On Christmas Eve, Brother Cyprian approached my husband and me as we were admiring the Nativity scene in an alcove of Conception Abbey. “Ben Worth? You’re on my list.”
“What list?” Ben asked.
Brother Cyprian pushed up the sleeves of his black cassock. “For midnight mass. It will be packed, and we volunteer our overnight guests to help us. You’ll be bringing the gifts. You folks okay with that?”
I’d planned to skip midnight mass.
Church services scared me. When I was a kid in mama’s black Baptist church, Holy Spirit sent women crashing to the floor, where they writhed and screamed at Jesus. Sometimes our Sunday school class visited white churches to learn about other faiths. Other faiths proved equally frightening. Worshipers scowled at our little brown-skinned group, and I withered under their stares. Glassy-eyed somber faces floated above me like ghosts haunting a graveyard.
Ben and I had come to Conception Abbey to spend the holiday weekend in a holy space. We sank into the rhythm of monastic prayer: Vigils, Lauds, Eucharist, Vespers, Compline. While the Benedictines lifted their voices in harmony to God, we meditated in the candle-lit nave. I found comfort in the solitude of the deserted church and had no intention of sharing a crowded pew with strangers.
But when Brother Cyprian asked us to help, I nodded. How could you refuse a monk?
We had no idea what bringing the gifts even meant and had not thought to ask. I assumed we’d carry wrapped packages up to the nativity scene and lay them at the feet of Baby Jesus. Ben, on the other hand, figured we would stand at the exits and pass out small tokens as people left.
Hours later I lay in bed pretending to sleep so I could forget about midnight mass. It didn't work. Ben touched my shoulder. “It’s 11:20 honey.”
We entered the nave through a side door, and ended up facing the congregation. Midnight mass was packed. I wanted the hell out of there, but Brother Cyprian bustled over and directed us to our seats. “I’ll come get you when it’s time.” We stood with the assembly to sing “O come, all ye faithful …” Knelt for prayer, sat, stood again, sang. The ancient rituals of Catholic Mass were calming, familiar though I'd never practiced them before. After the cantor chanted “Let us pray to the Lord,” and hundreds of voices responded “Lord hear our prayer,” and while collection baskets were being passed, Brother Cyprian herded Ben and me to the back of the church. Holding back the fullness of his cassock sleeve again, he handed me a bowl. Communion wafers. I was horrified. In my admittedly limited experience, only authorities––ministers, elders, or God––touched Communion wafers. I drew back in a panic. “Wait. I’m not Catholic.”
Brother Cyprian was unfazed. “Don’t worry about it.” He positioned me between a gentleman holding a collection basket and Ben, who was carrying a bowl and a bottle of oil. Instruction fragments filtered through organ music. “… escort down the aisle…hand this to the abbot.”
A white-garbed monk and three children were processing up the aisle toward us, resembling a host of angels. They stopped in front of me, then turned around with military precision. I found myself grinning like the lucky kid chosen to star in the Christmas pageant. Ben was grinning, too. I followed the angels toward the chancel, as naturally as though I brought gifts every day.
I handed the bowl to Abbot Gregory. Incense sweetened the air around him. His eyes were kind, his smile twinkly, not scary at all. “Thank you,” he said. “Merry Christmas.” It seemed he might pat me on the head and whisper good job, little lady. (I would have liked that.)
Somewhere between “Don’t worry about it” and “Merry Christmas,” my childhood got a do-over.
I reclaimed my seat on a crowded pew among all the others, just like me, who had gathered in this holy space to honor God.
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“What list?” Ben asked.
Brother Cyprian pushed up the sleeves of his black cassock. “For midnight mass. It will be packed, and we volunteer our overnight guests to help us. You’ll be bringing the gifts. You folks okay with that?”
I’d planned to skip midnight mass.
Church services scared me. When I was a kid in mama’s black Baptist church, Holy Spirit sent women crashing to the floor, where they writhed and screamed at Jesus. Sometimes our Sunday school class visited white churches to learn about other faiths. Other faiths proved equally frightening. Worshipers scowled at our little brown-skinned group, and I withered under their stares. Glassy-eyed somber faces floated above me like ghosts haunting a graveyard.
Ben and I had come to Conception Abbey to spend the holiday weekend in a holy space. We sank into the rhythm of monastic prayer: Vigils, Lauds, Eucharist, Vespers, Compline. While the Benedictines lifted their voices in harmony to God, we meditated in the candle-lit nave. I found comfort in the solitude of the deserted church and had no intention of sharing a crowded pew with strangers.
But when Brother Cyprian asked us to help, I nodded. How could you refuse a monk?
We had no idea what bringing the gifts even meant and had not thought to ask. I assumed we’d carry wrapped packages up to the nativity scene and lay them at the feet of Baby Jesus. Ben, on the other hand, figured we would stand at the exits and pass out small tokens as people left.
Hours later I lay in bed pretending to sleep so I could forget about midnight mass. It didn't work. Ben touched my shoulder. “It’s 11:20 honey.”
We entered the nave through a side door, and ended up facing the congregation. Midnight mass was packed. I wanted the hell out of there, but Brother Cyprian bustled over and directed us to our seats. “I’ll come get you when it’s time.” We stood with the assembly to sing “O come, all ye faithful …” Knelt for prayer, sat, stood again, sang. The ancient rituals of Catholic Mass were calming, familiar though I'd never practiced them before. After the cantor chanted “Let us pray to the Lord,” and hundreds of voices responded “Lord hear our prayer,” and while collection baskets were being passed, Brother Cyprian herded Ben and me to the back of the church. Holding back the fullness of his cassock sleeve again, he handed me a bowl. Communion wafers. I was horrified. In my admittedly limited experience, only authorities––ministers, elders, or God––touched Communion wafers. I drew back in a panic. “Wait. I’m not Catholic.”
Brother Cyprian was unfazed. “Don’t worry about it.” He positioned me between a gentleman holding a collection basket and Ben, who was carrying a bowl and a bottle of oil. Instruction fragments filtered through organ music. “… escort down the aisle…hand this to the abbot.”
A white-garbed monk and three children were processing up the aisle toward us, resembling a host of angels. They stopped in front of me, then turned around with military precision. I found myself grinning like the lucky kid chosen to star in the Christmas pageant. Ben was grinning, too. I followed the angels toward the chancel, as naturally as though I brought gifts every day.
I handed the bowl to Abbot Gregory. Incense sweetened the air around him. His eyes were kind, his smile twinkly, not scary at all. “Thank you,” he said. “Merry Christmas.” It seemed he might pat me on the head and whisper good job, little lady. (I would have liked that.)
Somewhere between “Don’t worry about it” and “Merry Christmas,” my childhood got a do-over.
I reclaimed my seat on a crowded pew among all the others, just like me, who had gathered in this holy space to honor God.
Recent Posts:
Light and Shadow
Just a Walk in the Park
Introvert/Extravert