In our village in Roscommon it was the custom on the evening of Christmas night to request the youngest child of a household to light a candle, which was then placed in the window.
This little light of the household twinkled in answer to the brightest star in the sky which, the children were informed, was the same star which shone in Bethlehem on the night that Jesus was born.
And thus the two worlds – this earth below and heaven above – were united at the sacred time.
Traditionally, in the dark’s dull density, the curtains were stripped off the windows and a single candle was put to burn in each sill until the morning. When the rosary was said, the children were dispatched to an early night in bed, no dissenting voice was raised.
Across the fields the houses glittered, the light from their candles like jewelled pin-points in the darkness. The back door remained unlocked whatever the weather, so that there was no danger of Mary and Joseph going astray in their search for a resting place.
As I got older and was allowed to go to midnight mass, the journey to and from the church always seemed magical because of the light in every window. It always appeared to be a dark night, as black as the ace of spades.
Not a star was to be seen. It seemed colder than normal those nights, and the wind sliced more keenly through my clothes.
Often only a purring cat shattered the spell of silence.
I loved the atmosphere of anticipation and excitement as the locals streamed from their snug, warm homes to attend midnight mass in the chapel with seemingly dozens of bells chiming and clanging to herald the special occasion and a hundred late worshippers hurrying to be on time, and I adored the candlelit naves and the heady smell of smoky incense as it drifted in a white smoky pall. In our church such candles were also lit in every window.
The idea was to light the way of the Holy Family who were travelling the road. It was also lit as a welcome to visitors.
Sometimes there would be three candles lit because of the fact that Joseph, Mary and Jesus were looking for a place to stay – this was to show they were welcome in an Irish home, even if they could not find a place to stay in Bethlehem. To welcome the stranger was to welcome Christ.
A lit candle was also placed in the window when a family member was away or who had died to remember them, letting them know they were missed.
In rural Ireland, many houses were on dark country roads and the sight of a candle burning in the window was used as a sign of “welcome” to weary travellers or those coming to visit.
Throughout history, candles have been a sign of welcome to others, an extended arm of friendship and hospitality.
The sense of welcome symbolised by a lit candle in the window was a practice that spread quickly to hotels, inns and homes throughout the year.
A candle lit in the window might also have been used to send a message out into the darkness that a child had been born or a family had received a blessing from someone.
Like the beacon of a lighthouse, the candle in the window shone across those bleak winter days, drawing us invitingly towards its warm heart. It is part of the Christian call to love.
My favourite part of midnight mass was always visiting the crib. It was the focal point of the church – a big silver star shining in the roof, and a little baby so real I would not have been surprised if he began to wail in his diminutive straw manger.
It gave me a great insight into the minds and hearts of the characters of the first Christmas.
The story was old yet new each year. I never failed to wonder at the wonderful, how God took time to enter human history.
The baby’s life was one of contradiction, even at birth, because a young girl, still a virgin, gave him life.
His birth was so significant even the stars were thrown into rapture and subservience. An infant’s voice was turning the world on its head. He was only different in seeing evil, but not part of it. He was born to bring a message of peace to the world.
Ironically the very region he chose to be born in is the place that needs that message most urgently this Christmas.
I am not sure if it represented good liturgical practice to include the Three Wise Men in the crib, yet it did help me to associate giving with wisdom.
When the magi brought gifts to the babe in the manger they invented the art of giving presents at Christmas.
I noted the significance of Christ coming as the greatest gift of all, but also receiving gifts. This suggested that love is about receiving as well as giving.
The enormity of meaning in the incarnation is almost mind-blowing, yet the crib did help me to understand a simple, but profound truth. Jesus came and made himself small, so that we could be raised to heights we could not dare to have dreamed of otherwise.
The crib reminded me that it was a baby, not Santa Claus that was, is and always would be Christmas.
Unto us a child was born to proclaim a powerful message in the bleak midwinter: we are made in love, for love and unto love.
Good tidings of comfort and joy.