ere you go,” he said as he handed her the cup of hot Gluewein. She took into her mittened hands and blew across its top. When she finally took a sip, its warmth was immediately felt.

“That hit the spot,” she said with satisfaction, just before taking another sip.

“Sure did,” he returned. “Let’s go.”

They began moving toward the next booth. It was dark now, the sun having set about an hour ago. The only light available in the Christmas Market emanated from the booths and strings of pale lights hanging contentedly between them. The muffled illumination they provided revealed only the silhouettes of the other Christmas Shoppers as they lumbered deliberately through the main aisle of the market. The movement of their collective shadows took on a life of its own, like the current of a river, guided, yet bumpy and unpredictable. As one shopper stopped to investigate the contents of a booth, another would leave the booth to join the ebb and flow.

Though he couldn’t see their faces, he could tell they were looking at each other as they walked. And since they were all strangers to him, their collective chatter served as an auditory backdrop to the entire event. Caught up in the moment, he bumped into someone. He was immediately prepared to apologize, but no request materialized. Everyone moved on.

The light from inside the next booth seemed warm and inviting, like that from a fireplace in a dark room. As they entered the booth, the reason for the warmth became clear. It was a toy booth. Hand-crafted puppets, ornaments, and nutcrackers hung everywhere. They were painted in saturated primary colors, and most were capable of some minor form of animation. Moving the lever on a nutcracker’s back caused its mouth to open and close, the resulting sound being curiously reminiscent of idle chatter. Pulling the string hanging from a toy-soldier’s body caused its limbs to spring up and down in a mindless sort of dance. It was all so wonderfully simple yet at the same time, familiar. They both stood there with big grins on their faces, basking in the sort of delight only children are normally allowed to express. No longer able to resist, she reached up and pulled the string handing from one of the soldiers. They both chuckled in unison with the soldier’s springing arms and legs. She pulled it a couple more times and they laughed louder and louder. The booth keeper smiled quietly and beamed with pride. Others who entered the booth also smiled.

Eventually they realized they were being watched. However, the understanding and delight they found in the eyes of the others assured them nothing had been lost. She turned to him and then turned to the booth keeper.

“Wie viel kostet diese Spielzoid?”, she asked in tolerable German while pointing to the toy solider.

“Fünf Mark”, responded the booth keeper, his smile indicating he his pleasure at her attempt to use German, even though he had known she wasn’t German before a single word had left her lips.

She wasted no time with mental math. She had been in the country long enough to have developed a feel for the American-dollar value of German money. The toy-solider was easily worth about three and a half dollars. She fished through her change purse for a five-mark coin. She found one and looked up to give it to the booth keeper, but he was already busy wrapping her toy solider in tissue paper. He then placed the wrapped toy into a small bag. Then, simultaneously, he placed the bag on the counter in front of her, and she placed the coin in a dish on the same counter. Both then picked up their end of the bargain.

“Dankeschön”, he said with a smile and a slight nod of the head.

“Bitte”, she returned with a smile.

Then she turned and smiled and him, and he returned her happiness. They then bumped into a few people and made their way back into the flow. Walking among the silhouettes, the quickly became lost in their own conversation.

“I’m really glad we decided to come tonight”.

“So am I”, he said. “Although I don’t know how long my pocketbook could handle this place.”

“Oh come-on Scrooge,” she said with a mock sense of scorn. “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

“In your eyes”, he said as he drew her close.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” They kissed.

They walked silently in each other’s arms then, toward the end of the market. When they reached the end, his attention was drawn upward. There, towering above the Market was the tallest church steeple in the world; the 161 meter Ulmer Munster. The steeple was so high and the sky so dark, he couldn’t see its top. Somehow, however, he felt its presence.

“Man, it’s weird thinking that people built that thing before the industrial revolution.”

“It was a different time.”

“It was, most definitely, a different time.”

They turned to walk to the bus stop. During the half a second it took to turn his attention from the church steeple to the bus stop, he bumped into someone. He turned to apologize and, just as before, found no inquiry. It struck him then that as he had been standing in the toy booth, he had been bumped by five different people. The bus pulled up, and they entered.

