Because the Christmas mass was always the beginning of something magical: the last episode of our FR Advent stories.
When boredom got the better of you, you were almost there. We had been pushing all morning: When do we go to church? When does the church start? Earlier than last year !? Why did it all take so long !? Lunch – who’s hungry on a day like this !? Going for a walk – does that have to be ?! And these endless fairy tale films: “We are waiting for the Christ Child”. The others maybe. Not me. I wanted to go to church – for Christmas mass.
It was finally dark. The bells began to ring. We sat in there half an hour beforehand. Papa always had to see the pastor. In the twilight someone played this lame music by Bach, Telemann or whatever they were called. That was on the leaflets that were on the benches and contained the songs for later.
I started counting the candles on the Christmas tree. How huge it was! I imagined myself climbing branch by branch in the sky to see if the Christ Child had already left with the presents. Hopefully the Carrera track hadn’t forgotten it! Soon there were no more seats, people had to stand. Mama smelled so good of perfume. I had to put on those scratchy pants again. Please, please, dear Christ Child, think about the steep bend!
christmas rituals
We all have certain stories, films or rituals that belong to Christmas – and without which our Advent season would only be half as festive. This year’s FR advent calendar ends with today’s text. We would like to take this opportunity to thank you, the readers, for the loving and touching submissions that have once again shown us: It is the personal stories that make you happy and go to the heart. And not just to those who read it, but also to those who wrote it. Merry Christmas! FR
Suddenly the neon tubes started. It was getting light. The organ roared. Then they moved in in these strange robes: in front the acolytes, behind them the pastor – serious, bent over, hands folded. Now I could see how crowded the church was: So many people! Everyone wore their good things. Did her pants itch like that too? What did they want?
Although I’d heard it a couple of times, I always liked the Christmas story best during Christmas mass. Simply because it was a story, no intercession, no prayer, none of those idle formulas. It occupied the imagination: Why did Augustus let the people count? Did the incense of the three kings smell better than mom’s perfume? Has the child frozen in the manger as we do now in the unheated church?
Thank you, Jesus, it’s Christmas because of you and I’m getting a Carrera track! Thank you for enduring the scratchy straw for me! But then came the sermon. Sometimes it lasted 20 minutes. Supposedly, this story of the birth of Jesus should have to do with us. I thought that was absurd. Bethlehem was far away, history a long time ago. In my uncle’s stable, the cows were chained up. The pigs squealed terribly. It stank.
Somehow what the pastor was preaching sounded wrong. What he was suggesting in the story didn’t fit. The story was true even without him. She said: People owe everything to Jesus. He was born for people. He helps everyone. That someone like that was born is a miracle. And that’s why we give each other: to be happy about it. There is nothing bad about Christmas, only good. Time stands still on Christmas Eve: everything is happiness.
The sermon was the opposite: a martyrdom of boredom. Hold on, I thought, when the sermon is done, it’s almost there! Then it takes another 20 minutes. Then we go home and a miracle occurs. The bell will ring, I’ll unpack what I’ve long dreamed of. This is the best moment I can imagine! Only 20 minutes to happiness. I thought.
