A Palate Cleanser: 'Bring Me Home'

Things have been a bit heavy around here lately, so I figured we could all use a palate cleanser.

Those who know me know my unashamed adoration of the musical Les Misérables. I was introduced to it by a guy I had a crush on at the tender age of 18. That guy quickly disappeared from my life, but Les Mis settled in for good.

My love for Les Mis—OK, let’s call it what it is, my obsession with Les Mis—provides opportunity for a constant stream of affectionate teasing from my friends and family… and apparently now also relative strangers. Last night, I logged into the Zoom room of a small online book club I had been invited to join for the evening (they had recently read my book, The Meaning of Singleness), only to be greeted by a host who had made the Les Misérables movie poster his background for the occasion. (Sidenote: let’s all agree not to mention the regrettable cinematic casting of Javert, shall we?).

I honestly can’t tell you the number of live performances I’ve seen. But I can tell you that I’ve watched the recordings of the two different anniversary concerts at least five times more than that. And I’ve listened to the full symphonic recording (originally on a three-CD set) hundreds of times. I know every word.

In my happy place at the recent Les Mis arena tour in Sydney

Sure, my watching/listening rate has slowed down over the last decade or so. And yes, I now readily admit that live performances of musicals like Hamilton and Hadestown strike me as more dynamic and exciting than the slow, steady, but soulful production that is Les Mis. And yet, for several reasons, it will always be the musical of my heart.

One of those reasons is relational.

After being introduced to Les Mis, I returned the favour to my family. While they all enjoyed it, my Nanna, Monica, and I especially bonded over our love for it.

At almost exactly this time last year, my 97-year-old Nanna fell, was admitted to the hospital, and was almost immediately put under palliative care. My family and I began a twenty-four-hour, seven-day vigil by her bedside, with me taking the night shift. For seven nights, I sat by her silent and still side, holding her hand, doing my best to make sure she knew she was so, so loved. For that whole endlessly awful but also enigmatically wonderful week, Nanna did not speak. Indeed, she did not even open her eyes. Except for one extraordinary moment.

One afternoon, my sister, cousin, and I sat in chairs surrounding her bed, reminiscing about the years of joy, love, and sadness. At one point, we discussed Nanna’s love of musicals, especially Les Misérables. We were chuckling over her saucy delight of Lovely Ladies when we decided to play the soundtrack in the background. I opened Spotify, skipped past Lovely Ladies, and went straight to Bring Him Home.

I remember lowering the volume, placing the phone near her pillow, holding her hand and smiling down at her sleeping face. And then, as Colm Wilkinson prayed his lyrical prayer to God on High, Nanna opened her eyes and looked straight at me. It would be the last time we would see her beautiful, kind, wizened eyes.

A few days later, with my sister and I gently stroking her wispy white hair, Monica died. A week after that, I was listening to Bring Him Home again. It was at her funeral.

My Nanna, Monica

One of the reasons I love Les Misérables so much is that it has been one way in which I’ve come to know, share and experience the love of others. And as the final line of dialogue so wonderfully reminds us, “To love another person is to see the face of God”.

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Wow. I said this would be a palate cleanser from all the heaviness, didn’t I? And here I am crying as I write this.

Ok. Onto a happier, though no less profound, reason why I love Les Misérables the way I do.

I love Les Mis because it is a gospel story—not the gospel story, for that is a story that the Word became flesh alone tells. No, Les Mis is a story about the gospel, particularly its transforming power.

I won't rehearse the full narrative here because I’m trying to keep this post shorter than usual. But there is a moment in the story when the protagonist, Jean Valjean is shown absolute, undeserved, extravagant grace by someone he has wronged—a bishop. Valjean sings:

One word from him and I'd be back
Beneath the lash, upon the rack
Instead he offers me my freedom
I feel my shame inside me like a knife

He told me that I have a soul
How does he know
What spirit comes to move my life
Is there another way to go?

In that moment of grace, Valjean recognises that the bishop had claimed his life for God above. And so, he becomes a man reborn and this in more ways than one. For those with ears to hear, the bishop is a figure of Jesus—the one whose mercy brings freedom from sin and shame and freedom to a new life in him. That act of grace turns Valjean into a new, and newly loving, man.

I know every moment in the story of Les Mis. I know every character’s words and lyrics. I know the musical inside out and upside down. And one thing that absolutely delights me is that I see something new every time I see it. Or perhaps it is not so much that I see something new, but I see a new depth,

When I saw it on London’s West End late last year (because I can't be in a city where Les Mis is playing and not go and see it), I had one of those moments.

It was at the end, right after Valjean died (sorry, #spoileralert). He had risen from his deathbed (a nice head nod to the resurrection) and was heading towards the back of the stage, where the other characters who had preceded him into death, most notably Fantine, Eponine, and the bishop, were waiting for him.

As he approached, the bishop stepped forward and opened his arms wide as if he couldn’t wait to hold him. Valjean stepped into them, and they embraced with a depth of love and longing that brought tears to my eyes.

“There”, I thought to myself, “That’s the moment of homecoming. That’s God welcoming his redeemed child home. That’s how one day he is going to welcome me home.”

Just a few weeks ago, I saw the arena performance here in Sydney. Sitting there with 9000 other people, I had another similar moment.

Alfie Boe was playing Jean Valjean. While Colm Wilkinson will always be the original Valjean, Alfie is undoubtedly the ultimate Valjean. In fact, to me, he is the embodiment of the character. And his voice—oh my, his voice.

When it came time for him to sing "Bring Him Home," I sat back, closed my eyes, and just listened. Actually, I want you to experience (almost) the same thing I did. Stop reading, click play, and listen—just for a few minutes.

As I listened to Alfie sing the words I knew so well, something… clicked. We all know the song is a prayer. Valjean is praying to God to save Marius from death on the barricade. But what struck me in that moment like it never had before was that this wasn’t just a man praying to God. It was a man praying to his God.

I suddenly realised what a deeply personal relationship Valjean had with God. It sounds so obvious to say it now, but I think I had been so caught up in seeing the story as a metaphor for the gospel that I had failed to truly appreciate what was right in front of me—namely, Valjean’s deep, personal, direct relationship with the God who had saved, redeemed, and claimed his life.

I was still quietly treasuring that profound insight in my heart when, a little while later, Alfie began the reprise of Bring Him Home in the Epilogue.

“God on high
Hear my prayer
Take me now
To thy care
Where you are
Let me be
Take me now
Take me there
Bring me home
Bring me home”

Where you are, let me be. Take me now, take me there. Bring me home, bring me home.

Wow. Just, wow.

I mean, I knew the words. I was already (almost involuntarily and definitely silently) mouthing them along with him. But wow. Valjean’s relationship with his heavenly Father floored me. The longing to be where he was. To at last be at home with him. Wow.

In that moment, Les Misérables reminded me that my true home is not here. No, it is there. With him. Where he is. There in his house, the one with many rooms. On the appointed day, he will take me to be with him. My God on high will bring me home.

Fictional though he may be, Valjean reminded me of the very real promise that Jesus made to those who believe in him:

““Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going.”
John 14:1-4

It seems that I have found yet another reason to love Les Misérables.