As an introduction to the broader Christian world in which I also live, move and have my being, and to all problems ecclessia as well, I add an entry from my journal.
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December 25, 2005-Christmas
Christmas Eve—quite late when I climb into Tim and Brittany’s car and the three of us drive to Salt Lake City to attend Midnight Mass in the Cathedral of the Madeleine. A dark and comfortably cold evening with a trace of snow still on the ground, we park a few blocks up the hill from the Madeleine and enjoyed our walk down to South Temple. We stand in line about half way up the western steps. I have not attended Midnight Mass since the Christmas we lost Benjamin and I went with Barb and Ben’s brother Mike to Saint Joseph’s in Ogden.
This evening, those who wait for the doors to open are bathed in a moist, wax-yellow light from above the cathedral doors and the lamp poles as well. The confused, indistinct shadows cast by the barren branches of trees are magnified on the walls of the surrounding buildings as on the Cathedral. This gathering is mostly young people with an indistinct spirituality, uncertain as to how it should express itself, shifting slowly in the cold. One young man swears in what seems to be a customary effort to impress the chicks, but shrinks back into himself when a young lady glances his way, raises an eyebrow and says nothing. Her rebuke, however, is without lasting power and—as a forgiven man—he is soon smiling again.
There is some whisper about a need for tickets, but it is the devil stirring among us and when the doors are opened a half-hour before midnight, we are made welcome without requirement. The lighting inside the cathedral is subdued. Proceeding down the aisle, it seems that we are to be a people who walk in darkness.[1] It is not unpleasant: from behind the chancel screen (the veil of the temple, in Catholic iconography) a chamber orchestra and choir fill the heavenly vault with the holy music of Christmas. The sounds are delicate as snowflakes and then instantly change into almighty power thanks to the organ trumpets behind and above us--a power that causes the rafters—indeed, the entire superstructure—to tremble, tremble, tremble.
The aisle pews against the wall are tiny—sitting two, perhaps three if you are young and skinny. About two-thirds of the way to the altar, Tim and Brittany take one and I take the pew behind them—sitting next to a young man who has taken the trouble to come by himself—which I believe to be a sign of his sincere heart. I am thankful to share our worship and begin Christmas alongside of him. Turning, I look about.
Catholics who are members of this parish entered some time before us—I assume by another door—and have taken the center pews. Youth is no longer the dominant trait. Indeed, there no longer is a predominate trait. This is something I find truly marvelous about Catholic worship—people from all walks of life, social status and color, wearing all manner of dress coming together to worship—tonight, to welcome the tiny newborn Son of God into our midst. Who are we—I wonder—who make requirements and set standards for those who want to gather together to worship with us? And what would shock many Latter-day Saints more than to witness this stillness—this quiet reverence, though children abound here too. Obviously, casual clothes do not necessarily hinder communal worship, while the kind of obsessive attention to ornamental dress manifested by some us will. We often lose the point—those gathered here have not.
The sacred dwelling itself raises all kinds of issues within and without me. I know one sister who will dismiss this place and the experience I'm having here with contempt—if for no other reason than the gargoyles atop the buttresses of the cathedral, which she believes represent the demons within. Others think the holiness I am feeling here is nothing more than a slight of hand, architectural and imaginative counterfeits of the true Spirit. But, contrary to Hugh Nibley’s assertions, holiness cannot be achieved in that way. Holiness is the providence of the Spirit and cannot be effectively counterfeited. I have concluded that holiness of Spirit exists independent of all rivalry. It can—and does—bless the worshipping heart in schism—and without sanctioning anyone’s debating points. As I look about, seeing what is reflected in the countenance of my fellow Christians, I whisper quietly to myself that the Spirit is in this place.
There is still another sense to the Spirit indwelling here—something I've never experienced in our Mormon chapels, but at times I have found in the temple. There is an air of expectation—a look of anticipation fixed on these countenances. We are caught up in the story—participating characters in the play that will be enacted here. This is not a new experience of the faithful for me—a new way in which we become believers—but it is a rare one and I am delighted that it is a part of this Christmas! For the moment, we are the shepherds here, the magi and the inhabitants of Bethlehem. Or perhaps we are the ones who dwell in darkness, on the other side of the Gentile coast, and our light is about to come. And that is what comes—a tremendous, radiant light, beneath the trumpets of the organ.
