I love Christmas. I mean, I love Christmas. The gaudy lawn decor (I always scoff - "cheesy!" - but deep down, deep deep down, I want it for myself), the mystery packages and the velcro stockings. I was panting to get my tree. I am terrible at buying presents, but I am very good at receiving them. I think this is a sign of humility.
Did anyone see that video that went viral of the man who received tickets to "the big game" (I assume), and reacted with what I can only describe as unadulterated joy? Watch it, man.
Now, if that isn't enough to make a grown man cry...
Funny how a video like this is so soaringly popular (at five million views and counting). I could write all about the true reason of the season and the greed that surrounds the marking of Christ's birth in this unholy land, but I'll leave off. Plus, it'd be a classic case of the pot and the kettle. I may have felt more than a few smatterings of greed myself over the past week, and trying to fool myself now would take too much energy.
To be painfully honest, I am not a big fan of the midnight Mass. This is because I am, by nature, lazy (during the day) and sleepy (mornings and evenings). So eating a ton of rich, buttery food and then waiting until eleven-thirty before stepping into the cold and getting into the car is not on my top ten list of activities. That being said, Christmas morning is a time for me to lurch out of my warm bed, grab coffee, and casually open presents. This is how I was brought up. This is a time-honored tradition. This is what I want to do on Christmas Day. Not go to Mass.
Christmas being a day of obligation, however, I had to choose between sleeping on time and dealing with the discomfort that heading to Mass during the middle of Christmas morning would bring. I chose less sleep and headed to the midnight Mass. Grumpily but dutifully.
It's not always easy to derive meaning from a stories that I feel that I've known as long as I can remember. Who doesn't know about the baby in the manger, the virgin birth, and the three wise men and the star? There is comfort in familiarity, I know - imagine what space aliens would think if they heard the story of the Incarnation for the first time? "Like, how does that even make sense, a God-king born in a cave, between a haystack and a manure pile?" But, having known the story before I even had my permanent teeth, there's no shock effect, no natural inclination to dig deeper, and I, in the past (and even now, sometimes), am halfway ready to accuse God of monotony.
Caught between my short attention span and the the smugness that accompanies the feeling of knowing the story backwards and forwards, Christmas Mass and the Advent readings could be uncomfortable - particularly toward the end. Eyes glazed over, mind wandering (and usually not on whatever is pure, noble and right), coming to with a jolt and thinking, "God, I am so sorry that I am no longer impressed by Your actions to save my immortal soul. I am sorry that I am bored by Your plan to redeem mankind. Give me the grace to understand Christmas better. And I ask that, Lord, if I don't get that new laptop this month, that I receive it soon. Like, early next year. Amen."
Thank God for His mercy, seriously.
There was a moment during the Mass, though, a small and fleeting moment, in which I looked at the decorative angel in the corner and had a moment of focus. I realized that angels attended His birth, announced it to the shepherds, and for some reason, I knew that if the angels were singing "Hosanna in the highest" - which they were, up in the air, than I should know that this is a pretty big friggin deal. I'll cling to that.
Until next time!
Faithfully yours
Catholic in Memphis
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