Sometime around 1980, my then-neighbor, Priscilla Schuick, mentioned the Central Moravian children's love feast as something to do with our kids on Christmas Eve day. Priscilla informed me that: #1 chocolate milk and cookies were served, and #2 they sing all the familiar Christmas carols. Milk and cookies — kids in. Familiar carols — I'm in.
My wife thought it was a good idea as long as she could opt out. "You get the kids out of the house and I can wrap presents."
Now, the first Christmas Eve love feast got off to a shaky start. Everyone's presented with a beeswax candle that gets lit toward the end of the service so it may be held aloft. And my three year-old son insisted, against my better judgement, that he could hold it. Sure enough, the candle spilled and we had to beat a hasty retreat for a couple minutes. "So, you take a kid to church and drip hot wax on him," said my wife, "Nice parenting."
But the lure of the chocolate milk, which was always delicious, and the Moravian sugar cookie, which, to be honest, tasted like it had been baked by Count Zinzindorf, the 17th Century founder of the Moravian Church — but hey, a cookie is a cookie — were more than enough to overcome the threat of hot wax.
They go with a strong caroling lineup at the love feast, bolstered, of course, by the highlight of the day, which is a solo of 'Morning Star' by a member of the children's chorus with a particularly strong constitution. There is no time in my life when I could've stood in front of a packed Central Moravian Church and opened my throat in song.
But again, to be honest, I come for the carols. In the leadoff spot is 'Come All Ye Faithful,' reliably inclusive — "hey, let's all come together" — and mentions the Christmas City early without getting in your face about it. "Oh come ye, oh come ye to Bethlehem." Much wiser choice than starting with 'O Little Town of Bethlehem,' which would've been too much navel gazing early in the service.
All the old favorites come; 'It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,' which I consider the most melodic of hymns, 'Angels We Have Heard on High,' which enables would-be Bach Choir-ites to freelance on those glorious "in excelsis Deo" parts. Now, they did throw a curveball one year by changing the rhythm of 'Away In a Manger.' I always learned it as (this may be the tough part to listen to, people) **hums melody of 'Away In a Manger'**. And they changed it one year to **hums alternate rhythm to 'Away In a Manger'**. I don't like change. I didn't like updating the 23rd Psalm or the Lord's Prayer. It's like changing the strike zone. But being a non-consistent church goer, to put it mildly, I don't really feel qualified to complain about those things.
Which brings us to 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing,' in my opinion the greatest Christmas carol ever written, nestled comfortably in the clean-up spot, to continue the baseball metaphor. And I understand a majority would go for 'Silent Night,' a German carol, which according to history or legend, was sung simultaneously by English and German troops during a Christmas truce in 1914. But I'm sticking with 'Hark' as the greatest. You have your uplifting lyrics; "Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconcile." And the melody starts slowly, builds to a crescendo, and not surprisingly, was supplied by no less a luminary than Felix Mendelssohn, best known of course for the 'Here Comes the Bride' melody.
Covid restrictions altered the love feast format somewhat, and changes of addresses and grandkids and various other factors have changed the regularity of our family's visits. But we still go whenever possible, the services endlessly similar, the readings and carols in the same order. Rinse and repeat, ritual preserved, familiarity becoming tradition, and tradition becoming something dependable, which is important these days.