A City Discovers Its Gothic Psyche

One hundred miles north of Los Angeles, beneath the snow-dusted mountains of the Tejon Pass, the San Joaquin Valley begins its long, level stretch to the northwest, crisscrossed by moist fields of newly seeded cotton. Dotted across the farm land are the horse-head beams of oil wells pumping riches out of the ground. Water rolls through the locks and valves of a vast irrigation network. The lush valley has been drilled, plowed, fertilized, sprayed and pummeled into productivity by a succession of determined refugees from Texas, Oklahoma and Arkansas and by a sprinkling of Armenians, Italians and Basques. The people still work the land hard for a living. Bakersfield, a city of 74,000 and the seat of Kern County, is the hub of the lower valley and reflects that habit of work. TIME Correspondent Richard Duncan traveled there recently to take a look at yet another man-made miracle, The King of Glory. His report:

THE idea for the pageant began in 1969 when Martha Knight, head of the local ballet theater, choreographed a religious ballet for her student group. Philip Dodson, music director of the First Baptist Church, saw it and asked if she would come talk to him. As Martha Knight recalls it, Dodson said, "I have a dream," and she blurted out, "I think I have the same dream."

By May, 1971, the two dreamers had written a narration based on the Gospels and put together a tape of selections from Handel and Berlioz, which they played for John Lavender, the soft-spoken pastor of the First Baptist Church. He was quickly sold on the idea of a pageant, and soon found an anonymous angel who put up $20,000 to get production started.

As the months went by the cast grew to more than 100 members, the scenes multiplied to thirty, the chorus to 250 voices and the choral score was refined into 263 pages. Nearly 500 costumes were needed, along with 30 seamstresses to sew them. Costs were kept down by relying on volunteers. Says Martha Knight: "I didn't want to go to theater groups asking for people because the purpose of the production is to be not only a work of art, but an act to the greater glory of God. There has to be that."

Surely there had to be something to keep so many people coming to weekly rehearsals for almost two years, some only to walk onstage for as little as a minute or two. Joe Leggio, a local banker whose business sense helped keep the show afloat, rolls his eyes to heaven and confides: "Listen, I've got my own idea about what's up there and what's not, but some awfully peculiar things have happened to keep King of Glory going." Somewhere along the line, the idea began to take on a dynamism of its own. "I call it the Gothic psyche," says Dodson. "There you had thousands of people in the Dark Ages who were part of a spiritual movement to build cathedrals. Here we have a spiritual movement among hundreds of people to have a pageant."

Ten days before opening night, costumes, scenery, stars, technicians, chorus and all were moved into the civic auditorium. The Bakersfield Civic is not a run-of-the-mill rural hall. It boasts 4,142 seats and a whole new array of devices for the technicians. The first lighting run-through began at 6 p.m. one Friday and lasted almost nonstop until 2 a.m. the following Monday, a caviling, exhausting experience that left men muttering and women weeping.

Finally, a fortnight ago, The King of Glory had its opening. Townsfolk began to arrive more than an hour before the performance to grab off the best nonreserved seats. Martha Knight sat nervously with her husband in the eighth row center, her orchid corsage quivering. Backstage, the chorus bent their heads and prayed: "Lord give us a calmness and give us an excellence too as we sing for you."

He did. It was good. It really was. The voices were fuller, the dancers' steps a little lighter than in rehearsals. There was a feeling of spontaneity and joy. In the audience, there was sniffing and sobbing, particularly during the poignant Crucifixion scene. When it was over, most people left in an emotionally drained silence.

Earlier, John Lavender had said: "I think that if this pageant were never seen by one person, it would be worth the whole effort." In that case, they had a nice bonus: all five performances were sold out.

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