There’s No Coming Back from Moriah

I’m just going to state the fact that it takes a lot to stir my songwriter soul, lyrically speaking. I suppose you can take it up with Dylan and Prine, whose work became the blueprint for my word nerdery. Or my dad, who turned me onto those gravel-throated geniuses in the first place.

At the risk of sounding like an insufferable snob, it seems to me that a great deal of songwriters spend more time solving for “what word should I put here?” than for “why must this and only this word live here and how will it impact the line, its cadence, the song as a whole, my experience as a feeling and thinking person, people with similar experiences and beliefs, people with dissimilar experiences and beliefs, and humanity over time?”

As you can see, I’m not so arrogant as I am mentally ill. I can talk about that all the livelong day, but let’s cut to the chase.

I came here to talk to you (type to you?) about “Moriah” by Mariela, the most phenomenally written song I’ve heard in a good long while. If the name Mariela sounds familiar, you may recall that Songwriter Sanctuary hosted Rachel Hall aka Mariela as one of our featured acts last July, just a couple weeks after the release of this single.

It is now September, my friends, and I can’t stop listening to this song. Humming it while I do the dishes. Talking about it to anyone who will listen. I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking about it. I’ll tell you why, but first some context:

What you need to understand about this song is the Biblical story of Abraham and his son Isaac. In a nutshell, God’s basically like, “Yo Abe, prove how much you fear-love me by taking your only son to Mount Moriah, murder him, then burn him alive as an offering to moi.” Abe’s like, “Bet,” and starts packing up the donkey. They arrive and Isaac’s like, “Hey, Pops, where’s the lamb we’re supposed to sacrifice today?” Abe’s like “Shhhhhhhh, don’t worry about it.” Then he places his own child like a rack of ribs atop of some firewood and is about to do the ol’ shank n’ bake when an angel suddenly appears like a heavenly Ashton Kutcher and says “You just got punk-ass-bitched by God, so he told me to tell you don’t have to murder Isaac after all. Ain’t God the shit?” Abe’s like, “Oh snap! Good one, God. I will loyally fear-love you forever.” 

This story, like many in the Bible, is framed as a trial of faith. A test to pass. A burden to bear. God, with his Big Divine Energy, is portrayed as the benevolent giver of grace. Abraham, the faithful servant. And Isaac…record scratch. Wait. Why the fuck doesn’t anyone talk about how Isaac felt or how these acts of bullying, betrayal, gaslighting, pre-meditated violence, and a father’s continued allegiance to a murder-for-sport deity impacted his life, his relationship with his father, his ability to trust, his sense of safety, and the list goes on….

Rachel Hall at SheFest 2024.

That’s where “Moriah” comes in, brilliantly weaving those very questions into the experience of grappling with queer identity and parental estrangement in a religious family.

Vivid lyrics (by Rachel and co-writer Melody Walker) portray the emotional turmoil of living a hidden life.

I hear you calling my name
From the bottom of the stairs
But I’m tangled up in sissy’s clothes
That I know I shouldn’t wear
Yeah, you like me in short hair

You send me to school in my uniform
Studying the king who could calm the storm
Talk about miracles but what am I
If I’ve gotta hide
If I’ve gotta hide who I am

That’s followed by a powerful hook…

Because there’s no coming back,
no there’s no coming back from Moriah

…emphasizing the irreversible impact of such traumatic experiences, drawing a parallel to the irrevocable moment on the Biblical Mount Moriah.

And if that’s not the most gut-wrenchingly glorious refrain for a religiously traumatized queer kid-turned-adult (who somehow survived realizing everything and everyone they ever knew and loved as a child was actually just trying to Regina George them to death) to sing at the top of their lungs, I. Don’t. Know. What. Is.

The second verse really gets me.

I washed my hair on Christmas Day
And I let it down to dry
On that 40-minute drive
Told me not to let the children see

As if a hair tie and some lies
Could protect their little eyes
You said I was knit together in my mother’s womb
Fearfully and wonderfully
But if that’s true
Why can’t you just love me
For the girl I am?
Because it’s who I am
To the Great I am
But instead

Ugh!

The grown adult queer making the effort with the family on the religious holiday. The shame-filled parents who would choose to hurt their own child in exchange for ego preservation and reality deprivation, all under the ironic guise of protecting other children—nodding to the crusty, false narrative that queer/trans people are somehow dangerous for kids. The scripture and worship song lyrics, held up like a mirror, reflecting the hypocrisy of a religion that boasts no mistakes while simultaneously exalting child sacrifice as the ultimate act of love. And finally, a clear affirmation that being queer is not only not wrong—it’s divine. All atop a slick upbeat pop arrangement that essentially screams I’M STILL ALIVE, ASSHOLES, AND I’M DANCING!

What I really love about this song is it chooses the child, full stop, in a country and world where we don’t see much of that going on. See: rampant school shootings; jacked up healthcare/childcare systems; politicians arguing about feeding under-resourced kids school lunches while simultaneously sending billions of dollars in weapons to slaughter tens of thousands of Palestinian children and their families; the quietly accepted knowledge that many of our clothes, tech, and household products exist due to rampant child labor and exploitation; and the list goes on). It makes me pine for the kind of existence we could all enjoy if children were our priority and not the collateral damage of our self-righteous lust for power and control.

Before my mom died, she said, “You weren’t the daughter I wanted.” This moment is surely tied to how deeply I hurt for hurting, abused, overlooked, and rejected children. And how much I loathe the parts of our culture that allow it. In that sense I’m thankful for a wound that bleeds non-stop empathy. And while no amount of therapy will ever make me forget that moment, how it made me feel, and how it continues to make me feel, at least the hurting child inside me now has “Moriah.” I’M STILL ALIVE, ASSHOLES, AND I’M DANCING!

Songwriter Sanctuary
Come out this month for a very demure, mindful, and cutesy Songwriter Sanctuary lineup, featuring Gráinne Hunt (all the way from Ireland), Lauren Ong (who splits her time between SD and Singapore), and We the Commas (a homegrown act fresh off some of the biggest arena and festival stages in town). Mark your calendars for September 27 – see you there! Info/Details.

Thanks for Talkin’ Craft with me!