Recovering Catholic and Christmas

Incense and Peppermints
By
Debbie Lindsey

I might be a recovering Catholic, but I enter churches with impunity, fearless of lightning striking or a hazing of hypocrisy on Christmas Day. Now don’t go thinking, dear Christian friends, that I am beginning to see the light. I respectfully decline to be saved. I got my own rules and regulations to live and do good by.
When I ceased to practice Catholicism I was 18 and I am sure my dear Mom feared for my soul till the day she died. Heck, she probably worries from the grave about my Sister and I. Yep, Sister and I are both going to hell in a hand basket. For reasons related or not, we both have chosen to sleep in on Sundays for the vast majority of our lives. In fact the closest person I have resembling a brother is my friend, Paul, of nearly forty years – and he too is a man of little faith (in regards to god and the pope).
Where am I headed with all of this (“straight to Hell”, I was once told by a self-righteous employer who was later fired for stealing)? I’m headed into one of my sentimental journeys.
For most of us, Christmas is a time to revisit memories. And my memories resurrect Mom and Dad. Usually, they come to visit my thoughts when by way of food, bourbon, or Christmas trees. A certain song, peppermint canes, a fur coat like my mom’s, a 6 oz. Bottle of Coca Cola (mom’s favorite and curiously Santa’s preference), my parent’s friends and their holiday parties.
And, Christmas Day mass at St. Ignatius.
I did not enter our church, or any for that matter, for years unless bribed into one for a wedding and it’s promise of great food and drink to follow. There was a funeral or two, but of course any good Catholic send- off meant booze and homemade cakes for consolation. But for some reason or another I began accompanying Dad to Christmas mass sometime back in the eighties.
Mom had started fulfilling her Mass attendance on Christmas Eve (big sin to miss mass) so she could take care of Mister Turkey on Christmas morning. Dad was an usher (the guy that guilts parishioners into dropping money into the basket that is thrust down the aisles on a long stick) on Sundays and Religious holidays. Ushers sit in the back pew so they can pocket all those donations…just kidding. Anyway, I liked being in the back with Dad. That way no one really noticed my lack of participation. If you haven’t been to a Catholic Mass then I suggest you visit just to see all the moves. It’s like an aerobics class – sit, stand, kneel, sit, stand, kneel and all that signing of the cross is a great bicep exercise.
I did not wish to fake the traditions so I would politely refrain, sit and just take it all in. The back pew kinda gave me permission to play tourist. Some years later, attending my Dad’s funeral mass, my Sister and I had to sit with my very Catholic Mom in the front pew. When time came to make the sign of the cross, Susan and I and even Paul, two pews back, instinctively lifted our hands to sign only to quickly recoil our hands (all in unison) back to our sides as if avoiding a snake bite.
Ya don’t spend your formative years being brain-washed…I mean… immersed in Catholicism and not have it remain with you. For me it’s kinda like an alma mater – maybe you didn’t care for those school years or instructors but you were still privy to some brilliant minds, exotic rituals, and some crazy fashion statements. If you lean away from the ordinary, then the Catholic Church is the surreal deal. But I have digressed far from my Christmas story.
Any hoot, I had begun to add mass with Dad as a part of my holiday ritual. I would soak up all the festive greenery, the manger, the carols and incense and just sit back and watch my childhood from the safety of the back pew. As a kid, Christmas Day mass was such a tease. We could not open the gifts under our tree until after we went to church. Thus the longest hour of my life played out every December 25th as I feigned looks of devotion but all the while the visions of sugar plums and cool toys had me just about to jump at of my skin.
As an adult sitting with Dad I was a bit calmer and rather enjoyed an hour of Christmas without the commercialism. So while others did the sit/stand/kneel workout and got straight with Jesus; memories of Christmas past had time to visit me.
When Mom and Dad passed I had very little reason to visit my hometown and no reason to go to my old church. My Christmases from then on were celebrated in New Orleans and it was a few years before I stepped into one of our churches. Then, one Christmas I was out enjoying the peaceful quiet of the Quarter that could only be found then or on Thanksgiving Day (of course since the levees failed we have an abundance of quiet days) and found a mass in full swing in the lower Quarter. I sat in the back and meant only to enjoy the holiday mood and the amazing architecture and next thing I knew I was crying. Crying for my parents and missing them. And feeling oddly happy over this because I felt they were with me – the power of memories.
So, I now go visit my folks and childhood on Christmas Day. I find them in a couple of really cool churches. I also find them over a bourbon and coke a little later in the day. I obstinately, sincerely am not interested in religion, new age spiritualism or god but I do believe with all my heart that the spirit of people, alive or dead, is all powerful.
And the spirit of Christmas can find you and your beloved memories anywhere, from the back pew, the barstool, in viewing ITS A WONDERFUL LIFE, or simply stealing a glance at your neighbor’s Christmas tree shining through their window.