Christmas Adventures Among the Episcopalians

I was grounded in Middletown and had eaten far too much for dinner,—and it was Christmas Eve, so, given all these variables and many others, (i.e., the DVD wouldn’t play), I decided to attend a Midnight Mass.

I chose to visit the Episcopalians because I have been looking for a more authentic feeling than I’ve had in the past. Perhaps the pagentry would somehow be moving, if not for the thing itself, but because of the commonality of purpose in presenting it. (I actually have been thinking of attending Greek Orthodox services, but that must be for another time, and another post.)

I won’t refer to the specific congregation I went to, just that it was the oldest in the city, and I'll just call it ‘Holy Trinity.’

There was a group singing when I came in. Singing praises to the almighty and the infinite, no doubt. Some small group, which when done, returned to seats in the pews, which was nice, in that it reinforced the idea that it was the congregation itself producing the event.

There was also a table set up for a handbell group. You get a dozen people, each gets two handbells, each with a different note, and you together play a song. For some reason, people in Connecticut have to have handbell groups perform in churches. It’s a local thing. Handbell players are invariably women of a certain age, and they’re all terrifically obsessive about their little handbell groups, and you can tell they’re vicious as hell with each other about it. “That damn Elaine, she’s always a quarter beat slow every single goddamn time...” I thought I was going to get some of this tinkling, but apparently I was too late.

But there was song and there was song. A prayer and a song. (I flubbed the prayer, ’cause I didn't have a kneeler where I was.) And organ pieces. They made the mistake of singing some modern piece with modern, dangerously atonal, chord changes, that an unskilled chorus should not attempt.

And with the teen chorus: this is Connecticut, you have to understand how things work. The lead singer is invariably some girl of whom her parents are immensely proud. “This is Angela, she’s sings in the church’s teen choir, she’s honor society at the high school and she’s going to be a freshman next year at Brown.” Of course, Angela is simultaneously dangerously nubile and astoundingly nerdy;—but no problem, Brown will make her an American-hating Socialist in no time, and she’ll learn to repudiate both her parents and the faith she so tentatively now embraces. —But that’s another post.

But that was the whole crux of the night: this bit of show, then that. First the adult chorus, then the teen chorus. This act and then that. It was like a midnight high school talent show. That’s what the Episcopalians are left with.

Feeling is gone. Depth is gone. Faith is gone. What’s left is these large performance spaces and the vanities of parents.

Not that I expect miracles from the good people of Middletown. I know the people of Middletown: they are good people. They mean well. They usually do well. They are not given to outpourings of any kind. They are hesitant and awkward in public. They are not about to assemble in a large drafty old hall in the middle of town, (with an appalling painting scheme), and transform into transcendent mystical beings. Not for my benefit, at any rate.

But is this all we’re left with? The birth of His only begotten son, and some rushed show? Hello, goodbye? “That was great minister, but we’ve got to hit the hay, the ex-wife is showing up with the kids at 9:00 tomorrow, and we have the in-laws over for Christmas dinner at 1:00. Beautiful job by the handbell chorus, that was great. Really.”

Where’s the goddamn dog and pony?

There was a time once, I know it, when the idea was to offer something that was might be pleasing to God.—Imagine that, a choir so beautiful that God would take notice. Offered with such simple sincerity that God would pause. And listen. And that was praise to the Lord.

Perhaps the fault is with me. I’ll grant that. Who am I to be looking for ‘more authentic feeling’? And why should the trappings of majesty seduce me? Why should the good people transform into transcendent mystical beings? Yet, on the other hand, if all I see is the same people I see every day, behaving the same way, how is this supposed to be special?

I’ll do what I can on my own.

I have some mulled wine, and I’ll scan the skies tonight for some sign.