A real Christmas tale, told in 3 acts
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- December 26, 2020
- 753
One of the things I remember most vividly about Midnight Mass in my hometown’s only parochial church is the overflow crowd the service faithfully attracted.
Some called those people who only showed up on Christmas and Easter “Chreasters,” which I suppose is somewhat more charitable than “Cafeteria Catholics,” meaning those who selectively picked and chose which parts of the faith they presumably practiced.
Mom, in her inimitable fashion, cut right to the heart of the matter.
“The Bible calls them ‘whited sepulchres,’” she’d say, “but that’s just a fancy term for ‘hypocrites,’ which is what they really are.”
My mother had no tolerance for those who made a show of showing up late on Christmas Eve, demanding the ushers set up folding chairs in the aisles because the pews were packed.
“Look at them,” she’d stage-whisper to whichever of her children might listen, “all those entitled people. They come to church once or twice a year, expecting to be treated like royalty.”
And she had a point.
Part of the Christmas Eve drill in our house was to be dressed nicely and ready to roll at 11:15, no excuses tolerated, because the more you delayed, the greater the chances you’d have to stand.
And when you were little, just being up that late could be difficult, never mind having to stay on your feet quietly for an hour or so.
So we three kids did our part to make sure our family was always among those that played by the rules, religiously, as it were.
Catholicism was all about regulations, aka “Commandments.”
Originally, there were 10 of them, a nice round number, but as time went on and centuries passed, the Vatican kept on adding to that total so that now there are 10,000, another nice round number.
Well, I exaggerate for effect, but you get the idea.
I don’t want to get into a whole harangue on women in the priesthood, the church’s hideous sex scandals or its position on abortion, gay rights, divorce or preaching politics from the pulpit.
That’s not my calling.
What I’d like to focus on is the collection basket and the nearly universal practice of passing one around during Mass.
Where and how and when it started, I have no idea, but I can guess the “why” of it. Religion is a business — a tax-exempt one, to be sure — but just like the corner bar or the barber shop or the bowling alley, it must make money to survive.
Without a steady source of income, it withers on the vine.
And this is a truism that cuts across denominational lines, though some sects are more blatant and crass about it than others.
One night back in the early ‘80s, I was watching TV with a good friend of mine, a guy I’d known since the fourth grade. It was late, and we’d been relaxing, just channel-surfing, when we stumbled upon one of those televangelists asking for “donations.”
This was nothing new since hucksters like him had been a fixture on the cable for years and years, like those shop-at-home shows.
What made me sit up, stunned, was the amount he was begging for.
“A thousand dollars,” said the preening preacher, “is all it takes and you can possess one of these limited-edition Heirloom Bibles, complete with the gold-leafed pages, this handsome cedar of Lebanon display stand and your name, beautifully embossed on the front cover, which is crafted of only the finest Corinthian leather.”
“Give me the phone,” I said to my friend.
“Why?” he asked, passing it over as I slouched back on his couch.
“I have some questions to ask that guy,” I said, pointing to the cap-toothed, spray-tanned, lacquer-haired shyster/man of the cloth.
“Don’t talk too long,” he said. “I know how you go on and on.”
“No worries,” I said. “It’s a toll-free number.”
“God bless America,” he said, lifting his bottle.
“Amen, brother,” I replied, raising mine and then beginning to dial.
I’d like to be able to report I expressed my outrage at that kind of exploitation of the most vulnerable among us, those who are so desperate for a cure to their illnesses or a way into heaven they’ll gladly part with any amount of cash just for a little hope.
But the only person I talked to was some underpaid flunky who told me curtly the show that was airing had been taped hours ago and there was no one else in the studio this late at night.
“Can you at least take a message?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “but you can order one of our Heirloom Bibles if you’d like — a thousand dollars. We accept all major credit cards.”
Not counting weddings and funerals and sightseeing, my shadow hasn’t darkened the doorstep of any church for more than 20 years.
On one of my last trips home, though, I ran into that self-same friend who’d abetted my futile phone call to the televangelist, and we agreed to pay a visit to our old stomping grounds. Both the school and church were long gone, having been replaced by newer models, but there was something in the air, something important.
Then the pastor wandered out to the playground where we were standing and, spontaneously, I felt the need to ask for his blessing.
He nodded and placed his hand on my head, which I bowed, as he slowly intoned, “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,” tracing the sign of the cross in the hot Ohio summer breeze.
All of a sudden, memories of collection baskets being carried up the aisle to the altar, of bills peeking out and change jingle-jangling, disappeared and I felt a calm cover me, a sense of well-being.
I was not in a church, but I was in a spiritual place, nonetheless.
Faith, it has been said, is the belief in things unseen, something that requires only the slender-most of threads to keep us faintly connected, moored, grounded. It is not as ephemeral as hope nor as tangible as charity, but it’s the anchor, steady and solid and reliable.
I probably won’t be going to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve again this year, though it’s likely not going to happen anyway, the pandemic having final say on what is and what is not possible.
But I will sit with my wife as the logs in the fireplace crackle and sizzle in the quiet of our home and Christmas, a day on which miracles have been known to happen, comes to us all once again.