In this new light, the Bishop has gathered with his entourage—and with them the image of the infant Christ. The congregation arises and sings “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful” as the Bishop begins the procession down the center aisle. As they progress, the light sweeps forward before them, like a mighty wave rushing ashore, and by the time the infant child is put into the Christmas crib, the cathedral is engulfed in light. The feeling of joy is palpable throughout the sanctuary—joy is passing through every heart and all faces are aglow. My young friend next to me is moved to tears.
We all take part in the prayers, the hymns and responsorial with enthusiasm—I along with the rest, although I omit saying portions of the creed. Frankincense fills the sanctuary. Throughout the Divine Drama, the Word is incensed, the Host—His Holy Presence—is incensed, and we are incensed as well. Sitting, standing—all is done in praise before the infant king who’s light we welcome into the cave of this dark hour. Bishop Niederauer’s homily—much of it having to do with poor—is profound and deeply moving. When members of the congregation turn and greet one another—a part of the Mass since Vatican II, I believe—I embrace my young friend, something I found quite awkward to do the last time I attended Mass, but now I do so fully and sincerely. He is my brother Christian tonight without divide and a false sense of distant elevation.
We stay to the exact end and then walk outside into a strong, cold wind and cloudy night sky—but a new star is visible nevertheless. We speak merrily about our experience, as do others. All about us are midnight pedestrians, walking up the steep hill from the Cathedral—each a transubstantiated Magi or shepherd returning home for a few brief hours of sleep, each with a heart pulsing peace throughout the Body.
Later, having climbed into bed and pulled the covers over me, before I drift off to sleep, I remember a moment early on, when Timothy—studying the mural behind the altar—turned to me and whispered, “Is that the Father supporting His Son upon the cross?” Suddenly, the enormity of the Incarnation overcomes me and tears flood my pillows. I can only thank God for what has shone and what has been shown.
______________
[1] Matthew 4:16
Christmas Eve—quite late when I climb into Tim and Brittany’s car and the three of us drive to Salt Lake City to attend Midnight Mass in the Cathedral of the Madeleine. A dark and comfortably cold evening with a trace of snow still on the ground, we park a few blocks up the hill from the Madeleine and enjoyed our walk down to South Temple. We stand in line about half way up the western steps. I have not attended Midnight Mass since the Christmas we lost Benjamin and I went with Barb and Ben’s brother Mike to Saint Joseph’s in Ogden.
This evening, those who wait for the doors to open are bathed in a moist, wax-yellow light from above the cathedral doors and the lamp poles as well. The confused, indistinct shadows cast by the barren branches of trees are magnified on the walls of the surrounding buildings as on the Cathedral. This gathering is mostly young people with an indistinct spirituality, uncertain as to how it should express itself, shifting slowly in the cold. One young man swears in what seems to be a customary effort to impress the chicks, but shrinks back into himself when a young lady glances his way, raises an eyebrow and says nothing. Her rebuke, however, is without lasting power and—as a forgiven man—he is soon smiling again.
There is some whisper about a need for tickets, but it is the devil stirring among us and when the doors are opened a half-hour before midnight, we are made welcome without requirement. The lighting inside the cathedral is subdued. Proceeding down the aisle, it seems that we are to be a people who walk in darkness.[1] It is not unpleasant: from behind the chancel screen (the veil of the temple, in Catholic iconography) a chamber orchestra and choir fill the heavenly vault with the holy music of Christmas. The sounds are delicate as snowflakes and then instantly change into almighty power thanks to the organ trumpets behind and above us--a power that causes the rafters—indeed, the entire superstructure—to tremble, tremble, tremble.
The aisle pews against the wall are tiny—sitting two, perhaps three if you are young and skinny. About two-thirds of the way to the altar, Tim and Brittany take one and I take the pew behind them—sitting next to a young man who has taken the trouble to come by himself—which I believe to be a sign of his sincere heart. I am thankful to share our worship and begin Christmas alongside of him. Turning, I look about.
