If arriving for Christmas Day Mass moments before it was to begin didn't expose me and my family as the Chreasters we were, what happened next did.

Chreasters are those "Christians" who only attend church on Christmas and Easter. CEOs — Christmas-Easter-Only — is another name for us.

The pious among you will run into a lot of Chreasters this weekend, perhaps inadvertently with your cars in the suddenly overflowing parking lot of your church.

We're easily identifiable. Here are a few giveaways:

►We occupy a spot in the pew that you've held for the previous 51 weeks and greet you with the sheepish politeness of someone reaching for the checkout divider at Wegmans.

►We never initiate ritualistic responses, like kneeling and standing, because we don't know when to respond.

►We sing hymns with the fervor of a campfire sing-along at the Our Lady of Perpetual Lethargy summer retreat.

►We show up late.

Which brings us to my family and me barging through the front door of Church of the Assumption in Fairport on Christmas morning a few years ago, out of breath and out of sorts, moments before Mass.

The priest and altar servers were about to begin their processional and the organ was silent, waiting for a cue. An usher hurriedly wished us a "Merry Christmas" in hushed tones and informed us that the only seats left in the house were in a front pew.

"Where near the front?" I whispered.

"The front," he replied.

My wife froze like a frightened squirrel. "Let's just go home," she said.

No way. Chreaster was tradition for us and this was the last Mass of the day. We had vowed to teach our boys, then 6 and 4, that Christmas was about more than a fat man in a red suit and Easter about more than an anthropomorphic mutant egg-laying bunny.

Plus, everyone in the church was staring at us.

The quickest way to our seats was down the center aisle. I led the way with my oldest son, Owen. My hand reached for his as my brain reached for the order of Mass from my youth, knowing there wouldn't be anyone in front of us to cheat off this year.

That's when it happened.

"Who's that guy?" Owen blurted, pointing to a giant crucifix on the wall behind the altar.

It's a scientific fact that children have no filter or volume control. But Owen's voice carried as though he spoke through a megaphone in the Rose Main Reading Room of the New York City Public Library.

"That's Jesus," I replied. "Keep your voice down."

His wheels were turning now. Just a few more steps. Almost there.

"I thought you said he was a baby!" Owen cried.

It was mortifying. The only thing to do was sit down, smile and pretend we weren't heathens.

That was four years ago. The Rev. Edward Palumbos, the pastor at Church of the Assumption, makes a point of welcoming Chreasters every year. Last Sunday, he encouraged parishioners to do the same.

"I told them, 'When you get to your pew, please don't scowl at the people who are there that you've never seen before. Welcome them,'" he recalled. "I would regard it as scandalous and horribly inappropriate to do anything but welcome people."

Palumbos estimated his congregation quadruples on Christmas and Easter. About 1,300 people attend Mass on a typical Sunday. On Christmas, there are upward of 5,500. There's no single explanation for the Chreaster phenomenon, but Palumbos offered a thought.

"I think we're hardwired for ritual and part of us cries out to be with people who share a common bond," he said. "If you have any doubt about that, check out a football game. Rituals help put into words and action feelings that are unable to be articulated."

His words described me. I was baptized and raised Catholic, but I haven't attended Mass with regularity in years. You might call me a lapsed Catholic, but I'm more of a collapsed Catholic. I don't ascribe to some central tenets of the church.

Yet I return to the church every Christmas and Easter because its familiarity is comforting and helps me convey to my children the historical significance of the life of Jesus and, more importantly, the morality of his message to treat others as you would want to be treated.

For my family, the nexus of faith isn't in a church once a week. It's in the home, where we struggle every day to love and parent and share. It's at work and school, where we try to deliver an honest day's labor and play fair.

Chreasters like us take the Golden Rule seriously, we just don't see a link between "walking in love" and sitting in a pew every Sunday.

When we do sit, though, we appreciate the welcome. Thank you and Merry Christmas.

David Andreatta is a Democrat and Chronicle columnist. He can be reached at dandreatta@gannett.com.