O Mystical Night

 

There is something extraordinary about Christmas Eve. The excitement has been building since Advent began four weeks ago. A lot of work has gone into shopping, decorating, cooking, and wrapping. Even though two nights ago was the shortest one of the year, tonight will be only a minute or two longer.

I remember waiting for Santa Claus after my parents and I had come home from the Candlelight Christmas Eve service at the Baptist church across the street. I loved the lit candles in the windows, but the lights over the choir loft and the baptistry were too bright to suit me. Even then, I was a bit particular about church services. Also, I developed an aversion to "O Holy Night," which seemed obligatory every year.

Flash forward to my middle-aged years. Again I lived across from the church, Episcopal this time. I remarried, and my son was nine years old. My husband was Catholic, but I had tried that, and it did not work for me. The music was too modern. After a few centuries of letting only the choir and organ provide the music, the congregation was just learning to sing. This was part of a church with a thousand years of prayerful, worshipful, beautiful music that was seldom heard. It broke my heart.

I returned to my Episcopal church on Christmas Eve. I found just what I was looking for – communal liturgy, familiar readings, and music – oh, my, such music, in multiple parts and in languages from English to Latin, French, and Italian! I sang in the choir for over a decade after that, including Christmas Eves. Leaving the house a bit before 11 o'clock and pacing through the winter air, it was a joy to be there and participating. Yes, there was the obligatory "O Holy Night," just as I had experienced in the Baptist church.

 As I left the church after midnight, the air was colder, but somehow the stars were brighter. The traffic was gone, and the quiet allowed me to process what I had just experienced. It was a slower trip to my front door across the street, but I hated rushing it. There was a feeling in the air, something the church dubbed "a thin space" between heaven and earth. Perhaps that was why the stars were brighter, but I could feel the night's holiness unlike any other night of the year.

Even though it was colder, I wanted to enjoy every minute of remembrance. We had the procession to "O Come, All Ye Faithful," incense, a predictable liturgy with familiar readings, more carols, hymns, and finally, communion at the altar rail before the benediction and the recessional of "Joy to the World." On my walk home, I relived what the choir had sung and the sound of an entire church singing familiar music. I felt a shawl of faith and joy wrapping around me, even through my coat.

It was a mystical night, slowly beginning to wear off as I got into warm pajamas and climbed into bed. I did not want it to end. The flame of mystical joy brightened again as I said my prayers. I drifted off to sleep while listening to the radio play Christmas music or perhaps a service from England or Washington, DC.

I am not a mystic, but now and again, I feel flashes of something beyond the ordinary. More and more, I rely on streaming video to bring the church to me. There are still beautiful things, like the Jewish synagogue downtown allowing the Episcopal cathedral congregation to use their facilities much larger than the cathedral can seat. There will be music and a familiar liturgy. I may not be there in person, but I can still recall the feeling of taking communion on those nights that were almost magical. I can feel the presence of angels and those who have gone through the mystical veil into the very presence of God.

May you all have a safe, happy, holy, mystical Christmas Eve and a most joyous Christmas Day. Look for the mystery. It will come if I am patient and attentive, and it will work for you too.