My Christmas story

When I was a kid in the late 1950s, going to Midnight Mass on Christmas at St. Mary’s Church was a big deal. It was a coming-of-age moment. I don’t remember at what age I was allowed to go. It must have been around eight or nine.

The priests used to joke that every year they’d get calls at the rectory from people asking what time Midnight Mass would begin. “Midnight,” the good priests would dutifully answer.

It probably still happens today in churches across the country.

We lived six blocks from St. Mary’s and I was accompanied at first by older brother Tom and older sister Ann. We’d walk through the crunching snow in the dark. I don’t remember Mom or Dad ever going with us. They were loyal customers of the 10:30 a.m. Mass on Christmas Day. Except they’d arrive about 10:37 and they always sat in the south wing. Always.

I quit going to Midnight Mass after about my third time. St. Mary’s seated about 750 people, but there were probably close to 900 souls there at midnight, packed like sardines into the pews and standing shoulder to shoulder two or three deep around the aisles.

The whole service, with all the singing and incensing and Msgr. Ivis’s legendary long sermon and stuff, took about two hours and the place got plenty hot. I was about 12 years old at the time and seated right in the middle of the row when I started to feel lightheaded. Communion had just been distributed — it took forever with all the people — and I thought with a little help from God — and a blast of cool air from the open doors — I might just be able to make it out all right if Msgr. Ivis would hurry up and finish the closing prayers and all the hallelujahs and incense.

I pulled on my parka and we were finally heading out of the pews and towards the center aisle as the processional played. It was always a stem-winder like “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” I took about two or three steps down the aisle and the last thing I heard was someone exclaim, “He’s going down!”

I woke up flat on my back, laying on a pew, and as I opened my eyes I saw about a dozen men looking down over me. It was like a scene out of a movie, only the people looking at me weren’t angels. Mostly farmers. I remember Ivan Janning asking me if I was OK.

That was the last time I attended Midnight Mass. I understood the wisdom of my parents who avoided it at all costs. After that year I joined them in the south wing at the 10:30 Christmas morning Mass. At 10:37.

That’s my Christmas story. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.