I've never done this before, and I can't promise that I will again; but this Christmas was far removed from the usual for me, and that may have played a role in what you're about to read.
Like many people, I was beginning to feel a bit glum during the run-up to Christmas. Especially in the last few days. For the first time ever, I was overseas on Christmas, in a country (Japan) that, although it celebrates the day, does not really celebrate Christmas. For example, 25 December is not a holiday, I skipped work today to celebrate Christmas in my own little way (more on that in a later post). And because I am overseas, for only the second time in my life I am not in my hometown visiting with friends and family on Christmas. The first time, was the result of a blizzard in Colorado, and I was thankful to be stranded in my home rather than on a bus or in the airport, as very easily could have been the case. This time, it was by work and by (difficult) choice.
So, I was already a little down when I went to a Christmas party with friends here on Saturday night. Instead of lifting my spirits, I began to feel even more morose. I thought I would be gathering with several people who, like me, missed their friends and family, but wanted to make the most of a difficult situation by holding a party. But it seemed to me that nobody there gave a second thought for their families, whether they lived thousands of miles away, or a few train stations away. In fact, in talking with many, they seemed almost relieved to be free of their families and would not have wanted to be anywhere else just then, as I wanted to be. At least, that is how it seemed to me at the time.
I decided to go to Christmas Eve Vigil Mass in the evening at the Franciscan Center in Roppongi. The Christmas Mass was a typical Christmas Eve Mass: many over-excited children, many people who are a little disoriented because this may be the only time of the year they see the inside of a church, standing room only (see previous). Not that any of this truly bothered me: it's the most exciting night of the year for these children, even the most angelic would be fidgety in these circumstances; the people who had not been here since last Christmas, at least they are here today and maybe they'll be inspired to come back again next week and continue to strengthen their faith -- journeys of a thousand miles, single steps, and all that; and I had arrived 20 minutes before Mass began, so I at least had a seat! ;-) But, I think because it was so familiar, it had a deeper effect on me. I felt both comforted by the familiarity, but pushed deeper into my malaise by the glaring omission of what had been so familiar for every other Christmas. It was almost like I was living out the closing scene from "It's a Wonderful Life," but in a darker world: "This is what Christmas would be like without you... nothing has changed."
Then I heard the fellow sitting behind me telling his neighbor that he was a recent convert to Catholicism. That he had met a young priest in Las Cruces, went to Mass the following Sunday, and then over the next few years decided to enroll in RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults). This caused my ears to prick up because I sometimes have business in Las Cruces (at New Mexico State University), and had been to the very parish he mentioned on several occasions. Four thousand miles from home, and I'm now seated three feet away from someone who quite possibly heard the same Homily and Mass that I did a year ago when I last visited Las Cruces. What are the odds? Then, I notice another familiar face. A NASA representative with whom I had finally formally met just three days prior after months of trying to line up schedules, walks by and says, "Hello." I begin to wonder whether I have found the twilight zone.
The Christmas Mass is a joyful one, partly because of what we celebrate, but partly because we Catholics had just spent the previous four weeks in a Penitential Season preparing ourselves for this celebration. Many exceptionally festive parts of the Mass are either skipped or subdued during that time, which makes them all the more noticeable when they return. And, because of this, I am feeling a little better. But I am also a people-watcher (by default, I can't help it), and I can see the children at Mass getting more and more antsy, and their parents bravely keeping them under control, but becoming more and more exasperated. I hope none of the parents felt embarrassed, they were fighting a losing battle; I'm glad they found the strength to chose to fight that battle in public and partake of this Mass, rather than choose the easy path to stay home.
But then after Communion, something strange happens. The little girl with the family seated next to me, who has been becoming increasingly animated throughout Mass, needs to fix her shoe. She stops bouncing around, reaches up and grabs my hand to steady herself as she reaches with her other hand to re-seat her fluffy boot. Her mother is very apologetic, but I don't mind. This interaction causes me think about my niece who is about the same age. And I feel that, just for a moment, that little girl invited me into her family. Because, what is family, if not a group of people you can always count on to lend a hand? And, a group of people who always seem to need a hand!
And that got me to thinking about what I think is one of the most beautiful doctrines of the Catholic Church: the Church Triumphant, Penitent, and Militant. The first two are those in Heaven and in Purgatory, and all those here on Earth, struggling every day in battles against evil, are the Church Militant. All three are part of the family that is the Church. And, more importantly, the Church Militant truly means all of humanity, for while we may have some disagreements about what specifically constitutes evil, I think we all believe we are motivated to eliminate or minimize that evil. That means everyone in this churchroom today is my family. Everyone at that party the other night is my family. Everyone here in Japan, even those who seem to completely miss the point of Christmas, they are my family. The people you've been in a political tussle with, they are your family. The jerk who just cut you off on the road is your family. Even those we've "disowned," they are our family. And, here I am, singing "Silent Night" on Christmas Eve, just as I would have been back home, with a group of people who, though imperfect like me, have chosen to be here, with the rest of their extended human family, for this hour, on this holy yet hectic night. And, truly, I had to hold back a tear.
Of course, I still missed the family and friends back home whom I wanted to see. But, I suddenly realized that even though I have never seen many of these people around me before in my life -- and maybe never will again -- I have a family with me here tonight. From the little girl who reminded me of my niece, to my colleague with whom I may be working over the coming months, to the fellow from down the road, to hundreds of others from literally around the world.
And I think it was not just me feeling this connection. I noticed that as the priest began the final blessing, he began to speak a few words to the congregation. His voice broke as he could barely get his words out, "Thank you all for coming. It is truly wonderful to see so many people here tonight to come to this church and celebrate this special night with us and each other." He then was able to collect himself to add both jokingly and in all seriousness, "We do this every week; if you enjoyed this, please come and see us again next Sunday!"
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