What an odd thing to say? A joyous evening for many, surely? But for a few – and I have been privileged to count myself among them – not so. No longer. I recent years I have rediscovered a love of Christmas Eve that was taken away from me when I was ordained in 1986. Perhaps I should explain.
The calling of a priest at Christmas is to set forth the narratives that announce the birth of Jesus Christ (primarily biblical, but there is much else besides) and to lead the annual celebration in church. In word and song, with layers upon layers of tradition (mostly schmaltzy Victorian.) And to be a conduit of the truth of the incarnation for countless people – many, if not most, of whom had not been in church since the previous Christmas.
To bind together, yet somehow tease apart, the expectations of tradition and soothing carols and music and decorating the church and family and children and nice food and wine and readings from the bible that we’ve all heard before, from the absolutely shattering announcement:
And the Word became flesh.
An extraordinary privilege and vocation, and one in which we as priests are called to be plain and clear. (I will not digress at this point and refer to certain very senior episcopi …) And I hope that I gave it my heart and soul. If not, I am sure that there are people out there who will tell me.
But the reality was (and remains for many) is that my time and energy had to sit alongside the earthly expectations of family and neighbourhood. So, when it came to Christmas Eve and a wonderful feast was placed on the table, I could only pick at it. Stomach was that of an actor (wrong metaphor, I hope) before one of the most important performances (ibid) of the year. Not nerves or butterflies. Just focus. And the unenviable making half a glass of wine last a couple of hours.
Of course, after Midnight Mass all my attentions changed – like weights slipping off my shoulders. I would be home by 12:45am. Mentally exhausted. There would be the remains of a fire glowing in the hearth, and the tree would still be lit. Even the dogs did not stir. I would pour a large glass of Calvados and sit quietly, thankfully beneath that tree and think of all those I loved and missed. That was my one and only Christmas Eve moment. And then to bed. For the parish church beckoned me once more on Christmas morning.
Things are different now. Christmas Eve now is a time of quiet reflection. Good (well, not all) memories. A simple meal. A fine Madeira. Music. Prayer, Delightful words on a page. Thoughts under another tree. Melancholy? Yes, of course. It is that time of year. Happiness and sadness intertwined. Thoughts of fellows who do as I did. Prayers for them. And an expectation of going to another parish church on another wonderful Christmas morning. And remembering myself in another priest.
Gaudete! Christus est
natus! Ex Maria virgine. Gaudete!
No comments:
Post a Comment