Pianist Molly Morkoski looked nervous and had every right to be. Olivier Messiaen’s “Vingt Regards sur l’Enfant-Jésus” contains twenty movements and spans two hours; a challenging work for any accomplished musician. So she took several deep breaths while intently looking at all 88 keys. When she began to push down on the piano’s perfect teeth, sounds escaped from its propped mouth. The language it spoke seemed without order but beautiful nonetheless. Like a charming schizophrenic bearing flowers and jagged glass, I embraced its message but remained cautious.

At times the piece seemed heedless and destined for a life of instability. But then it would migrate with hypnotic precision, grasping the eardrums of all those listening. One movement howled, keening for its Father-Messiaen. It wailed and pounded its fists; then quickly regained composure, brushed lint from its suit coat, and took a seat at the pew. Tonight, this congregation of sixty shares a similar posture: head down, hands clasped, eyes sealed. Each and everyone bound together by wavelike meditation. My own eyes roam under closed lids; keeping tempo with the tick, tock, tick, tick, tock of an erratic clock. The beginning of each piece resets the temperamental pendulum. Every movement has its own personality, recalls a separate memory, and evokes a different emotion. In one instance, restless nights sleeping with the window open. Evenings when bedroom curtains stirring in the wind seem to be the only sound on Earth. Then without notice the kitchen blinds lift outward and slam against the windowsill, waking everyone in the house. A frenzy of notes takes flight around this strange concrete church. Water rises from the piano lid and spills onto the floor. The front row backs up as water begins to touch the tips of their dress shoes. Outside an old man waits to cross the street. He can see his breath and, behind it, cars as they zip by from left to right. Meanwhile the moon is lost somewhere in St. Louis. A minute has passed when the pianist eases up on her instrument. She lets it breathe. And like a Gondolier steering his hulk around the shadow of a building, into wedges of sunlight- there’s peace, there’s quiet. The moon is identifiable once again. Back outside: the cars stop, the streetlight changes, and the old man slowly crosses.