As I walked in the brisk night air and the ringing of a tower bell, I envisioned the event: I would hear the story of baby Jesus in the manger, a few carols, and witness or partake in symbolic Christmas liturgy. For some reason, I didn't imagine a large turnout. I also predicted after-service snacks (I kinda had the munchies).
Stepping inside just as the last chime of the bell was fading away, I was immediately greeted with a perfunctory "Merry Christmas" from a young women and handed a folded piece of paper, like a Christmas card; a little girl handed me an unlit candle. Moving towards murmurs in the near distance, I trotted up a few stairs and around a corner to the main hall.
Who knew there were so many Mennonites in the neighborhood? Or perhaps all the Mennonites in Portland were there. Or perhaps many of the folks were like me: curious, but not committed in any way. The room was full and more chairs were being added behind the pews. I decided I wanted a good view, so I ventured down the center aisle.
I found a little space at the end of one pew (after the man there moved his coat). Upon sitting, I promptly rose with the congregation to sing a hymn. I didn't have a hymnal near me, but there was one in a box on the back of the forward pew, and a few inches from the crotch of the man next to me; I almost reached for it, but then thought it better not to.
I took the opportunity to scan the room and get a sense of the crowd: mostly elderly people and new families with young children. There were a few teenagers and young adults, though curiously all in the first few pews. A very old man was across the aisle from me, and he was having a coughing attack; he clutched at his throat as his face turned poinsettia red. Somewhere else in the room, a baby was crying and was eventually removed.
When the hymn was over, I sat back down—and promptly rose again because I realized that everyone else was still standing. Obviously, they had a greater ability to predict the course of things. We listened to the pastor greet us and casually rejoice the special occasion. He then gave us permission to sit.
A moment later, a man stepped in front of me and motioned that he intended to sit next to me—or rather, next to his apparent family member. I guess the coat that had been on the bench was meant to save the seat for him (and perhaps Christmas or being in church prevented anyone from making that clear to me). The man squished himself between me and the other man, scooted over to leave a half-inch gap between us, and opened his program.
It actually didn't register to me until then that the paper in my hands, with a festive Christmas tree image on the front, was our guide to the happenings of the evening. I opened it and gave it a cursory glance, but then returned my attention to the pastor.
The first story was from Genesis, and was about God's response to Adam, Eve, and the serpent after the apple from the Tree of Knowledge had been eaten. It ended dourly. I was expecting something warm and cheerful about shining stars and exotic presents and perfect babies. This is when I began to doubt my ability to enjoy the situation.
My new neighbor was a much more confident singer than most of the people there. We rose again to sing a carol and he sang the bass line robustly, and with nearly correct pitch. He held the hymnal close enough to me that I wondered if I was expected to hold it with him, or for him. I didn't. In fact, I didn't even sing much—rather, I analyzed the music (being a student of composition) and listened to the performance of it. This, too, proved uninspiring, and I was slightly more convinced that I wanted to leave.
After we finished singing the carol and sat again, someone else was at the pulpit telling another story. I missed every word of it, mainly because it began and ended so abruptly, before the shuffles of the parishioners returning to a seated position had completely ceased, and because it was read in such a low-key manner.
The story concluded, and again we rose to sing.
And I started imagining my escape. I looked at the program and realized that this pattern would last for quite a while: standing for a song, then sitting, then listening to someone colorlessly tell a lifeless story, then standing for a song, etc., for ten carols and ten stories.
I gave it one more round of story and carol, but when a slightly mournful version of "O Come Emmanuel" had ended, during the shuffle of everyone returning to a seated position, I set my program and candle on the pew bench (so that it wouldn't be immediately apparent that I was bailing), and I quickly walked out.
Why was the service so rigid and dull? Why were the stories told without energy, and why did they start on such a down note? Why was the music only a cappella, and sung like a dirge? I didn't get the impression that anyone really wanted to be there, so why were they?
I won't belabor the obvious: Christmas Eve service at Portland Mennonite Church was lame. Maybe I just didn't get it. And maybe that's just how Mennonites like to do it. Regardless, it wasn't for me, and it didn't compare favorably to other religious services I've attended. Therefore, out of a possibility of ten lit candles, I give it two unlit candles.
Next year, how about an organ and gospel choir? Or frankincense and a candlelit sanctuary? Or silent meditation on what Jesus symbolizes? Or hot cocoa, cookies, and a viewing of "A Claymation Christmas"? Anyway, that's what I'm doing now.
