Beethoven’s “Missa Solemnis” is a grand mass for large orchestra, chorus and four vocal soloists that lasts around 80 minutes. It was written near the end of Beethoven’s life and is his most ambitious work musically and spiritually. “Coming from the heart, may it go to the heart,” he wrote on the first page of the score.

The Beethoven biographer Jan Swafford put it this way: “ ‘Missa Solemnis’ is Beethoven talking to God, man to man. And what they talked about is peace. Creation was for Beethoven’s the magnificence in the world which we inhabit; ‘Missa Solemnis’ is meant to keep it thus.”

Yet among Beethoven’s major works, “Missa Solemnis” is, by far, the least performed, and not merely because of the need for large forces. Conductors struggle to get a handle on its mysteries and intricacies. Upon turning 70 last year, Simon Rattle contended “Missa Solemnis” remains beyond him. Upon his reaching 70, Michael Tilson Thomas made a momentous meal of “Missa Solemnis” 11 years ago with a staged performance with the Los Angeles Philharmonic at Walt Disney Concert Hall.

Gustavo Dudamel, who has been conducting Beethoven since he was a teen, waited until he passed his 45th birthday last month. His first “Missa Solemnis” performances over the weekend at Disney were the centerpiece of his month-long L.A. Phil focus on Beethoven.

That venture began a week earlier with a political statement. Beethoven’s incidental music to Goethe’s drama of liberation, “Egmont,” was updated with a new text that served as an urgent call for protest in our own era of authoritarianism and militarism. Here, Beethoven exerts a compulsion for triumphant glory.

The glory in “Missa Solemnis” is that of stupefaction. By this point in his life, Beethoven has had it with weapons, the drumbeat of soldiers, the addictive emotion of trumpet calls to action. His man-to-man with God is celestial diplomacy. There is no compromise. We either care, at all costs, for our magnificent world or nothing matters.

Dudamel clearly cares. He conducted the massive mass from memory. And costs be damned. He imported from Spain two spectacular choruses — Orfeó Català and Cor de Cambra del Palau de la Música Catalana — a total of some 130 singers who sounded like they had rehearsed for months under their impressive director, Xavier Puig. The four soloists — soprano Pretty Yende, mezzo-soprano Sarah Saturnino, tenor SeokJong Baek and bass Nicholas Brownlee — were needfully robust and powerful. They were placed mid-orchestra, behind the violas and bravely in front of the timpani.

“Missa Solemnis” follows the standard mass text but doesn’t necessarily follow the liturgical narrative. It is a work of theater, dramatizing feelings, as the earlier Disney staging attempted. Director Peter Sellars and conductor Teodor Currentzis have also been promising a major staged “Missa Solemnis” for many years.

The Kyrie opens with a strong D-major chord in the large orchestra that seems an obvious downbeat but turns out to be an upbeat. Down is up. Eighty or more minutes later at the end of the Agnus Dei, when the great plea for peace reaches its ultimate transcendence, up becomes, in one of the most profoundly unsettling moments in all music, down again. We never fully know where we stand in “Missa Solemnis.” Every expectation is thwarted. Beethovenian peace is a nearly superhuman endeavor.

Dudamel‘s approach is to attempt the all-encompassing. He conducted without a baton but with his body. His arms were often open and wide as if embracing the musician masses on the stage, holding the whole world in his hands. Tidiness wasn’t necessarily the issue. Grandeur was. Molding sound was. And, of course, awe.

Throughout his career, Beethoven was the overwhelming master of awe. In “Missa Solemnis,” he out-glories the Gloria. His fugues are a draftsman’s rendering of heavenly splendor. Such awe asks for the superhuman from singers, especially in this ensemble from their ravishing high notes.

But Beethoven also questions every sentiment in the Mass. Grandeur can so suddenly turn solemn that it feels almost a ceremonial sleight of hand. In the Sanctus, a solo violin sails in from nowhere (“descending like a dove from heaven,” Hugh MacDonald nicely puts it in the program note), and suddenly we’re in a violin concerto with vocal soloists of transcendent allure.

The Agnus Dei begins in glum realization that there may be no compensation for humanity’s great sins when, again astonishingly without expectation, one of Beethoven’s uniquely wondrous melodies takes over. Saber-rattling trumpet and timpani intrude and are shushed away as worthless. Peace returns but just as it is about to climax it weakens. There is no grand Beethoven ending. “Missa Solemnis” just stops.

Dudamel’s approach was not, as his Beethoven has generally become, filled with fervent intensity in the moment. That may happen as he gains more experience with Beethoven’s most exigent score. The big moments were still huge, especially with the help of his fabulous chorus. The somber moments were well of the heart. There was eloquent solo playing in the orchestra, and extravagance from the solo singers.