After they exited the bus, they crossed the street and made their way toward the monastery. Walking in the halo of a streetlamp, they approached the 10 foot wall that surrounded the entire compound. In the darkness it looked more like the shadow of a barrier than any real sort of obstacle. They passed through the arched passageway that allowed one to enter the monastery grounds. Even though he couldn’t see things in the dark, he knew that the courtyard extended 100 feet to both his left and right. He further knew that, although he couldn’t see it now, 100 feet to his front was the most beautiful church he had ever seen in his life. As they turned right, the crunch under his feet reminded him that the courtyard was covered in gravel. The way it gave way under his feet revealed the temporary nature of the gravel as well the permanence of the ground it covered. The gravel made it easier for cars to transport people to the old horse stables that were now being used as University guest houses As they made their way toward their apartment, she said,

“Isn’t it weird how you can’t see the church”.

“Sure is,” he responded. “It’s hard to believe it could get so dark.”

“Our eyes just need to adopt to the lack of light,” she said.

“Yeah, that’s it, just adopt to the lack of light,” he returned.

They continued to walk. The shuffling of their feet across the gravel announced their arrival to all who cared to listen.

“I really want to attend Mass in that church on Christmas Eve.” she said enthusiastically.

“I do too!” he responded with similar enthusiasm. “I have to imagine it will be quite a fantastic event.”

“Yeah, the Church is so beautiful. I wonder if there will be a lot of people?”

He knew why she had asked the question. They had been living in the monastery apartment for 4 months, and had never seen a really big turnout for Mass. They knew this, not because they had noticed empty pews, for, they themselves had not yet attended a single Mass in the beautiful church. Rather, they knew this because they had never seen a lot of people walking across the courtyard to attend Mass. After thinking for a few more moments, he stated,

“I suspect there will be a large turnout”.

“You think so?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Finally they reached their door and entered the apartment. After removing all of their winter garb, he poured a glass of wine and sat down to read. The book he was currently reading was Daniel Boorstin’s The Image: A History of Psuedo-Events in America. As he tried to read, his mind kept returning to thoughts of what Christmas Eve Mass might be like in the beautiful Baroque church. Finally, unable to quell the thoughts, he went to find his journal. When he found it, he turned to the appropriate date and began to read.

September 12, 1992

I saw the church for the first time on a hot humid day in August. As I walked toward it across the courtyard, I could tell the sun was high in the late-morning sky. This had more to do with how it felt, however, than how it looked, for when I looked, it was barely discernible. It was an amorphous glow, its intensity dissipating gradually as its projected rays became trapped in a seemingly endless dance of refraction among the drops of water hanging in the air. The resultant haze was so thick and warm I could feel myself punching a hole through it as I moved forward. It felt as if I looked behind me I would see the tunnel I had bored through the thickness, the points most distant maintaining the least amount of detail. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and focused on the church. Its solid stone face jutted out of the ground to a height of 75 feet. I stood looking at it. There was nothing inviting in its appearance. Even the wooden door looked as if it had been built more to intimidate than to entice. I pulled out my handkerchief and somehow managed to cram even more sweat from my forehead into the already saturated fabric. When finished, I held it in my hand and looked at it. The neatly ironed folds and creases that had been there earlier were gone. I wrung it as best as I could, stuffed it back into my pocket, and began moving, once more, toward the church. When I got to with 10 feet of it, I walked into its shadow. The sweat on my skin seemed to freeze as it came into contact with the cool air emanating from the stone face. The chill sent shivers throughout my body. Shaking off the last of them, I reached out and grabbed the oversized cast-iron door handle. The door seemed locked. I pushed again, this time much harder, and the door opened inward. The hinges creaked, but not that loudly. Rather, the creeks were just loud enough to announce my entrance. Their pale, lamenting timbre informed me I was small and finite, a thing who’s voice could bounce back and forth between the solemn, impenetrable walls of this place for years upon years and still never touch every aspect of its interior. There was no sweat in this place. My eyes needed a few moments to adapt to the lack of light.

