Journey of Light

Last night marked the second time that I sang at midnight mass with the choir from my current parish, and only one of a handful of times that I have sung midnight mass in total. I have limited memories of the others - many of them consisting of the same songs, late nights and groggy Christmas mornings. One Christmas I do remember coming out of church a the end of the mass, and taking in the sight of a snow covered front lawn, with the pattern and colors of the stained glass window from the top of the church reflected on the snow blanket. It was quite exquisite.

While I do remember a bit of last year, I think that my experience last night may be one that stays with me. There was a moment (there are always moments - that's what memories are drawn from) where we were singing "Lux Aurumque", a modern poem that was translated to Latin for this musical piece. It is a short, but somewhat difficult piece, as the harmonies are, at points, dissonant. We spent a good part of the fall learning it.

This night, as we reached a particular point in the song, the church grew very quiet. Out in the hallway, I saw one of the pastoral associates stop and watch; she was mesmerized. I remembered that our choir director had said this moment of the song represented the birth of Jesus, and the beauty of this particular moment seemed to magically recreate this moment with sound and light.

I remembered the moment of birth with my own son. While a great deal different from the birth of Christ, there was this sense of time standing still. In hospitals, it is often difficult to distinguish the time of night and day. Additionally, I feel at the moment when birth - and, I imagine, death - takes place, there is a sense that time almost stops. Connecting that personal experience to this song made the moment even more powerful.

And so, in this moment - the beauty of the music, the wonder of the parishioners - I felt myself absorbed in the moment. It is now, and, I imagine, will always be an incredible memory for me.