Most unusual was the violin solo. The L.A. Phil is in a concertmaster search, and Alan Snow, the associate concertmaster of the Minnesota Symphony, sat in. He brought silken “descending dove” tone to his solo playing, but at low tone becoming more a voice from afar than soloist. Whether that is simply his sound or what Dudamel was after is, like so much in the “Missa Solemnis,” up to question. Still, its quiet exemplified the elusive essence of peace.

When Dudamel first walked on stage, he got, as he always does and especially in his last season as music director, a strong ovation. At the end of “Missa Solemnis,” the reaction was a respectful standing ovation, unlike the de rigueur rapturous reception he always earns with Beethoven.

Dudamel earned something far more rewarding. It wasn’t a moment for cheering but reflection. True peace in “Missa Solemnis” comes not from winning but from ending conflict, be it between nations, nature or among ourselves. We have as yet too little to celebrate.

Building on the foundation of the original, I Can Only Imagine 2 offers the same inspiration as its predecessor, but on a bigger scale and with a better-developed storyline and cast of characters. 

About the Film 

They say sequels are never as good as the original, but this film proves them wrong. Building on the foundation set by the first film, I Can Only Imagine 2 offers the same inspiration as its predecessor, but on a bigger scale and with a better-developed storyline and cast of characters.  

Set over a decade after the first movie, Bart Millard is back with a family of his own and a fragile relationship with his eldest son, Sam, which he must fight to mend. Sam’s existence in this film adds depth to Bart’s character, echoing Bart’s complicated relationship with his own father. Fear of hurting his son the way his own dad hurt him prevents Bart from developing a deep, personal relationship with Sam. At the film’s heart is the relationship between father and son and how they learn to move forward despite the hurts of the past.  

This movie follows the same structure as the first, but the filmmakers are more confident in their approach this time, which results in a more fully fleshed out plot. They created the “successful Christian movie formula,” and they’re sticking to it. The appearance of Tim Timmons (Milo Ventimiglia) as MercyMe’s opening act saves this movie from being an exact copy-paste of the original. His is a relentlessly optimistic, selfless, joyful presence that provides a foil to the depressed, heavy demeanor Bart carries throughout the majority of the film.  

The band’s personality comes through more clearly this time. They come up with plenty of fun antics that make audiences feel like they’re part of the band. One example is Timmon’s induction, so to speak. He decides to use the bathroom while the bus is moving, and as soon as he steps inside, the bus driver slams on the brakes. Timmons walks out with what we hope is just toilet water covering his shirt, causing the other passengers to laugh. This scene sets the tone for the band’s relationship and provides comedic relief in an otherwise heavy story.

One of my biggest critiques of Christian movies is that they tend to end with an ineffective evangelistic sermon. I Can Only Imagine 2 concludes with Bart reading from his journal in a grief support group, which is a type of sermon. But because it’s part of his personal testimony and relates to the story in a real way, it feels earned.  

This film is a prime example of how Christian movies should be made. Both I Can Only Imagine films address real problems without giving easy answers. The sequel offers a more fleshed out plot and cast of characters, providing the audience with a better constructed yet equally as inspiring movie experience. If you enjoyed the original, you will love this one, too.  

On the Surface

For Consideration

Beneath The Surface

Engage The Film

Gratitude

Whether death, illness, or a broken relationship, tragedies are a part of life. How should Christians handle these trials? In 2 Corinthians 12:9-10, Paul writes, “Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” Furthermore, Romans 5:3-5 says, “Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”  

The leading song of this film, Even If, was co-written by Tim Timmons and Bart Millard. It is about worshipping through doubt and pain and finding gratitude even in dark moments. It came from a place of profound suffering. The cornerstone of this song is the chorus, “I know You’re able/ And I know You can/ Save through the fire/ With your mighty hand/ But even if You don’t/ My hope is You alone.” We must find our hope in God and his goodness, even when we don’t understand his plan. When we look to Jesus in every situation, we can approach life with unexplainable, unending gratitude despite our circumstances.   

Images of Iran’s streets aflame, with protesters facing off against the security forces of a repressive regime, must reawaken traumatic memories for Loubna Mrie. Her participation in similar protests in Syria inspired her career as a photographer and journalist. But the price she paid was exorbitant — in her words, a life “decimated by grief and loss and exile.”

“Defiance” offers a prism on Syria’s authoritarian society before the 2011 uprising and subsequent civil war, and vivid snapshots of the devastation that the war unleashed. Its subtitle, about awakening and survival, underlines Mrie’s trajectory from submissive daughter to political actor and skilled observer. But this candid and absorbing memoir is also a stark reminder of the corruptions of power, the uncertainties of revolution and the frequent viciousness of human nature.

