There is something truly counter cultural about Midnight Mass

‘And girls in slacks remember Dad,

And oafish louts remember Mum,

And sleepless children’s hearts are glad.

And Christmas-morning bells say “Come!”

Even to shining ones who dwell

Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.’

‘Christmas’. This poem by Betjeman conjures the magic of the season; conveys in its beat the sense of summons to the place where Christmas is celebrated and Christ is worshipped. This is a draw millions will soon feel, a tug on heart and soul that takes us to a place of candles and carols and babies and ritual and that musty smell of old stones and old books.

Midnight Mass is, for many, the stand-out favourite. The darkness outside sets off the candles inside; the carols take on a deeper meaning as the clock ticks over into the new day and we sing ‘Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning’ for the first time this year. There’s something that speaks deep into the English psyche that so many have made their pilgrimage to the local church after finishing their pilgrimage to the local pub and stand, swaying, to hear the mystery proclaimed: the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.