Following is an archived article from The Record, published Dec. 16, 1955. It offers a glimpse into the celebration of Christmas around the Archdiocese of Louisville as it was 70 years ago.
In the Archdiocese of Louisville, the celebration of Christmas begins when the choir, high in the loft of the Gothic Cathedral on Fifth Street, sings the first carol, somewhere around 11:30 p.m. on Christmas Eve.
The Cathedral is already filled by that time; every pew is occupied and the standing room near the vestibule is gradually diminishing.
The lights are already on in the great church, all except those in the sanctuary and the little rings of lamps atop the soaring pillars, which will be turned on at the Sanctus of the Mass.
Television cameras are in place, telephone lines laid and the multiple wires are ready to take the drama of the Mass out of the church, back to the mobile unit parked in the alley, and from there to the studio on Broadway and into the homes of hundreds of people in and around Louisville who, their work of trimming the tree finished, can see the splendor of the Holy Sacrifice.
When the bishop enters the portals of the church, just on the stroke of midnight, the choir will burst into “Ecce Sacerdos Magnus,” and the Christmas liturgy will have begun.
The Mass at midnight at the Cathedral is always a Pontifical High Mass. And it is the only midnight Mass in any parish of the archdiocese.
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Privately, midnight Mass is celebrated in convents where it has an unusual beauty and solemnity. There, the Christmas observance is invested with all the spirituality and dignity, with the sense of gratitude and true spiritual joy, called for by the remembrance of Christ’s birth.
In convents, there is no pre-occupation with a world of material gadgets, Christmas ornaments and toys. There, the joy is refined to the point where it closely approximates that ethereal peace announced by the angels at Bethlehem, that peace that is not of this world.
In convents, the midnight stillness is really still, even though the choir is singing the Gloria, for the nuns’ voices do not shatter the night; they blend into it. Here, it is not hard to recall that this is the birthday of the Saviour. He is born in all the hearts that surround the clean, flower-decked altar.
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Out in the Trappist Monastery at Gethsemani, the celebration of Christmas is spiritualized still more. The monks add little to their austere diet — perhaps a few apples and a piece of cake at the main meal — and of course they do not break their perpetual silence.
But they become absorbed in the beautiful liturgy of the Church. Between 9 o’clock and midnight, they sing Matins and Lauds, Matins with its beautiful readings from Isaias. Here is the gist of what they sing:
“Land of Zabulon and Nephthali, its burden at first how lightly borne! But the time came when affliction weighed heavily on it. … And now the people that went about in darkness has seen a great light; for men abiding in a land where death overshadowed them, light has dawned … now they shall rejoice in thy presence, as men rejoice when the harvest is in, as men triumph when victory is won.
“Yoke that fixed the burden, shaft that galled the shoulder, rod of the tyrant, all lie broken now, as they did long ago, when Madian fell. All the trophies of the old tumultuous forays, all the panoply stained with blood, will be burnt up now, will go to feed the flames.
“For our sakes, a child is born, to our race a son is given, whose shoulder will bear the sceptre of princely power. What name shall be given him? Peerless among counsellors, the mighty God, Father of the world to come, the Prince of peace.”
“Take heart again, my people, says your God, take heart again. Speak Jerusalem fair, cry aloud to her that her woes are at an end, her guilt is pardoned; double toil the Lord has taken for all her sins.
“A cry, there, out in the wilderness, Make way for the Lord’s coming; a straight road for our God through the desert! Good news for Sion, take thy stand, herald, on some high mountain; good news for Jerusalem, proclaim it, herald, aloud; louder still, no cause now for fear; tell the cities of Juda, See, your God comes!”
Then, shortly after midnight, with the organ stilled and every monk’s head bowed low, God comes again — at the consecration of the Mass. The surroundings are little different here than they were in Bethlehem. There is the nearness to the fields and the cattle, the chill of an underheated house. And the high walls, unbroken with windows except in their upper reaches, are a little like those of a cave — all this to remind our Lord that at least some of His followers know that Christmas is not made up of merely material gifts.
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If you want to hear those magnificent words of Isaias in the Christmas Matins, sung with even more charm and beauty than at Gethsemani, you must go to St. Meinrad’s Archabbey in Indiana.
There is no song in the whole of Gregorian chant more poignant than the one that accompanies Isaias’ Christmas prophecy. It rises and falls softly, sweetly, with a melody that sounds more modern than most of the chant and with a touch of sentiment that seldom comes through in liturgical tones.
The Benedictine monks at St. Meinrad give it all they have, and joy rises in the Abbey Church like a star over the horizon, casting its gentle light.
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In the parishes throughout the Archdiocese, the Christmas observance starts not at midnight but in the early morning. And usually it is the first Mass, at 5 or 5:30 a.m., that is given the greatest solemnity.
It is still dark at that time, and usually the air is still cold, and even before you arrive at the church, you feel that this day is different from all others.
At the first Mass, there are three priests on the altar (if the parish has that many) and the choirs at its full complement of voices. And over on the side of the sanctuary, you see the crib, with its holy figures posed expectantly, surrounded by branches of cedar that give off a fine fragrance and by little bulbs that give off a faint light.
Later, the smell of cedar will get mixed with that of incense. It is unmistakably Christmas.
When the collection plate is passed, you will have to contribute a little more than usual, because, according to what is now a tradition in the Archdiocese of Louisville, the collection goes to the orphans.
