Marcus Walker

There is something truly counter cultural about Midnight Mass

(Photo: iStock)

‘And girls in slacks remember Dad,

And oafish louts remember Mum,

And sleepless children’s hearts are glad.

And Christmas-morning bells say “Come!”

Even to shining ones who dwell

Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.’

‘Christmas’. This poem by Betjeman conjures the magic of the season; conveys in its beat the sense of summons to the place where Christmas is celebrated and Christ is worshipped. This is a draw millions will soon feel, a tug on heart and soul that takes us to a place of candles and carols and babies and ritual and that musty smell of old stones and old books.

Midnight Mass is, for many, the stand-out favourite. The darkness outside sets off the candles inside; the carols take on a deeper meaning as the clock ticks over into the new day and we sing ‘Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning’ for the first time this year. There’s something that speaks deep into the English psyche that so many have made their pilgrimage to the local church after finishing their pilgrimage to the local pub and stand, swaying, to hear the mystery proclaimed: the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

Joining the wonderful, warm, half-sozzled mass of humanity for Midnight Mass is an entrance ticket like little else.

There is something truly counter cultural about Midnight Mass in twenty-first century England. That overlap of serious religion and a heavy night on the sauce offends modern clip-board-bearing, risk-assessment-making bureaucrats as much as it did their Puritan forebears who banned Christmas under Cromwell. That public transport is down, and consumption of alcohol is up, makes this by necessity a local, community act – the pilgrimage must be on foot, which limits the churches we can get to. A national church simply has to be a local church on Christmas Eve or it excludes everyone but the richest or the most geographically fortunate.

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