Standing there in the greyness, I couldn’t help but experience the moment as an introduction. I sensed that if I walked toward the church proper, something truly exceptional would be revealed. I was not disappointed. For as I entered, the greyness gave way to what can only be described as a perfect visual experience. The walls were a vibrant saturated white, and were trimmed in gold paint at every abrupt change in contour. Two rows of twenty hand-crafted wooden pews were situated symmetrically between the walls, the space between the rows being large enough to accommodate any desired procession. The floor was a checkerboard pattern of brown and baige polished marble. The tiles had been put into place so that the corners pointed to the front and rear of the church. The texture gradient provided by the symmetry of the design invariably drew the eye toward the far end of the church where, looking down upon white, almost life-size statues of four of the disciples, was a life-size, realistically painted statue of Jesus nailed to the cross. Reflexively I began walking toward it. As I did so I experienced a paradoxical mix of sorrow and delight. The sensation was not at all unpleasant, rather, it seemed somehow appropriate. As I continued to close the distance between myself and the Jesus statue, sorrow gradually came to be the dominant emotion. This crescendo of sorrow was made visually salient by the clock-work precision with which the passing pews seemed to mark-off my progress. When I reached the alter I stopped and looked up at the Jesus statue. At that moment the sorrow could no longer be measured. It was everything. Blood streamed down his arms from where the nails had penetrated his palms. Blood trailed down his face from where the thorns of his crown had pierced his scalp. Blood gushed down his abdomen from where the Centurion’s sword had gashed his ribs. All of the anguish, all of the agony, and all of the pain stood in such stark contrast to the whiteness of the disciples gaping below. It was as if everything temporal, sensual, and immediate had been transferred from the disciples to Jesus. It was as if the addition of one more bit of humanness to the statue’s already saturated spirit would cause the wounds, no longer able to contain the totality of the human condition, to bleed once more. Finding no room in the statue, my own sorrow welled in my eyes and dripped down my face. I simply stood and grieved. Then, as I looked up into the eyes of the Jesus statue, I saw something that seemed to line the sorrow and return the experience to a state of ambiguity. There, mixed among the rivulets of blood, were tears of joy. There, within the midst of all the pain and anguish, was hope and forgiveness. This was the paradox of Christ/Jesus, the paradox of the willing and hopeful embracement of life’s sorrows. The ego was being sacrificed so that the spirit might live. And from that sacrifice emerges our notions of humanity. The simultaneous experience of both sides of the ambiguity was transcendent. And as I stood there understanding, I knew that as soon as my mind fixed itself on any other thought, the unambiguous nature of perspective would come crashing through and force me into the spatial-temporal constraints that are immediate experience.

“Man, Scott,” I said to myself out loud. “Lighten up!”

I was back in the present.

Then, as I looked around, as one does in the present, something above me caught my eye. I looked up, and painted on the cupola directly above me was Christ’s assention to heaven. The only human in the painting was Christ. The rest of the characters were angels. The lack of detail, due to my distance, gave the scene a non-material appearance, as if the details of that realm were closed to me. I continued to gaze and my neck became stiff. As I turned away I was struck by the fact that Christ had not been looking back toward Earth.

The spell broken, I turned around and took in the rear of the church. It was just as beautiful as the front, but it was obvious that the whole place had been constructed to direct all attention to the front. As I continued to investigate the beautiful church, I became aware of the Baroque combination of reason and faith make explicit by the intricacy of the architecture. Such a church could only have been built at that time, when man was once again becoming aware of his ability to reason, yet had not reached that point of no return at which reason seems to turn itself on faith and abandon it in much the same way an uninterested parent abandons a child, allowing it to fall behind, whimpering and looking for answers, while the parent, certain of its superiority, is later surprised to find itself desperate and full of questions only its living with the child can answer.

I pondered this for a moment longer and then looked at my watch. I had been in the church a bit longer than expected. I had an appointment downtown in twenty-five minutes and needed to catch the bus. I moved briskly to exit the church, spinning once or twice while walking backwards just to catch another glimpse. As I walked outside, the weight of the humidity bore down upon me, while the sun remained hidden within the vastness of the clouds. And as I made my way to the bus-stop, I wondered what it would be like to be in that church on Christmas Eve.

“Well,” he said to himself. “I will soon find out”. And with that he went to bed.

“Well, is anybody going to the church?” she asked as she tapped on his shoulder. He was observing the courtyard through the slit produced by the barely-opened door.

“A few so far, but not many,” he sort of whispered back to her. They were both dressed to go to the Christmas-eve Mass, but neither wanted to be the first to arrive.

