I own a score of Handel’s Messiah, inscribed to me from my parents on my thirteenth birthday. This indicates to me that it was something I wanted, and that I had sung in the Messiah before then, because when singing in a Messiah, one needs a score. I know I have done so for as long as I can remember.

Through all these decades, I have experienced multiple varieties of Messiah Sings. Sometimes there is a trained choir, and the audience sings along. More often, there is a trained orchestra and soloists, with the audience acting as the chorus. Sometimes the orchestra or soloists are paid professionals, sometimes volunteers. Often, only portions of the complete oratorio are performed.

Until I moved to California, Messiah Sings and professional performances of the Messiah shared one characteristic: Applause happened only before intermission and at the end. The Messiah is sacred music, and sacred music is meant to–and usually does–inspire contemplation, reference, wonder, or awe. One does not have to be religious to be moved, to ponder eternity, to feel humility or gratitude. For me, these feelings often emerge during a heartfelt solo, or a choral crescendo, or the silence between the pieces.

Now I have encountered an entire state full of people who don’t feel this way. All the Messiah Sings I can find, two of which I have attended, involve hooray-we-did-it applause after each piece, including the recitatives and arias, which are handled in mass Morris dance fashion, For all who will. Volunteer instrumentalists and amateur solos are forgivable, even touching, in a group making an honest offering to heaven, but I have little patience for the versions combining self-congratulations, self-celebration, and poor musical execution.

In fact, I find it painful. It’s sort of like feeling hungry after eating, or tired after sleep. I expected my soul to be restored, but it wasn’t.

We are having similar trouble finding sufficiently solemn church services on Christmas, though we haven’t tried as hard. We want to lift candles into the darkness as we sing songs of wonder, as we did when we lived in Brookline. Could it be that solemnity, or contemplative moments, are incompatible with the West Coast zeitgeist?