Christmas Eve at First Baptist Church of Denver

This Christmas Eve I met a new neighbor—the First Baptist Church of Denver, just a block and a half away from my apartment on Grant Street. Fortunately, we had no white Christmas this year; I say fortunately, given my aversion to walking on snowy or icy streets. On this chilly but snow-free evening, I walked this short distance, part of the way alongside a string of candelaria, leading to the entrance of the church for the evening candlelight service. Here's a photo of the altar. Imagine the candles lit and the background lighting softer.

 

First Baptist is a small church with a long (150 years) and respectable history. Martin Luther King Jr. once preached here. It has a large pipe organ that people are very proud of. You can hear it if you click here.

Plain setting, unadorned crucifix, no stained glass. Lit candles on the altar gave the space an intimate feeling. I took a seat and soon we were invited to greet our neighbors, the 100 or so congregation members who had filled half the benches that evening. I was warmly welcomed by two attendees who seemed about my age, Nancy and Mike, who sat in front of me. Their bench was strewn with children’s toys and books. It was a good beginning of the evening—also a good ending to a day of companionship among friends in Boulder. 

This evening was the first time I had ever set foot in a Baptist church, and I was curious to see what a service was like. Perhaps there was a taste of the forbidden in this decision, as during my Catholic youth, we were not allowed to consort with Protestants in their churches. I also knew, thanks to a friend who had once attended Northern Baptist services like this one, that this congregation would not fit my stereotypes of Southern Baptists, likely to be anti-pleasure and anti-gay. Not that I had any direct experiences with Southern Baptists either.  

This visit was the second in a new would-be tradition I started last year—spending Christmas Eve in a church in my area. I plan to go to a different one each year, preferably one I can walk to. Last year my friend Roberta joined me for a stroll to the spacious, stained-glass-infused St. John’s Episcopal Cathedral on 14th Street. We enjoyed the beauty, the trained voices of the choir, the flowers, and the message that churches do best at Christmastime: peace on earth and good will to all. Here’s a photo of the interior of St. John’s.

First Baptist was the polar opposite of St. John's. Both setting and service were simple, without frills. Their mission is simple as well. They aim to be “a place that welcomes and affirms all people and their questions about life and faith. We are a progressive, justice-seeking congregation that strives to follow Jesus’ ethic of love.” Amen, I say. 

The service started with music—one of the major reasons I like to be in a church at Christmas. A small choir of 5, informally dressed, stood to the side. There were readings from Luke and Isaiah, interspersed with carols. Early in the service attendees were invited to light a candle for someone and then tell the congregation who and why. Ten or so attendees came up and lit tapers. Grandparents and other family members or friends were thanked or remembered; two men acknowledged their same-sex partners. The service continued with music. After the next carol, my bench-neighbor Nancy—introduced as the Rev. Darnell—got up and came to the front, inviting children to sit near her to hear a story. It was a modern-day story of an adopted special-needs child and family love. Then came more carols, a reflection on Christmas by the senior minister, and finally the scene that stays in my mind: the candle lighting. The candles we received upon entering were lit row by row, and we all filed out to the north porch, facing the dome-lit State Capitol building across the street. We sang Silent Night in unison on this relatively silent evening—no sirens or revelers’ shouts intervening. 

We sang all verses of the song, and afterwards, the minister reminded us of some of the ways First Baptist fulfills its mission: providing meals for those in need, shelter for homeless women, and a job training center for recently arrived immigrants. Earlier this month, the church provided space to The Spring Institute to operate a coffee shop on its premises. Eventually Spring hopes to create a program including ESL classes, something it already coordinates at other locations. 

Perhaps the the activities of First Baptist are not unusual. Not being a regular churchgoer, I don’t know to what extent churches have intensified their traditional role of ministering to people in need—a role needed now, more than ever, as social needs grow exponentially along with social inequalities. In any case, here's one place where that ministry is happening.

Years ago, when I attended Catholic mass with my family, I used to love Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. But as I’ve grown older, my fondness for late-night events has shifted to appreciation for those that start early. Ninety minutes after the 7 p.m. service began, I was back home, ready to tend to my own personal holiday rituals. These have changed over time. For a number of years, I just had to watch Miracle on 34th Street (1947), one of the earliest film critiques of the commercialization of Christmas and a gentle tribute to the power of fantasy. 

However, my years in Japan changed most of my habits around this holiday. In my first few years there, I worked on Christmas Day, as did everyone I knew. Sometime in the 90’s, a globalized version of Christmas entered Japan. Falling two days after the Emperor’s birthday (Dec. 23, a national holiday), Christmas got included in a winter holiday break that gradually started earlier and ended earlier than the traditional New Year break had.  By the time I left Japan in 2010, Christmas was widely celebrated as a festival of lights and a romantic date occasion for the young. 

Still, Christmas has a limited place in Japan, preceding the real winter holiday celebration—the New Year, when families and friends come together to share special foods and memories, visit a shrine and watch incredibly bad junk TV. I usually used my time off from teaching to catch up with work and visit friends. Before classes ended for the year, I remember teaching lessons on A Christmas Carol as an internationally-known piece of literature or showing A Muppet Christmas in class. In private, I just had to pull out Dylan Thomas’ classic short story, A Child’s Christmas in Wales. 

Perhaps you’ve read it too. It starts this way: One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six…. Later, my sister and brother-in-law sent me a video version which I also enjoyed. You can watch it on youtube.

This year, after my lovely visit to First Baptist, I watched my favorite version of A Christmas Carol on Netflix: the 1938 black-and-white film starring Reginald Owen. It was so satisfying, as this non-colorized version was perfect for ghostly shadows. When it ended, I was still awake enough to watch A Child’s Christmas in Wales. 

Then sleep, and then Christmas Day, a Friday this year, marked by a ritual they say is common among many Jews—going out for Chinese food. I joined Roberta and her sister Bunnie for this, as I’ve done in the past, except this time we chose a Japanese restaurant, one in the small town of Lafayette near Boulder. They were doing a brisk sushi take-out business—perhaps a new ritual for non-cooks on this day. Late afternoon I drove back to Denver for a relaxing evening of Netflix watching, and then finally, snow began to fall. Like Dylan Thomas, “I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness and then I slept.”