A 20-foot Christmas tree had been erected in the courtyard, and the lights decorating it provided some illumination. He continued to watch for a few minutes, and the number of people entering the church began to increase.

“I think we can go now,” he said.

She looked out.

“No, let’s wait a couple more minutes.”

“O.K., we’ll wait.”

Five minutes later they left the apartment and went to enter the church. By this time, a steady stream of people was making its way directly from the courtyard entrance to the church. People were talking to one another as they walked, and saying hello to those they recognized. But they didn’t seem excited in the way he and she were excited. Rather, they looked like they were going to work! Enjoyable work, to be sure, for everyone was smiling. But they weren’t the sort of smiles one wears in the midst of anticipation. These were smiles of warmth and certainty.

Eventually, he and she joined the line of people, moving forward at the pace the opening of the church and the flow of people would allow. Just before they entered, he could tell that the vestibule was well lit. As the entered, people were everywhere. A man was directing people toward the stairs to the balcony. They turned to the stairs, just like everyone else. He hadn’t noticed the stairs during his first visit to the church. Again, people were moving at the pace dictated by both the size of the crowd and the size of the stairs. People were simply stepping onto the old wooden stairs, giving no discernible trace of concern as to whether or not the stairs would hold their combined weight. Against the backdrop of chatter, he could detect the creaking of the old wooden stairs, and at one point the creaking became so intense he felt he saw the stairs actually bow under the weight. In a bizarre sort of way, it looked as if the stairs were actually straining to resist, contracting and expanding with the cadence of each individual stairclimber. The thought of veins and blood cells came to mind. He thought it odd.

They reached the stairs and began the ascent. If they had decided to turn around, it would have been impossible. All they really had to do was lift their feet; the momentum of the others would carry them with no problem. He had to duck his head to avoid a collision with some of the lower beams. When they reached the top, they went to the right side of the balcony. What they saw stunned them both. The church was completely dark, save for a spotlight shining on a Christmas tree next to the altar, and the little red tea candles lining the railing of the balcony.

“Why is it so dark?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” she responded. “They’ll probably turn them on when the service begins.”

“Your probably right.”

The two of them found seats next to the railing. They sat there in the dark amongst the chatter, giving each other looks of surprise from time to time as the number of people continued to grow. Eventually the size of the spaces between them became small enought to border on discomfort. She could tell by the chatter of the people she could not see, that the first floor was just as full as the balcony.

“I don’t think they’re going to be able to get any more people in here, even if they want to! she said.

And with that, the priest began to speak. They knew enough German to understand that he was welcoming the congregation to the Mass. And as the priest worked his way through the Mass, she knew enough catholic to respond in unison with the audience when she was supposed to. He simply watched her.

“Why haven’t they turned on the lights?” he asked her.

“I have no clue,” she returned in a hushed tone that indicated her puzzlement.

Then, the priest left the stage. When he was gone, a small group of children walked onto the stage and began to act out the birth of Christ. Though he and she could not understand the words all that well, they knew the story by heart and easily experienced the message. Touched by the purity of the scene, he reached out and placed his hand on hers. They looked at each other, briefly, and then back to the stage. He then looked out over the crowd. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness well enough for him to be able to see the heads of those below. Of those around him, however, he could now see their faces; solemn and still as the reflection of the tee candles danced across them. He found it odd that their smiles did not reflect his mood. They were smiling, yes, but again, it was as if they were at work! Perplexed, he put the thought out of his mind and turned his attention to the stage. The children were now leaving the stage and the Priest was returning. Once in front of the assembled throng, he continued the Mass. She continued to respond in unison at the appropriate moments. He continued to watch.

“What is the Priest saying?” he whispered

“I’m not sure.” she whispered in return, “but Mass is close to being finished.” And with that, the Priest began to lead the congregation in song. These were the typical sort of religious hymns one normally sings during Mass. He and she knew neither the word nor the melodies. They simply listened. Then, the crowd began singing a song they both knew. It was “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem”. They smiled at one another and joined the singing. Not knowing the German words relegated them to humming along, and they did so joyfully, occasionally exchanging looks of delighted surprise. Upon completion of “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem”, the congregation began to sing “It came upon a Midnight Clear”. Again, the two of them shared a look of delight and joined right in. About half way through the song, however, they could longer simply hum. They began to sing in English; softly at first, so as not to draw attention. But as the song continued, and the voice of the congregation began to swell, they too sang louder. As their voices joined those of the congregation with full force, a few people turned to look at the English singers. As they continued to sing, the looks in their eyes immediately revealed how pleased they were to have guests. He and she nodded, and the on-lookers nodded in return.. He and she exchanged another smile-filled glance and then turned back to the front.

