Christmas Eve 2019: part 1

I had a couple of synchronous events happen on Christmas Eve this past December, and the thoughts, feelings and the desire to do something about  them have stayed with me. In so far as I have a goal for 2020 other then surviving, it is forming around this experience.

Here is the first part.

Mr. Turtle had to work until 5pm Christmas Eve, as did other family. So there were no big plans for this day, but I wanted to do something with the girls to make it memorable. I had an idea to go to a Christmas Eve service. But which church? There are a few in our neighbourhood; however I thought to include my mom (she is elderly and a widow) it would make more sense to choose one near her. She still lives in the house I grew up in, and a five minute walk away is St. Barnabus Anglican.

 I have a small connection with this church because many years ago, from the ages of 8 till 12 roughly, I took ballet lessons from a teacher who rented space in the church hall. Although we were not formally connected with the church we were involved a couple of times with their events. One was a Christmas musical production of Cinderella. We did a couple of dances: one was to The Teddy Bears’ Picnic and for the other we wore fluffy tutus and were part of the ball scene. It was my first time performing on a stage and therefore made a big impression. The second time was part of a St George’s day celebration and we learned and performed an English folk dance. These are good memories from my childhood, and they provide a connection to the church, which while tenuous is still more than I have to any other church. Those were sufficient reasons to choose it for our Christmas Eve outing.

I had no serious worries we wouldn’t be welcome, but I was still a bit nervous when the time came. I told myself it was ok to try something new.  5 year old AJ was enthusiastic, although she had never been in a church before and the closest thing she had seen to a service was Elsa’s coronation from Frozen.  We had read her some Bible stories in the past year, when she showed an interest. She received them much as she did fairy tales or any other story, coolly observing “But God isn’t real,” and assuming adult support for this statement, while we said things like  “well nobody knows for sure” and privately thought: “We really need a strategy here.....” Dani, almost 23 months, was ready for any adventure we cared to offer.

It was a beautiful evening, a winter dusk glowing blue with snow light.  I was reminded of childhood walks through the neighbourhood (although never to church).  The crunch of snow underfoot, the shining streetlights, the warmth and welcome of my family’s home after an evening of swimming or a ballet lesson. Or perhaps we might be walking up the hill to see an opera or a ballet at the auditorium. My dad always made sure we had season tickets to the opera, ballet or symphony, whatever other luxuries we overlooked in our frugal lifestyle. 

As we approached the church we saw people gathering for the service and we entered with them. The church was lovely inside: brightly lit with blond wood accents, high ceiling, stained glass windows, tall candles burning. The adults were handed a program and the kids were given glow sticks, which immediately interested then in the proceedings. They were also supposed to have musical instruments, but somehow we missed those.

I was half paying attention to what was going on and the other half focused on my mom and kids. They were fine though; AJ and Dani were curious enough enough about what was going on to stay engaged and not become overly restless.  As the service began I took it in with my available attention and found my mind bringing up different thoughts and memories in an effort to relate.

