Churchgoers on Christmas Eve

Posted by dodo

And is it true? And is it true,

This most tremendous tale of all, Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue, A baby in an ox’s stall?

The Maker of the stars and sea Become a Child of earth for me?

One of the eternal debates for the noble army of churchgoers on Christmas Eve is whether to go to midnight mass, early service or matins on Christmas morning. However tired I am, I prefer the former, for the shaming reason that it gets church over with, and because, even more shamingly, if I opt for early service or matins the next day I never make it, and spend the rest of Christmas feeling guilty and somehow as though spiritually I’d gone to bed without cleaning my teeth and taking my make-up off.

The French very sensibly have the incentive that after midnight mass they sit down to a massive blow-out called le reveillon, in which they consume baked ham, roast chicken, salads, cake, fruit, bon-bons and lots of wine. In Alsace they have goose; in Paris oysters and a cake shaped like a yule log, as well as champagne and dancing. These revelries carry on all night, rather like our New Year’s Eve. This balanced, materialistic race also emphasise the secular nature of Christmas by including the policeman, the mayor, the priest, the butcher and the baker among the figures in the crib.

The Poles, on the other hand, have a twelve-course dinner on Christmas Eve. No meat is allowed, so eight kinds of fish are consumed, including caviar, salmon and carp, followed by borsch, pudding and cakes, with each course washed down with vodka and wine. After such a splendid banquet, they drink Cognac and open their presents. After this, according to my beautiful Polish friend, who now lives in England, the trouble starts.

`At midnight,’ she said, ‘we all troop to mass, extremely the worse for wear. Throughout the vicar’s sermon, my mother and aunt, since they don’t understand what is being said, talk loudly in Polish on deeply religious topics such as:

‘ “I like your boots, Helena — where did you get them?” “Russell and Bromley in the sale.”

“How clever of you. Burgundy is such a difficult colour, isn’t it?” ‘

Some people bribe their children into going to midnight mass by allowing them to open one present when they get home. Others have arguments about which church to go to: `You can either come to the Catholic church with me, or go to the cathedral, which is being televised by the BBC.’

I always have to referee arguments between my children and my husband about hair not being brushed, and shirt tails hanging out. Rather invidiously, when you read about the Reverend Kilvert breaking the ice on his cold bath before setting out for church, my family always fight unashamedly for the seat by the radiator.

Any vain hope that I may get seduced by the beauty of the service is usually sabotaged by the clergyman taking it. The first year we moved to the country, the visiting vicar proceeded grumpily down the church to the early verses of ‘Once In Royal David’s City’, and stopped in front of our pew to bless the crib. The organist, who appeared to be playing in boxing gloves, having paused for the blessing, started up again, whereupon the vicar snapped very loudly, ‘Tell that idiot to belt up, I haven’t blessed him yet,’ so a vestmented choirboy had to beetle off to the organist, who ground equally crossly to a halt.

Later when we took communion the vicar kept muttering: `Move up, move up on the rail, or I’ll never get finished.’

But in a way that’s better than the vicar who takes things desperately slowly, spinning his pep talk on peace and love out for half an hour, and packing in five carols, so that the congregation start sobering up and getting frantic for another drink. Invariably some drunk pulls a cracker or falls over and fuses the fairy lights, and teenagers get terrible giggles because one of their interminable yawns turns into a belch.

The good thing about midnight mass is that apart from giving you a chance to thank God for helping you survive another year, it does provide you with an opportunity to discover if any new talent is staying in the area over Christmas. Who would have thought, marvels Scarlett, that Mrs Piggott from the Old Rectory would have such ravishingly handsome teenage grandchildren? Perhaps she might now even be able to persuade Holly and Robin to accompany her and Noel to the Piggotts’ for drinks on Boxing Day.

Because of the possible invasion of new talent, and because everyone has so much time to stare at everyone else, it’s as well to look presentable at midnight mass. One local wife very chicly matched a purple coat to a purple black eye last year.

Clean hair is also a good idea, because the overhead lights really show up the scurf and grease. And do wipe the mud off the heels of your boots, which’ll show when you kneel down at the altar. Don’t forget your collection.

One of the reasons people shun church on Christmas morning is because they can’t get decent matins any more. Instead, you are subjected to the inevitable sung eucharist, often larded with pop songs in the more progressive churches and all the congregation joining hands in ghastly chains of communication. My husband always stands with his arms grimly folded like an All Blacks rugger player, so that no one on either side can shake hands with him.

If you can persuade your husband to take the younger children to matins, it will at least give you an hour and a half of peace to prod the turkey and nurse your hangover. But sadly, there is nobody more sanctimonious and nit-picking than members of your family returning from a church service which you have not attended. At least if you don’t go to midnight mass you can pretend to be asleep when they get home.

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