Meg. "It's hard to read. It's hard to sing. The harmonies make no sense."

"They
do
, though," I argued. "They just don't go where you want them to. It is different, I'll give you that much. I
will
admit that the hand-written manuscript is not what we're used to. It may take a little time."

Meg just shook her head. "Two weeks left. I hope you know what you're doing. Hey! I just thought of something. 'Waiter, there's a hare in my stew!'"

"Yuk yuk. Wasn't funny when I tried it on the waitress at the Heidelberg Haus, either."

"Joy to the world," warbled the stereo, "the Lord is come!"

Chapter 5

The Great Christmas Tree Debate at St. Barnabas had raged for almost fifty years. In 1957, Mrs. Frances Kipps Spenser, a fashion coordinator at Herman's Department Store in Danville, Virginia, thought that the usual brightly colored Christmas ornaments were just not appropriate for a setting of worship, and so began researching and looking for something that would better reflect the Christian faith. What she came up with were Christian symbols made of Styrofoam, gold plastic beads and pearls. The Protestant community immediately clutched these Styrofoam ornaments (but gently...oh so gently) to their collective bosoms so fervently that Mrs. Spenser decided to trademark the term Chrismon™ (a combination of the words "Christ" and "monogram"), lest some unscrupulous entrepreneur do it later and try to make a buck. She then deeded the trademark to the local Lutheran church, henceforth and forever more to be known as Chrismon Central. There are now rules about how to hang the Chrismons, rules governing acceptable symbols, special gloves required, and so on.

In the 1970s, St. Barnabas got on board the Chrismon train and the Daughters of the King chapter spent one summer working their fingers to the bone making the Chrismons that would be diligently used for the next fifty years. There are only two or three of those Daughters left in the congregation, but they wield considerable influence, and so the specter of the Chrismon tree looms large every Advent.

In direct opposition to the Chrismonites are those who favor the Jesse tree. The Jesse tree has considerably fewer rules than the Chrismon tree, and can be decorated in a variety of ways. The Jessetonians of St. Barnabas—mainly a younger crowd—prefer the "natural" look: bird nests, fruit, stuffed wrens and robins, pine cones, nuts, garlands, and the like. Once, a few years ago, someone snuck a six-foot-long rubber black snake into the branches to represent the serpent in the Garden of Eden. It was quickly removed once Thelma Wingler discovered it. Thelma, then in her seventies, had dropped in early on a Sunday morning and come face to face with the rubber creature while trying to sneak a Chrismon onto the Jesse tree. It was Father Tony who found her sitting next to the tree, her eyes wide and unblinking, a crushed Styrofoam Jesus fish in her twitching hand. Tony had been in the sacristy and heard the wavering scream. The ambulance came and picked her up and Thelma spent the rest of Advent in an assisted living facility, trying to get the dosage of her nerve pills adjusted and shrieking at black extension cords.

The problem with all of this is that we can't actually have a "Christmas tree" at St. Barnabas. The rules are simple. No vestiges of Christmas before Christmas, and Christmas is legally December 25th at 12:00 AM. We hedge on Christmas Eve and pretend that the five o'clock service is really a Christmas service, but that's as close as we'll come to breaking through the invisible Christmas wall.

Since we can't have a Christmas tree, a Chrismon tree or a Jesse tree will suffice. Throw a few stuffed birds or a Styrofoam Chi Rho up in the branches and no one seems to know the difference. The vestry finally came to a compromise several years ago, deciding to placate both theological factions by alternating the trees each year. This is the year of the Chrismons, and it may be their last. For the past decade or so, Wendy Bolling has kept the decorations in a large box in her basement, but over the summer a family of possums had gotten in and made a mess of a lot of the decorations. Possums aren't known for eating Styrofoam, but these critters certainly gave it their best shot. Wendy had tried to do some repair work with a hot-glue gun, straight pins, and a whole lot of glitter, but it was clear that if the Chrismonites were to hold their sway, there would have to be some new ornaments constructed. I didn't see it happening. In my opinion, the days of unemployed ladies of a certain age sitting down together and doing crafts have passed.

The same rules that govern church holiday decorations also govern the singing of Christmas carols and hymns.
No Hark the Herald Angels
or
While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks
before Christmas. Sure, I hedge a bit and throw in
Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming
and
In the Bleak Midwinter
, but I justify them with the scriptures appointed for the day. If we're talking full-blown Christmas hymns—angels and shepherds and mangers and such—it just isn't happening. Meg hates this, as does most of the choir, and to tell the truth, I'm not really much of a fan either. Don't get me wrong. I love the twelve days of Christmas as much as the next guy and I'm a big fan of the Liturgical Police, but who really wants to sing Joy to the World in January?

Unfortunately, on this Sunday, the second Sunday of Advent, there was no getting away from the prophetic, foreboding air of the lectionary. The Book of Malachi:
But who can endure the day of his coming, and who can stand when he appears? For he is like a refiner's fire and he will purify the descendants of Levi and refine them like gold and silver, until they present offerings to the LORD in righteousness.
The Gospel according to Luke:
The word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.

Those people who wanted to sing
The First Nowell
were just plain out of luck. Our anthem by Kodály was fine and the tune (
O Come, O Come, Emmanuel
) was at least familiar and might even be considered "Christmasy" by some. The hymns, however, lacked a certain festive air. It was my fault. I'd picked them back in the fall, not realizing what a blue funk the whole town would be in come December.

Our interim priest didn't help matters any. Father Howard "Ward" Shavers was newly retired and had come up to the mountains from South Florida. Father Shavers and his wife Gina were more in tune with a "contemporary" service than the traditional worship of St. Barnabas. It wasn't that he came in and tried to save us from ourselves as many priests did, but rather, that he just got lost in the service, had a hard time with the prayer book, didn't know any of the Advent hymns in the hymnal, and really wondered why
The First Nowell
wasn't an option.

And crabbiness was still in full force.

* * *

"Ian," I said, as soon as the Sunday service was over. "I wonder if you might lend your expertise in the musicological department. I need someone to do a little research."

In addition to Dr. Ian Burch's talent in the countertenor department, he had put his terminal degree in music history to some practical use as well. Dr. Burch owned and operated the Appalachian Music Shoppe in downtown St. Germaine. The shop was a small store that specialized in reproductions of Medieval and Renaissance instruments: crumhorns, sackbuts, rauschpfeifes, hurdy-gurdies, and the like. He didn't have a big walk-in business, but he did brisk internet sales to schools, madrigal groups, and other parties that found the
wurstfaggot
(or sausage-bassoon) somehow irresistible.

Ian's small dark eyes lit up and he smiled at me through uneven teeth. "Happy to help. Of course you realize that my specialty is the composers of the Burgundian School."

"Yeah," I said. "Not that. I need you to find out about Elle de Fournier. Her style seems to be rooted in the modernist movement active in Paris in the '20s and '30s. I couldn't find her online, but she's an accomplished composer. There must be something about her somewhere."

Ian looked thoughtful for a moment. "I have some people I can call," he said. "Obviously, I have bibliographic sources that you can only guess at. I'll find out."

"That'd be great, Ian. Thanks."

Chapter 6

On Monday morning, I found Mattie Lou Entriken, Wynette Winslow, and Marjorie in the kitchen of the church, diligently making sandwiches to take to the Salvation Army kitchen in Boone. This was something that they did every Thursday afternoon without fail. If they were here on a Monday, something was up.