At 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve at my wife's church, we celebrate with candlelight. The church is quiet. The people gather with very little conversation. Hugs are exchanged. "Merry Christmas" is said like a prayer between friends and family. It is not "high" church. I don't play the pipe organ. I use the piano. The music is delicate and soft usually, like a light snowfall.
We read the Christmas narrative from one of the Gospels. There's a special song, usually sung by my wife. "All Through the Night" or "I Wonder as I Wander." Something moody, contemplative. We celebrate communion. And then, near midnight or a little after, the lights are turned off in the sanctuary. Candles are lit by everyone in the church. And we sing "Silent Night." We raise the candles at points during each verse, and, as the flames rise, I can feel my spirit taking flight.
When the final chords of "Silent Night" fade, the quiet returns. The sanctuary glows with Christmas ornaments and garland and lights as we put on our coats and head out into the winter night.
Whether it's snowing and dark or the stars are clear as church bells, I am at peace. Christmas has come.
The rest of Christmas is usually a blur of presents and relatives. Noise and chaos dominate.
But Saint Marty holds on to that Christmas Eve service, the flickering candles, the singing, the stars or snow, the silent night.
Confessions of Saint Marty
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