The congregation then began to sing “Joy to the World”, and he and she joined them instantly. As he bellowed along with the congregation, he turned to her and noticed she was crying as she sang. He squeezed her hand tightly and looked deeper into her eyes. He could tell she was trying not to cry, but couldn’t help it. She was home-sick, and there was nothing that could remind her of that more poignantly than Christmas Carols. He pulled her to him. After a moment he whispered in her ear,

“I miss them too.”

She held him tighter and he could feel the sobs begin to rack through her body. As she continued to cry he rocked her ever so slightly. They stood like that for a while as the congregation blared on with “Joy to the World”. Then, eventually, she pulled away and dried her eyes. The congregation was on the second or third verse. However, he didn’t know the words in English, let alone German, and therefore began singing the words to the first verse. Eventually she joined in, and when they reached, “Let every heart prepare him room” “Let Heaven and Nature sing, Let Heaven and Nature sing” the spirit of the church was so strong, he believed what he heard was Heaven and Nature singing. When the song ended, the room seemed to crackle with anticipation as the congregation awaited the next song. After a solemn pause, the priest began.

“Stille Nacht”

“Heilige Nacht”

A palatable pressure seemed to fall upon the congregation as they came to recognize the song being sung. The two of them instinctively moved closer to one another and began singing along. As they stood there singing “Silent Night” he was reminded of the paradoxical mix of sorrow and delight he had experienced upon first seeing the Jesus statue hanging over the alter; its saturated spirit collecting all that was temporal so the eternal might live. As the single voice of the congregation carried him deeper into that first experience he suddenly became aware that he could not see the walls. Rather, all he saw were the dancing shadows of the tee candles. This idea struck as completely odd. Why today of all days, would they conduct Mass in this way? Why would they celebrate their most holy of holy moment in the dark?

As he continued to sing along, the slow, lamenting timbre of the music eventually smothered his senses, quelled his voices, and gave way to the same sort of transcendence he had experienced when noticing the tears of joy and hope mixed in among the bloody rivulets of pain and sorrow in the eyes of the Jesus statue. Then it made sense. Singing this carol, in the dark, on this day, was their way of achieving transcendence together. Even if the church had been well lit, no one would have been able to visually experience everyone else in the church at the same time. Vision was like that. But hearing! Now that was different. The understanding made the experience that much more intense. He was hearing-experiencing everyone in the church at the same time! And whatsmore, by singing this song, he was hearing everyone one of them joyfully embrace the sorrow of life. The understanding was too much. He simply continued to sing.

Then it occurred to him why the lights were off. Vision would have detracted from the timeless character of the experience. For all knew, the congregation could have been a group of Paleolithic hunters singing together in a cave. The time and place were irrelevant. What was being celebrated here were the timeless qualities of the human condition; sorrow, pain, joy, and hope. With that realization, a sense of balance came over him, like a rock being gently pulled out of the riverbed by a river that keeps things moving.

The song eventually ended, and the congregation began to file out of the church. When they entered the stairwell, their eyes had to adopt to the light. The throng departed the church in much the same way it had entered. They walked hand-in-hand for a while as the transcendence of the evening eventually gave way to the moment.

“That had to be the single most spiritual moment of my life,” he said.

“Me too,” she answered.

He stopped, turned to her, and said,

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said just as they embraced. They kissed and then stood there holding each other for a moment. Suddenly he pulled away and started laughing loudly. His emotion surprised her, and her surprise made him laugh even harder.

“What is so funny?” she asked.

“Look where you are,” he managed to say between laughs.

As she looked around, she realized they had walked with the crowd and actually exited the monastery courtyard. She looked at him with a question in her eye. Then, after a moment, she too broke out in laughter. After a few minutes of such laughing, he put his arm around her and said,

“I think we should go home.”

“So do I,” she returned, and they walked back to their apartment.

© J. Scott Jordan