Traditions and retreads

Today we went to a Christmas Eve service. It had all the trappings of tradition in it, the responsive readings, the candles, and the Christmas hymns. We responded in mass, moved as a congregation, singing and responding on cue.

At the beginning of the service the pianist and a flutist were playing “He will feed His flock” from Handel’s Messiah. I closed my eyes and the music took me away. I floated through past Christmases and association with the song. I was lifted heavenward. The melody took me from the building, away from the fancy dresses, the light chitchat and the crying babies.

I was brought back to earth after the prelude was over. The service felt like all out war between the pianist and the organist. One played in major, the other minor, there were chord wars for the right of transition, and at the end, and the organist was a mare galloping back to the barn at day’s end. The piano player was banging out the tempo, but the organist was not having any of it. The congregation remained confused as to whom to follow. The organ had the volume pedal so was able to gain the upper hand.

It’s tradition to go to this service. So why do I follow tradition? Why is it so hard to break through tradition and experience Christ’s birth one more year in my heart? The further I drive down the road of life the smoother my tires get. My tread is wearing thin,

The older I get, the more I lose the illusions that life provides us when we are young. These illusions allow us to vote, enjoy friends, participate in activities, get jobs, get married and birth children. The older I get, the less I know what I believe. So much of life doesn’t add up. Life’s twists and turns have gotten slipperier.

So part of the slipping is I show up at the Christmas Eve service. I say the words they ask me to say, I watch the faithful primp and adjust themselves to maintain appearances, and I sit back in amusement as the instruments do battle. There is less room in this inn right now to accommodate a Child of faith. I’m driving slow, following the taillights of those ahead of me. I’m not in the fast lane passing the throng. I’m driving slow, afraid of sliding off the road of life.

I pray for retreading, a new fresh layer to give me traction for my faith.