Christmas
Eve 2017
The dog had been barking for at least an hour. I had been
outside at least four times− twice with a flashlight, once I even walked the
alley− to find out what the *#&%^ she was barking at. Santa? Tiny reindeer?
Apparently, nothing. I had been considering going to an eleven o’clock
Christmas Eve service at a nearby church, but was cozy in my pajamas and didn’t
feel like dressing and driving. After another half hour of Abby’s barking, I
realized it was either go to the service or go outside and beat the dog. I had
been looking forward to being with Abby at midnight to see if she’d talk to me,
but I figured she’d be so hoarse after all this racket that I’d never
understand her. So I dressed and drove to the service leaving my parents and the
neighbors to suffer with her woofing.
A sign of the times: I fretted on the way that some gun
bearing male would decide he’d had enough of people celebrating Christmas and
enter the church to shoot himself a few worshippers. Gads.
When I got to the corner where the church was supposed to
be, it was easy to spot because it was surrounded with luminarias or farolitos,
depending on what you want to call them. Lovely. I sat down in the cool, quiet,
candle-strewn sanctuary about one minute before a string quartet began playing.
A pipe organist and a few choir voices soon joined in. I was beginning to calm
down.
A child began shrieking a whistle-like shriek. The
thought that I may as well have stayed home with the dog occurred to me, when
the calm of the sanctuary took over and I reached for my pen and paper to
write. It’s Christmas Eve. I wrote. The child is rightly excited. All is as it
should be.
This church is an incense-burning church. The sanctuary is
small, so as the thurifer strolled the aisles waiving the censer, the air got
thick and heavy with burnt frankincense. It smelled like very strong baby
powder, though I don’t recall baby powder smelling like frankincense. After a
few passes, I could barely make out the altar candles through the smoke hanging in the air. Singing was a challenge.
Breathing was a challenge, and I love
incense. After a while, the air had cleared a bit and it was time for more
incense. This was for the gospel reading which took place right next to me. The
thurifer gave the holy scripture a few good swings of the censer because the
Lord loves pleasing fragrances. Between that and breathing the smoky air at home
where my father has lost some of his fire-building prowess, I felt like I
needed to be treated for smoke inhalation. But all was as it should be.
One thing I like about the Episcopal church – at least the
ones I’ve attended – is that they sing all the verses of the hymns. Sometimes
this gets a bit time consuming and repetitious, but I still like it. It gives
one time to look around. The man seated in front of me was wearing a Santa-red jacket
that looked like it may have been velvet. I wore a pair of red pants that my choir
director Chris’s wife Sunny gave me. I told him later that together we made a
suit.
The homily was about a Christmas Eve the priest remembered
from his New York days. He told of being in the subway where usually all you
heard (in the 80’s) was boom boxes blaring hip-hop. He stepped off a car and
heard the faint sounds of a violin. He walked and found a small gathering
around a young man who seemed to be improvising on a violin. No music was in
sight. The sound was nice and the instrument looked of a good quality. The
priest soon realized that he recognized Paganini and Rachmaninov amongst other
composers’ melodies threaded together with the occasional Christmas carol. This
player knew what he was doing. After about twenty minutes of engaging the
crowd, the young man stopped, put his violin in his case to silence. Applause
seemed wrong, like it would cheapen or spoil something. He then thanked the
people for listening. He thanked them.
The priest had heard about a young man named Joshua who would occasionally play
in the subway. It must have been Joshua Bell. I’ve met him! I wanted to shout, but didn’t. The message was all
about being a light in the darkness.
During the announcements, the priest apologized for a few
minor mistakes in the order of service. Their administrator hadn’t prepared the
bulletin as she usually did, so the job fell to him. (He accidentally printed the final page of a hymn over the invitation to the party following the service, for example.) There was one mistake he
hadn’t mentioned that caught me unawares. When we proclaimed the mystery
(Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again - the only mystery I recall proclaiming) those familiar words
had been replaced with we praise you, we
bless you, we give thanks to you, and we pray to you, Lord out God. I
wondered if the old mystery had been solved in the two weeks since I’d attended
and we were on to a new one. It wasn't a mistake, just evidence that I haven't attended enough services or paid enough attention.
When I went forward for the Eucharist, something funny
happened. I always hold the wafer and dip it in the wine rather than sharing a
cup with everyone. At this church, the practice is the Eucharistic minister
dips the wafer for you and feeds it to you. I’ve never had that done, so when
she snatched the wafer from my hand as I was about to dip it I was taken aback.
Hey! What the . . .? It reminded me of the time that, at my church, one of the
priests was about to hand me the wafer when he pulled it back out of my fingers
and said, “No!” He then turned to get another wafer. He thought I was gluten
intolerant. For an instant I thought he knew something I didn’t and I’d be
denied communion.
After communion, we were each given a tall, slender lit taper
to hold. There was no cardboard drip protector. I assumed they splurged for
dripless candles. Nope. We held these tapers while singing Silent Night. The
hot wax making its way onto my knuckles made the high note of sleep in heavenly peace quite easy. But
that was fine. It reminded me of singing in the choir in St. Paul with my folder and taper in
one hand and a bell in the other while processing through the dark, candlelit aisles of the church. I missed singing with the choir that night,
so, hot wax and all, all was as it should be.
Now it's Christmas Day. I’m sitting and writing as my father and I listen to
Christmas music. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon and he hasn’t turned on the
television yet. Considering that there’s a John Wayne marathon on, I’m
surprised. I almost feel guilty for not reminding him, but I like the break
from the TV. He’ll eventually tire of the music and turn on the westerns. Maybe
that’s as it should be too.
Merry Christmas everyone.
