Meditating on Midnight Mass
The show is a necessary skewering of how easy it can be for an earnest Christian community to be infiltrated by something monstrous.
The show is a necessary skewering of how easy it can be for an earnest Christian community to be infiltrated by something monstrous.
To my surprise, my first thought was, “Ha! Little does she know that gays walk among us.”
Whenever I enter a museum, I rediscover rhythms that I haven’t used since my last trip to Adventureland for nerds.
But I drove home after the interviews like a little sparrow. I was excited to get my hands in the dirt of the world, gracefully or not.
Where was the magic in saltines and Gatorade for dinner, in spiking fevers and loneliness? Where was the magic in canceled flights and missed wedding celebrations?
We are perched side by side on an upper landing in this barn, floating in the resonant space of music we have never heard so close, have never heard unmediated, have never heard in four-part harmony.
You get the lumber laid on you, you get a face wash, you end up in a yard sale—you keep playing.
There’s no escaping a year; we’re in it for the whole, well, year.
What if our words were less like swords (sharpened, polished) and more like textiles—equally demanding to make, but designed to warm rather than to wound?
It asks the question: why must beautiful and capable children be constrained by the law of incompetent guardians?