We had visited Notre Dame, taken an hour-long train trip south to the town of Chartres to see the 12th-century cathedral there, and we had found a couple of smaller churches, near Notre Dame, that had been recommended by friends to Karen.
In each case, at the back of the churches, a crèche, or Nativity scene, had been laid out. In every case, Mary and Joseph were kneeling in hay, their attention focused on a place where the newborn infant would lay, but there was no infant there.
So it was at our neighborhood church, Sainte Elisabeth, on Christmas Eve. After “Silent Night,” the service continued, in French and Latin, an intriguing experience. Then a silence fell. The priest and acolytes left the altar and disappeared behind columns to the right. Then with a rustling of clothing and feet, people stood up, moved to the center aisle, and went forward, in otherwise hushed silence. Reaching the altar, they moved to the right, apparently to rendezvous with their priest somewhere.
Karen knew about this. The people were rising to escort the holy infant to his place in the crèche, and to attend him there. I had never heard of this ritual, but suddenly the other empty crèches made sense. The infant would not have arrived in the manger until Christmas. Worshippers escorting him to his starting place in their lives was a most appropriate, gentle and tender ritual. We could not see the crèche because of the columns, but it was easy to visualize the people attending him, and I could see the same thing happening at Chartres and Notre Dame, where the movement and the sound of the people moving toward the Nativity must have been stunning.
Just as quietly as they had gathered, people returned to their seats and pretty soon we arrived at Communion. My family, as I was growing up in Texas, attended the Methodist Church, where communion consisted of grape juice in little shot glasses nested in special trays being passed down the pews. Later, in California, I was confirmed in the Episcopal Church, so I learned of the more formal Communion, which recreates the original Communion in some detail, in a recognizable sequence, almost a cadence, that is recognizable in any language. So I knew that the Sainte Elisabeth priest was talking about the last night, and Jesus bestowing his symbolism to the bread, and to the wine. Sure enough, he lifted the wafer high, and then broke it, and I knew he was saying, “Take, eat, do this in remembrance of me.”
We didn’t take Communion. As the people started forward, we slipped out the back. They would have welcomed us, I know, but when I am a visitor, I always feel better observing their privacy, in the event’s intimacy. It was almost midnight when we climbed our tight spiral stairway to the cozy warmth of the flat, talking about how going to Sainte Elisabeth for Christmas Mass was one of the best things we had done in Paris.
In each case, at the back of the churches, a crèche, or Nativity scene, had been laid out. In every case, Mary and Joseph were kneeling in hay, their attention focused on a place where the newborn infant would lay, but there was no infant there.
So it was at our neighborhood church, Sainte Elisabeth, on Christmas Eve. After “Silent Night,” the service continued, in French and Latin, an intriguing experience. Then a silence fell. The priest and acolytes left the altar and disappeared behind columns to the right. Then with a rustling of clothing and feet, people stood up, moved to the center aisle, and went forward, in otherwise hushed silence. Reaching the altar, they moved to the right, apparently to rendezvous with their priest somewhere.
Karen knew about this. The people were rising to escort the holy infant to his place in the crèche, and to attend him there. I had never heard of this ritual, but suddenly the other empty crèches made sense. The infant would not have arrived in the manger until Christmas. Worshippers escorting him to his starting place in their lives was a most appropriate, gentle and tender ritual. We could not see the crèche because of the columns, but it was easy to visualize the people attending him, and I could see the same thing happening at Chartres and Notre Dame, where the movement and the sound of the people moving toward the Nativity must have been stunning.
Just as quietly as they had gathered, people returned to their seats and pretty soon we arrived at Communion. My family, as I was growing up in Texas, attended the Methodist Church, where communion consisted of grape juice in little shot glasses nested in special trays being passed down the pews. Later, in California, I was confirmed in the Episcopal Church, so I learned of the more formal Communion, which recreates the original Communion in some detail, in a recognizable sequence, almost a cadence, that is recognizable in any language. So I knew that the Sainte Elisabeth priest was talking about the last night, and Jesus bestowing his symbolism to the bread, and to the wine. Sure enough, he lifted the wafer high, and then broke it, and I knew he was saying, “Take, eat, do this in remembrance of me.”
We didn’t take Communion. As the people started forward, we slipped out the back. They would have welcomed us, I know, but when I am a visitor, I always feel better observing their privacy, in the event’s intimacy. It was almost midnight when we climbed our tight spiral stairway to the cozy warmth of the flat, talking about how going to Sainte Elisabeth for Christmas Mass was one of the best things we had done in Paris.
No comments:
Post a Comment