Memories of a Midnight Mass in Co Tyrone, 1968

“O Holy Night” and other beloved carols echoed through the town, resonating in schools, on TV, and on the radio, with the former holding a special place in my heart.

Also recognised as “Minuit, Chrétiens,” 1966 marked the 60th anniversary of its inaugural radio broadcast, and it is said to be the first piece of music ever played on the radio. The enchanting strains of this Christmas carol, “Cantique de Noël,” filled the airwaves, churches, schools, and town squares, creating a festive atmosphere. This remains my favourite carol, evoking fond memories of joyous Christmases and attending Midnight Mass alone at St. Mary’s Chapel in Melmount during the late 1960s.

These recollections are more than mere shadows from the past; they are vivid, and etched in my mind. 15 minutes before midnight, I embarked on the traditional journey under the crisp, starlit sky of Christmas Eve. As a preteen, my heart brimmed with hope and joy, anticipating the celebration of Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year. The night of Christ’s birth, as beautifully articulated in the carol.

A procession of fellow worshippers ascended the hill to St. Mary’s, an aged chapel dating back to 1845. Amidst the uplifting atmosphere, warm greetings of “Merry Christmas!” echoed from the darkness. Lost in my thoughts, I relished the tangible human warmth on that chilly night.

Anticipation of new beginnings, the season’s abundance, and the much-anticipated special dinner and presents for the next day fuelled my Christmas cheer. Following my mother’s hopeful tradition, we wished for snow on Christmas Day. Snowflakes, akin to the icing on a cake, held a magical allure for us kids. Much like the classic carol suggests, the stars illuminated the holiest of nights, the birth of the Dear Savior.

Neighbours, family, and friends strolled up the hill to the chapel, embodying the hymn’s message of embracing human weakness, finding solace in the birth of the Saviour, and the forgiveness it symbolised. With Christmas shopping completed and turkeys roasting in the oven, weary travellers returned home for the glorious Christmas morning. The timeless melodies of “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” and other carols echoed across the globe, as children, having practised for weeks, eagerly participated in spreading the festive joy.

The congregation filed through the chapel doors, and that Christmas, I aimed for the front seats, drawn to the proximity of the altar instead of my family’s usual perch upstairs. As the church filled, everyone knelt to offer their prayers, and a sense of anticipation hung in the air. Souls seeking redemption through the Savior’s birth filled the atmosphere with a hopeful mood.

The service began with a powerful rendition of “Oh! Come All Ye Faithful,” prompting the congregation to rise in unison, signalling the commencement of the mass. In his resplendent golden chasuble, Fr. Convery entered, accompanied by six altar boys of varying heights and hair colours. A warm smile played on his face as he acknowledged the overflowing congregation.

“In the Name of Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

He held a short pause before bellowing,

“A Happy and Holy Christmas, this wonderful night to ye all!”

Upon his simple greeting, a collective sigh of relief swept through the congregation. His words put everyone at ease, and glances exchanged around the church conveyed a shared sense of comfort. As he began his spiritually uplifting sermon on this glorious early morn, consciences and ears alike found solace, reassured by the message unfolding before them.

Positioned on the balcony, the choir reached its pinnacle, harmonising flawlessly with the congregation as they joyfully engaged in the most beloved Christmas carols. Hearts soared with the collective melody. A young soloist, standing proudly before the altar, initiated “O Holy Night” with his crystal-clear soprano, expressing the joy of this night of hope, this extraordinary night. His piercing voice likely sent shivers down many spines and caused hairs to stand on countless necks. As the choir and congregation united in singing the chorus, “Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices,” the ancient parish church may not have echoed with angelic voices, but it resonated with an unparalleled passion, at least in my short lifetime.

Beaming from the pulpit, the priest lit a candle, signalling for all of us to do the same. The lights in the body of the church dimmed, and many men assisted in illuminating the candles in the pews around them, embracing this communal act of worship. In the candle-lit church in north-west Ireland, the small nativity scene at the side of the altar radiated a warm glow, adding to the enchantment of the moment.

The priest then proceeded to read the gospel from Isaiah 9:2-7. His delivery was heartfelt, with deliberate pauses allowing the weight of each word to resonate with the congregation. Particularly, he lingered on the passage: “For a child has been born for us, a son is given to us; authority rests upon his shoulders, and he is named Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”

The choir followed with a stirring “Joy to the World,” and as the final notes echoed, tears glistened on many cheeks. The lights were switched back on, and candles were extinguished.

Afterward, immersed in the Christmas spirit, I darted off toward home, extending warm wishes for a Happy Christmas to all. Thoughts of breakfast chocolates from my Christmas stocking, the anticipation of turkey and roast spuds for dinner, and the excitement of Christmas charades filled my mind. Most importantly, my thoughts centred on the eagerly awaited presents that Santa would bring.

At home, my father assumed the role of the sole arbitrator of our spiritual upbringing. He led our bedtime prayers and orchestrated family rosaries in the evening, with all of us kneeling in front of the sofa. On the other hand, my mother, more of a cultural Catholic than one with a deeply personal faith, attributed a panic attack, that caused her to faint during a crowded service, and was overwhelmed by the damp-smelling church, as the reason for her aversion to such gatherings.

*Hugh Vaughan was born in Northern Ireland and lives in Melbourne, Australia, and has published five books. His latest books are “Borderland” and “An Analytic Pub Crawl, Wanderings and Observations,” “Cillefoyle Park,” “A Bump on the Road,” and “Fragments of an Analytic Pub Crawl.” See his website HMVaughan.com.

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