Christmas morning arrived and Father Wagner awoke feeling more alive than he had in years. He actually sang carols in the shower. He ate toast, drank a small glass of tomato juice, and read the La Crosse Tribune, Dubuque Telegraph Herald, and Wisconsin State Journal, the dailies that covered Prairie du Chien and its surroundings. He finished dressing, tugged the heavy coat on, and went out into the cold. His thermometer read minus sixteen, but if you added in the wind chill factor, it felt more like thirty-five below. Wagner went out in front of the Church and began greeting the early arrivers for Mass, nearly forty minutes before the ten a.m. service would begin. They shook his hand and said their “Merry Christmases,” but the regulars looked at him with equal parts wariness and skepticism. Wagner never greeted his flock outside of Church before a Mass. But here, on the coldest and busiest of mornings for a priest, he stayed there shaking hands and bellowing a hearty “Merry Christmas” until almost nine fifty, when he hurried around to the back of the church and entered the sacristy.
He slipped a new white robe over his street clothes. The bright alb was worn at Christmas, Easter, and other feasts by Catholic priests as a sign they were rejoicing. He tied the alb at his waist with the girdle, a sign of his chastity. Over his shoulders he draped the white stole that was given to him at his ordination. The stole was a reminder of the days when slaves wore towels around their necks, and when bending or kneeling would wipe their master’s feet or those of his guests. It was to remind the priest that he, too, was a servant of Christ and his people. Not since the day he celebrated his first Mass as a priest had this simple act of dressing felt so pure and honest to the priest. Finally, Wagner layered on his chasuble, a white, sleeveless garment. While donning his vestments he recited a series of prayers, asking the Lord for virtue, purity, and restoration. Never had the words been so meaningful to the priest.
As he pulled the last of his vestments on and finished his prayers, he stood content. He took a deep breath and exhaled long and slow. From the sacristy, he heard the last of the Christmas carols. A young college boy home on vacation tested the limits of his strong tenor voice, singing, “O night, O holy night, O night divine!” As the young man beautifully held the last note, the priest went out to be with his flock.
The processional and the first part of the Mass were a blur to the priest, but he had never led his congregation with such surety and confidence before. To the mesmerized parishioners who watched in awe, Father Wagner’s body and his voice seemed to float, but with an energy and strength none in the pews had witnessed previously. Two loyal and long-standing members of the parish council delivered the traditional Christmas readings. All at once, it was time for the sermon.
Father Wagner stood tall and looked out over the congregation. His notes were spread before him on the lectern, but he didn’t so much as glance at them. Parishioners who sat in the pews faithfully six days a week were wedged close to family, friends, and strangers who came this one day of the year. On this day, Father Wagner was open to things that rarely, if ever, caught his eye when he said the Mass. His church was beautiful. Breathtaking even. The fourteen Stations of the Cross lined the twenty-foot high walls of the church, each a large carved work of art with Christ’s suffering and sacrifice depicted in bold relief. Towering stained-glass windows that threw a warm rainbow of hues throughout the church separated the Stations of the Cross.
A large crucifix hung from the wall of the sanctuary behind him, and twin eighteen-foot-tall Frasier firs flanked Christ on the Cross, replacing the criminals who’d been crucified with him for real more than two thousand years ago. The Christmas trees were each lit with more than five thousand warm mini-lights, and their glow bathed the entire sanctuary. The stone altar rose above a lush bed of large, vibrant poinsettia plants. The bright crimson flowers climbed up the front and sides of the altar with leaping red flames of color. A nativity scene, hand-carved by a devout parishioner over one hundred and fifty years ago, was nestled in the middle of the poinsettias. The baby Jesus lay in a makeshift crib, while Mary and Joseph flanked him, kneeling in prayer, watched over by shepherds, angels, and animals alike.
The fragrance of incense mingled with the smell of burning candles. A comforting warmth filled the church.
While his own flock fidgeted in their pews in anticipation, Father Wagner felt a rare calm. The church was quiet. No coughing. No babies crying. There was a shared sense of anticipation. The entire congregation felt something unusual coming, but none knew what it might be.
Wagner was unhurried. He looked up and to his left at a large statue of Joseph the Carpenter, the simple, selfless man who raised Jesus as his own son. It reminded Father Wagner of his own father and his eyes shown a little brighter. When Father looked to his right, he saw a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary protectively holding the baby Jesus to her breast. Instead of looking out over the crowd, Mary looked lovingly down at her child. Our savior, Wagner thought. How fitting.