Beauty Without Belief
The glow of the Christmas lights softly illuminated the living room. Candles were lit, and Johnny Mathis crooned about dreaming of a white Christmas in the background. I was usually by myself, as everyone else had gone to bed. I enjoyed this time of quiet reflection and basking in the blinking Christmas tree lights. The record eventually stopped playing, and I would scan the TV channels to find the Vatican’s live broadcast of the Christmas Eve Mass.
Growing up in the Church of the Nazarene, we did not observe Christmas Eve with church services in the US or Brazil. I don’t have any proof, but I feel we didn’t in Brazil because they might be considered “too Catholic.” The Nazarene church worked very hard to create an image that was as far removed from Catholicism as possible. Having a service at midnight was considered too much like something the Catholic church would do.
In the US, we never had them at my dad’s small church simply because no one would come. There was no way my dad was going to plan a service for only a few people–it wasn’t worth his time or effort. When I was in college, my dad transitioned to the Methodist church. Because his church was larger and more “liturgical,” they held a special candlelight service that ended at midnight.
So, to me, the son of an evangelical missionary and pastor, a Catholic Christmas Mass was a novel, strange, and fascinating thing to behold. There was pomp–lush robes and strange hats; music–the booming pipe organ and choir would resonate through St. Peter's Basilica; and ceremony–the procession through the Basilica was awe-inspiring. There was absolutely no comparison between this grandiose music and our small church singing verses 1, 2, and 6 of The First Noel accompanied by an upright piano. I could understand most of the Italian–but the Latin was new and mysterious. Watching this, with its readings and prayers in other languages, made me feel pretty sophisticated. The service felt utterly different from anything I had experienced before. The rhythmic cadence of the chants would lull me to sleepiness, and I would soon go to bed.
It wasn’t until much later in life that I realized I appreciated this for its beauty, not its spiritual significance.
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I was scrolling through TikTok a few days ago when I came across this video. It showed a person mouthing the words to Oh, Holy Night with the following caption written across the screen:
I laughed because of the tongue-in-cheek truth in this statement. If you have read any of my other work, you are probably aware of my religious deconversion1. The short version is that after having been the child of missionaries, growing up in the church, and attending a Christian college, I am now an atheist.
A few years ago, as my crisis of faith2 was reaching its pinnacle, I was suddenly faced with a new struggle that I had not anticipated–religious Christmas music conflicted with my lack of belief in the words of the songs. This was also the same year I discovered my new favorite “radio” station, Classic FM. Classic FM is an online radio station broadcasting from the UK that plays, obviously, Classical music. At Christmas time, the music rotation becomes choral Christmas music and classical arrangements of Christmas music, much of which are religious. Do I just stop listening to this station? That seemed ridiculous. But I wasn’t sure where to put this in my life. I love Christmas music, but the words and lyrics seemed hollow. It felt wrong to enjoy this music as I no longer believed in the very words that made up these songs–some lifted straight from the Bible (I’m looking at you, Handel).
One of the most beautiful Christmas songs I know is the Ave Maria by Chanticleer.3 It is the Latin Ave Maris set to music–literally one of the most holy and revered writings outside of the Bible. Oh, Holy Night has always been one of my favorite Christmas songs. That reverberating, soaring final “night divine” reaches notes that I only dream of singing. In college, I was introduced to Herbert Howells’ two Christmas choral pieces, Here is a Little Door and A Spotless Rose. While not pulled from scripture, Little Door's gorgeous and poetic lyrics convey the story of the Wise Men’s journey. In A Spotless Rose, the lyrics recall the prophecy foretold by Isaiah. And finally, you can feel the vocal vibrations in the deepest part of your soul when listening to Lauridsen’s Magnum Mysterium–whose lyrics reflect on the mystery of the virgin birth.
Christmas choral music, traditional Christmas songs, and much classical music are deeply rooted in Christianity. Over the last few Christmas, I struggled with these feelings of unrest. Once I began to embrace the idea that I could genuinely enjoy this music without fully believing in the words, I felt liberated. I soon realized that it has always been the music that has attracted me–very rarely have the words made any difference. The majesty of the music and a belief system do not have to be married to each other.
So, will I still watch the Vatican’s Christmas Eve Mass? It has been a few years since I last watched it. Now that I am a father (and a Tauntaun), we are usually busy preparing for Santa’s arrival. The pomp and circumstance are not as captivating as they once were–some of the mystery has worn off. But the magic of Christmas music doesn’t wear off–it stays as mystical and wonderful as ever.
This is the first Christmas I have enjoyed and appreciated religious Christmas music without feeling conflicted. It’s been 50 years, but I’m finally in a place where I’m happy and comfortable. Christmas music is more than just a remnant of a past I’ve left behind; it is something I can appreciate and treasure in its own right. There is beauty in craftsmanship, in the layers of sound and history, and whether or not I believe in the words no longer matters. I don’t need to look for spiritual meaning in each note. What I’ve come to understand is that beauty exists, even in the absence of belief. And that is enough.
Why is it called a “crisis”?! I am coming to terms with my belief—it is liberating—not distressing. Oh well.
I was fortunate to be a part of a choir in college that sang this.