• I followed others’ lead for the parts of the service where people spoke different words together, and felt awkward trying to find the right hymn in the right book, etc. But I appreciated the poetry of the communally spoken verses. Again I reminded myself it was better to do something awkwardly than not at all. Just showing up was enough for now: no need to have further expectations. 
• The service included many references to the darkness of winter, and the return of the light, which was associated with Jesus. This made me think about how many cultures have rituals around the solstice, and the discussion of how Christianity adopted rituals from other cultures. I have never thought this was a big deal or really that relevant as more than interesting information. I would think it stranger for people to not learn from each other and adapt and adopt.
•  I also thought of my self consciously non-Christian or New Agey acquaintances who post things like “Blessed Solstice” or whatever instead of “Merry Christmas” around this time of year. I find those statements a bit off key: what exactly is the significance of an astronomical event if you aren’t clear about the meanings you are attaching to it? Perhaps the people who say “Happy Solstice” do have a meaning in their mind, but it is never plain to me what that is, or if I am just supposed to read whatever I want into the statement. I prefer the Christian rite where the solstice is attached to a story with significance.
• The most relatable part of the service was singing Christmas carols. And I knew them well enough that I could sing mostly without looking at the words, which allowed me to feel more a part of the celebration. Singing with others is a powerful transformative experience as is dancing with others; this is not the first time such an experience has taken me to another level of awareness. 
• Singing the carols reminded me of why I am familiar with Christmas carols.  For several years in my 20s and early 30s,  I would get together with friends and sing carols around the neighbourhood. It was always a fun time of laughter and bonding and the spontaneous pleasure of surprising people with song and neighbourly spirit. After a hiatus of many years a friend and I organized a caroling evening last year, and we thoroughly enjoyed it. But this year our lives were too chaotic to make plans.
• For many years (but not the last 5) I also played music with an adult concert band, and the Christmas concert was a yearly tradition.  Starting in November each band and choir would begin practicing their Christmas repertoire. The end of every concert was a Christmas sing along where the audience would get to their feet and sing a medley of carols with the bands. It never occurred to me that this tradition echoed a church service but now I saw that it did. I both missed the experience of playing in a band and having that yearly ritual and found it interesting to see the origin of it.
• A family with children a few years older than mine was invited to help with some of the service, such as lighting advent candles. They wore special white robes.  At one point the pastor also invited all the children to come up front to hear the nativity story. AJ and Dani were curious but too shy to go. It was then that I had the thought: what if I had grown up coming to this church and these rituals had become second nature? What if my parents had overcome their fear of organized religion (that is a whole other story) and we had walked to St Barnabas every week to sing songs and speak words about faith? How would that have affected me as a person? I thought it would have likely been mostly positive. And what if my mother had had a community to turn to and support her when my father died? What if she had familiar people around her in widowhood instead of facing the nearly impossible task of forming new friendships as an elderly woman who is declining cognitively? 
• Or, remembering a different time of my life: what if I had had a faith to turn to in my early adulthood? Almost 20 years ago, I was having the most memorable experience of my university years.  I was studying Old English and found my mind and heart stirred by the early medieval story of Caedmon’s hymn . Caedmon is an awkward, tongue tied cowherd who is too shy to recite poetry at the local pub. One night an angel visits Caedmon in a dream and commands him to sing a song. He wakes up with the words of the first recorded poem in English rolling off his tongue, about the creation of the world. In my fourth year of university I found myself similarly commanded. I wrote a poem as the final course project, and over the next year and a half it turned into an honours thesis. Working on my long poem was the most profound and glorious experience of my life thus far. Caedmon came into my life to give it a direction: of that I was sure. I did the best I could back then, both on the undergrad project and on the next two decades of adventure and growth. But if it was God questioning me through this story (and I wonder that seriously), did I have the full vocabulary in my youth to give an answer? I remember sitting in my advisor’s office trying to say I wanted to explore the relationship between Caedmon and God, but I became painfully embarrassed and couldn’t find the words. Despite the ecstatic nature of my personal experience, my poem was carefully secular though composed with all the love I could muster. What was I afraid of? I still can’t answer that.  If I had had a faith tradition to turn to, would I have had more confidence?

Of course, I am speculating about all these things, and very optimistically.  It is equally possible for organized religion to go wrong, to disappoint, to be destructive. And indeed, that is the side of it I know most about.

But even as I wondered about missed opportunities in the past, and acknowledged the feelings of curiosity and regret that followed, another thought swiftly overtook the first.  I am an adult now, with plenty of life still ahead (I assume) and the capacity to make decisions and set a direction. I do not need to be restrained by past fears or doubts. I can evolve. I can ask questions and seek answers. 

And indeed I have a responsibility to ask what sort of adult I should be, and to update the answer based on my most recent experience and insight. It is true that I had bad experiences with organized religion as a child. I saw and experienced the damage it did to my immediate and extended family.  I felt the difference between my personal experience of God and what the collective told me I should experience. All this is real. But as I participated in the service amid the light and the song, I thought I am not meant to be a cynical, fearful, defensive person. I am not meant to be the hurt, confused and frightened child that the cynical person is trying to protect. I can acknowledge that frightened child and respect that part of my experience without needing to BE that person for the rest of my life.  Because there is more to me. I have experienced beauty and truth. I have reached out and found the best in people. I have experienced the miracles of my own children, their perfect bodies and souls. There is so much that is good and expansive and joyful that I cannot and should not deny. But, I admit I need help. I don’t think I can be the person I am meant to be on my own.