Catholics who are members of this parish entered some time before us—I assume by another door—and have taken the center pews. Youth is no longer the dominant trait. Indeed, there no longer is a predominate trait. This is something I find truly marvelous about Catholic worship—people from all walks of life, social status and color, wearing all manner of dress coming together to worship—tonight, to welcome the tiny newborn Son of God into our midst. Who are we—I wonder—who make requirements and set standards for those who want to gather together to worship with us? And what would shock many Latter-day Saints more than to witness this stillness—this quiet reverence, though children abound here too. Obviously, casual clothes do not necessarily hinder communal worship, while the kind of obsessive attention to ornamental dress manifested by some us will. We often lose the point—those gathered here have not.
The sacred dwelling itself raises all kinds of issues within and without me. I know one sister who will dismiss this place and the experience I'm having here with contempt—if for no other reason than the gargoyles atop the buttresses of the cathedral, which she believes represent the demons within. Others think the holiness I am feeling here is nothing more than a slight of hand, architectural and imaginative counterfeits of the true Spirit. But, contrary to Hugh Nibley’s assertions, holiness cannot be achieved in that way. Holiness is the providence of the Spirit and cannot be effectively counterfeited. I have concluded that holiness of Spirit exists independent of all rivalry. It can—and does—bless the worshipping heart in schism—and without sanctioning anyone’s debating points. As I look about, seeing what is reflected in the countenance of my fellow Christians, I whisper quietly to myself that the Spirit is in this place.
There is still another sense to the Spirit indwelling here—something I've never experienced in our Mormon chapels, but at times I have found in the temple. There is an air of expectation—a look of anticipation fixed on these countenances. We are caught up in the story—participating characters in the play that will be enacted here. This is not a new experience of the faithful for me—a new way in which we become believers—but it is a rare one and I am delighted that it is a part of this Christmas! For the moment, we are the shepherds here, the magi and the inhabitants of Bethlehem. Or perhaps we are the ones who dwell in darkness, on the other side of the Gentile coast, and our light is about to come. And that is what comes—a tremendous, radiant light, beneath the trumpets of the organ.
In this new light, the Bishop has gathered with his entourage—and with them the image of the infant Christ. The congregation arises and sings “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful” as the Bishop begins the procession down the center aisle. As they progress, the light sweeps forward before them, like a mighty wave rushing ashore, and by the time the infant child is put into the Christmas crib, the cathedral is engulfed in light. The feeling of joy is palpable throughout the sanctuary—joy is passing through every heart and all faces are aglow. My young friend next to me is moved to tears.
We all take part in the prayers, the hymns and responsorial with enthusiasm—I along with the rest, although I omit saying portions of the creed. Frankincense fills the sanctuary. Throughout the Divine Drama, the Word is incensed, the Host—His Holy Presence—is incensed, and we are incensed as well. Sitting, standing—all is done in praise before the infant king who’s light we welcome into the cave of this dark hour. Bishop Niederauer’s homily—much of it having to do with poor—is profound and deeply moving. When members of the congregation turn and greet one another—a part of the Mass since Vatican II, I believe—I embrace my young friend, something I found quite awkward to do the last time I attended Mass, but now I do so fully and sincerely. He is my brother Christian tonight without divide and a false sense of distant elevation.
We stay to the exact end and then walk outside into a strong, cold wind and cloudy night sky—but a new star is visible nevertheless. We speak merrily about our experience, as do others. All about us are midnight pedestrians, walking up the steep hill from the Cathedral—each a transubstantiated Magi or shepherd returning home for a few brief hours of sleep, each with a heart pulsing peace throughout the Body.
Later, having climbed into bed and pulled the covers over me, before I drift off to sleep, I remember a moment early on, when Timothy—studying the mural behind the altar—turned to me and whispered, “Is that the Father supporting His Son upon the cross?” Suddenly, the enormity of the Incarnation overcomes me and tears flood my pillows. I can only thank God for what has shone and what has been shown.
______________
[1] Matthew 4:16
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