When I first attended St. Mary's in Beverly with my mother and brother, Christmas Masses seemed special because the church was still very new to us but as the years passed, I started to feel out of place. Seeing the pews filled with so many old people and families certainly didn't help. When my brother moved away, it was just my mother and me. Sometimes it was just me.
At one point, our pastor decided to reintroduce midnight Mass after a long absence from the schedule. I wanted to see if it would attract a younger crowd but since my mother didn't want to stay up late, I had to go by myself. Sitting alone in a pew didn't exactly fill me with the Christmas spirit. That first midnight Mass was well-attended and over the years, its popularity only increased. Soon I found myself surrounded by old people and families again.
The music during Christmas Mass featured a choir of senior citizens, organ and trumpet but someone got the bright idea to add a kettle drum into the mix. When it first thundered, we all flinched out of fear. Every year since, it's taken unsuspecting once-a-year Catholics by surprise. Our pastor said this music was so beautiful, it was probably what heaven sounded like. I found it to be more annoying than heaven-like. Having senior citizens belt out the line “Glory to God” over and over again just wasn't my cup of tea but at St. Mary's, people tended to see things one way.
Our pastor decided to replace the church’s perfectly adequate nativity scene with a much more expensive, hand-crafted one from Italy. A lot of money was raised to acquire these figurines but they did nothing to increase my faith. While looking them over, I wondered why on one of the holiest days of the year, my faith felt so weak.
Despite all the decorations, music and well-meaning sermons, I wasn't getting much out of Christmas Mass anymore but it was far better for some at my church to ignore people like me because our very existence invalidated their rosy view of the parish's sense of community. No room at the inn for lost sheep.
I still go to church hoping the Holy Spirit will set my soul on fire somehow but for the past few years, Christmas seems like just another day. Before the start of this year's Christmas Mass at my current parish, I spotted a man in the hallway holding a shepherd’s crook. Apparently, our priests asked two people to dress up as Mary and Joseph with the woman holding a real baby. During Mass, the little one started to cry so Mary and Joseph had to slink back into the hallway. I give these priests an A for effort but such a display did little to inspire me.
At least it wasn't as tacky as a zip line Jesus. A former pastor once told the congregation how one church had set up a wire that went from the choir loft all the way down to the crèche that was placed just in front of the altar. During Christmas Mass, they would send the baby Jesus speeding down the wire to his manger. Gimmicks like this seem more like comedy relief than spiritual inspiration.
When I look at the Christmas tree in the house, I think of how much coming down those stairs with my brother to open presents meant to me. This year, my brother called at 1 PM on Christmas Day to invite us to his house for a Christmas meal. My mother and I were nothing more than an afterthought to him and I suspect the phone call was just a courtesy. Given the long and messy drive up to his place, there was no way we could have made it.
My mother and I settled down for a quite dinner by ourselves but I was plagued by a tinge of sadness. Something wonderful has been lost and I find myself asking more than ever, “Where is Christmas?”
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