Embedded in a patriarchal family within an oppressive society, Mrie faces the challenge of disentangling herself from both. Indisputably courageous, she is also young, naive and at times overmatched by circumstances. Her self-portrait isn’t always flattering. She admits to pushing away those she loves and using alcohol as a crutch.

The narrative begins with a religious ritual that situates her as a member of Syria’s minority Alawite sect, a variant of Shi’a Islam. Influenced by Christianity, Judaism and other belief systems, Alawites celebrate Christmas, have no dietary restrictions and don’t require women to wear hijab, or head coverings. In Syria, after a history of persecution, they were for a time on the right side of the political divide: The country’s longtime rulers, Hafez al-Assad and his son, Bashar al-Assad, were Alawites.

Mrie’s family was wealthy and well-connected. Her maternal grandfather was a diplomat. Her father, Jawdat Mrie, also worked for the government. His marriage to Mrie’s mother, an engineer 15 years his junior, was rocky almost from the start, marked by abuse and infidelity and punctuated by long separations. As children, Mrie and her sister, Alia, were obliged to plead with their father for money, which he supplied only intermittently.

Mrie depicts her mother as a mostly heroic figure who encouraged her daughters to obtain an education and pursue careers. Mrie’s father had other ideas: Their filial obligation was to marry another well-connected Alawite — or risk losing their inheritance. In Mrie’s telling, he was worse than a tyrant; his sexual proclivities skewed toward pedophilia and he was allegedly an assassin for the Assad regime.

The society that Mrie sketches is riddled with brutality. Even her beloved mother beat her on occasion with a coat hanger. Corporal punishment was routine in Syrian schools. And, as we now know, Bashar al-Assad’s prisons were notorious sites of torture and extrajudicial murder. The memoir’s descriptions of prisoner abuse are horrifying, if no longer novel.

As a college student in Damascus, Mrie stumbled into her first democratic protest more out of curiosity than conviction. It left her bloodied, but introduced her to a new purpose and community of activists. Her Alawi identity rendered her especially useful as a revolutionary courier; police never imagined her capable of betraying the regime. Through both instruction and practice, her once amateurish videos evolved into photojournalism.

As Mrie recounts, Syrian democratic idealism curdled over time into infighting and worse. The anti-Assad forces were splintered, mutually mistrustful and prone to looting; the areas they controlled descended into anarchy. Meanwhile, the Assad regime was bombing and gassing civilians. (Mrie aptly wonders why the use of chemical gas stirred so much more Western outrage and empathy than other war crimes.)

Amid the chaos, Islamic militants, known as ISIS, infiltrated the country. Where they achieved military victory, they murdered opponents and imposed their radical religious regime. Suddenly, every man sported a beard, and women remained covered and afraid to leave home. Mrie’s memoir is a useful primer, if hardly the last word, on the complexities of the civil war and the shortcomings of the rebel forces.

Fearing for her life, Mrie fled to Turkey, a country more welcoming than most to Syrian exiles, and starting working for a nongovernmental organization training civilian journalists. She returned to Syria periodically, often with the help of fixers, to chronicle the mayhem, surviving her own brushes with death. Eventually, she quit the NGO and began freelancing for Reuters.

In the midst of her exile, her mother disappeared — a kidnapping that her father may have engineered. Mrie’s angry and terrified family shunned her. Under extreme stress, she became a blackout drunk, engaged in casual sexual encounters and got an abortion. Then her luck seemed to turn: She found unexpected love with a compassionate former U.S. Army Ranger and medic, Peter Kassig. Impelled by a sense of mission, he too toggled between Turkey and Syria, courting danger — and finding it. His tragic fate seemed almost too much to bear.

Mrie’s descriptions of her lost country are imbued with nostalgia. From coastal Jableh, her paternal family’s home, she recalls the aromas of “flavored hookah smoke, nuts toasting on carts, and boiled sweet corn.” And as darkness falls, she contrasts “the roaring cars, honking horns, and the music from loudspeakers” on shore with “the sound of water lapping against the sides of the boats, the thud of feet, the splashes of the nets being tossed out and pulled in, and the flapping of the fish against the dock.”

With her increasingly fluent English and photography skills, Mrie finally seeks refuge in the United States — and addresses the behavioral fallout of her harrowing history. After depression and despair, she chooses hope, but that hope has its limits. “Even when we succeed in finding our new homes,” she writes, “we will always bear the scars of our displacement.”

Klein is a cultural reporter and critic in Philadelphia.