Christmas for the Heathen

Why does it always seem like the people who push their religion the most are the ones least likely to follow it?

I'm not talking about priests and rabbis and monks who work to share a message and make the world a better place. I'm talking about the type of people who, in already being late for mass on Sunday, will plop their porcine Sports Utility Vehicles in front of a driveway or fire hydrant and smugly walk into church, believing their good deed somehow excludes them from the laws of traffic.

I'm talking about the type of holier-than-thou people who exploit religion as a weapon of mass theological destruction, who believe that their "spirituality" somehow puts them in an elevated position of royalty. The examples are infinite -- the town officials during the Salem Witch Trials; Judge Claude Frollo in "The Hunchback of Notre Dame," the father in "Footloose," and, of course, the Holiday Church-Goer.

Christmas Eve mass -- it's a place teeming with love, happiness and people who suddenly remember they're Catholic. The long-forgotten (or hated) relatives, the atheist friends, and the raucous wino uncles of the world suddenly remember the true meaning of Christmas (that thing about Jesus), and gosh darn if they're not going to come together for a little holy Christmas cheer!

Unfortunately, this leaves little room for the rest of the heathen population. No matter how early you get to mass on Christmas Eve, the front half of the church has already been claimed by people who don't know the difference between a crucifix and a menorah. Robust women in chinchilla coats mark entire rows in the name of their family, most of whose members make an appearance 10 minutes before mass is over (those poor chinchillas).

"I'm sorry, this seat is saved," they'll say rather smugly when you start moving in on their pew. "My stepbrother twice removed is flying in from Idaho."

More and more people start leaking in through all the doors, and the ordeal suddenly becomes a mad grab for pews, with people wrestling over music programs and beating each other with Advent candles.

Towards the middle of mass, the straggling extended family members will begin to stumble in. The seat-savers will then break from their conversation, rise up a bit, and begin to flap a hand wildly in the air and mouth the words, "ANGIE! WE'RE OVER HERE!"

At this point, the makeshift seating has stretched out into the back hallway to accommodate all the other church parishioners, and you're either being hit by the bathroom door as people go in and out, or you're standing below a candle that is silently dropping wax on your head.

Regardless, the space is tighter than a hamster cage, and there's inevitably an old man with a horrible gas problem sitting somewhere near you, or a small choleric child whining in protest and trying to twist out of their parent's lap. One time a little girl, clearly fed up with the whole concept of religion, angrily threw a Ring Pop into the crowd of heathens. It got stuck in my hair.

Then you start to notice everyone's annoying little ticks. One woman, after shaking hands in peace with you, begins to vigorously rub antibacterial sanitizer gel over herself, as if she had just touched several members of a leper colony. She is also wearing one of those obnoxious floppy hats with fake poinsettias stapled to it. Note to self: kill.

I don't mean to say that these are the type of people that constitute the entire church-going population on holiday. The regular church parishioners are still in attendance - they're just the ones huddled in the far corner of the hallway, fearing the wrath of God and tipsy relatives who've had a bit too much to drink at Christmas Eve dinner.

I'm not scared of them though. I usually just sit there and think about which of the seven sins I'm going to commit when I get home. I figure I'm already going to hell for making fun of the entire human race, so there's really no use in trying to feign holiness. Hey, at least I don't park in front of fire hydrants.