The driver, a knowledgeable Buddhist, was more than just politely surprised at my knowing the text in Latin and the King James version, and the assurance that in Latin Rite and Orthodox congregations across the world the Lamentations of Jeremiah would be being sung in musical settings - most of them ancient and very formally demanding - lasting many hours during the course of Holy Week.
If there is a postmodern lesson to be learned in all this, I suppose it's that civilisations never quite abandon or forget their meta-narratives. They just morph like this one into ganja-sodden Rastafarian versions for the disco generation, where the only technical developments are that some of the voices are entirely studio created and half the line-up lip-synch.
The liturgy in which the Lamentations are heard is called Tenebrae, the lessons delivered in the darkness. They are the psalms and readings for Matins and Lauds appointed for the Thursday, Friday and Saturday of Holy Week, normally sung the night before in a near-darkened church where one of the few candles is extinguished at the end of each psalm. In Catholic churches in Australia, which are often poor, mean buildings, it can be a distinct advantage not to be able to see where you are and to have to fall back on the texts and the music.
The texts are structured around the Babylonian Exile, which ended in 538BC. In Judaism it is seen as the period where God punished his chosen people for their faithlessness in straying after strange gods, before restoring them to the promised land and allowing them to rebuild the Temple in Jerusalem.
In the Christian liturgy, the narrative of exile is conflated with the advent and rejection of Christ as the Messiah, his crucifixion and the new covenant. It is a season of sackcloth and ashes, transfigured by the prospect of Easter and renewal.
Jeremiah's lamentations over Jerusalem are plangent at any time and it is arguable that there is no year's Lent in living memory when the church has had more need or urgent occasion to invoke them.
Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo: facta est quasi vidua domina gentium: princeps provinciarum facta est sub tribute. "How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of people! How is she become as a widow! She that was great among the nations and princess among the provinces, how is she reduced to paying tribute."
Plorans ploravit in nocte, et lacrimae ejus in maxillis ejus: non est qui consoletur eam ex omnibus caris ejus: omnes amici ejus spreverent eam, et facti sunt inimici. "She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks: among all who love her she hath none to comfort her: all her friends have dealt treacherously with her, they are become her enemies."
If words such as these have the power to move you, read them over slowly aloud the way you encounter poetry for the first time. If the Latin is more of a distraction than a help, disregard it. If you have the luxury of time, familiarise yourself with the texts and Google them in performance. The Gregorian chant version, augmented with Tomas Luis de Victoria's settings of the responsories, is probably the best-loved. Couperin's Lecons de Tenebres is ravishing in a different way; a triumph of baroque minimalism, once heard, never forgotten.
Migravit Judas propter afflictionem, et multitudinem servitutis: habitavit inter gentes, nec invenit requiem: omnes persecutors ejus apprehenderunt eam inter angustias. "Judah is gone into captivity because of affliction, and because of great servitude: she dwelleth among the heathen, she findeth no rest: all her persecutors overtook her between the straits."
Vitae Sion lugent eo quod non sint qui veniant ad solemnitatem: omnes portae ejus destructae: sacerdotes ejus gementes: virgines ejus squalidae, et ipsa oppressa amaritudine. "The paths of Zion mourn, because none come to the solemn feasts: all her gates are desolate: her priests sigh, her virgins are afflicted, and she is in bitterness."
In his commentary on the Way of the Cross at the Roman Forum during Holy Week 2005, days before he was elected pope, Joseph Ratzinger talked about "the filth that defiles the church". He was the first person in a position of great authority to do so in many years and took unprecedented steps to expunge it but got virtually no credit for doing so in most of the media.
Jeremiah's lament over Jerusalem tells us: Sordes ejus in pedibus ejus, nec recordata est finis sui: deposita est vehementer, non habens consolatorem. "Her filthiness is in her skirts, she remembereth not her last end; therefore she has been overthrown, she had no comforter."
In among the lamentations and the penitential Psalms there are signs of hope; not least, St Paul's recapitulation of the Last Supper.
Also fresh in my mind is a lesson from St Augustine on the Psalms: "I would to God that the ungodly who now try us were converted, and so were on trial with us. Yet, though they continue to try us, let us not hate them: for we know not whether any of them will continue to the end in his evil ways. And mostly, when thou thinkest thyself to be hating thine enemy, thou hatest thy brother, and knowest it not."
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