Christmas Eve

A Cello for Jesus 12/24/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Four Sundays spent. Four candies lit. Four calling birds nested in one never-to-be-forgotten pear tree. And now.... at last.... it all comes down to this.

There is a kind of hush all over the world tonight. Things are quiet now. Almost all of the stores are closed, and almost all of the churches are open.... which should count for something. Nothing much that is newsworthy will happen tonight. Very few guns will be fired. Very few political decisions will be made. No one will hold a press conference, or hold up a party store (one hopes). Neither will anyone fire a puck, kick a pigskin, or shoot a basketball in anger.  It will be a night to deeply cherish those you are with, and dearly miss those you are not with. For Christmas Eve is one of those rare and precious times when the giant spinning wheel of the world stops on "Love," and stays there.  All this, because God once brought something quite unexpected.... and more than a little bit surprising.... to a people who were expecting anything but.

 

And nobody understands the incongruity of that appearance better than the people of one particular neighborhood in Sarajevo, that war-devastated city in the midst of the nation we used to call Yugoslavia. Strange things have happened there, too. But none so strange as the appearance of the man they call "The Cellist."  But before I tell you anymore about him, let me retreat a step or two, the better to set a proper stage for his story.

 

Sarajevo, you know. Not because it is a part of the nation that once sent "your people" to America.... although it sent mine. Not because it gave the world a brilliant, and extremely photogenic, Winter Olympics....which, not all that many years ago, it did. And not because you have ever traveled there, skied there, or climbed the beautiful mountains there....  because, as places to go, it's hardly ever been on the beaten track.

 

Instead, you know Sarajevo because they are fighting a war there... .as wars used to be fought.... hand to hand....house to house....street to street....in the most brutal manner imaginable. In fact, the carnage is so unspeakable that Sarajevo is in the process of writing for the world an entirely new primer on violence. The conflict in Sarajevo is called a "civil war".... an oxymoron, if ever there was one. The conflict is also called "a religious and ethnic war." But the lines become increasingly blurred. At one time or another, everyone in the city becomesthe enemy of someone else in the city. Men…. women.... children.... babies.... grandparents.... young and old.... strong and weak.... Muslim and Christian....Serb, Croat, and Bosnian.... none are exempt. And none are safe. Some kill. Some die. And there are probably others who wish they could die. This is Sarajevo.

 

Enter, one Vedran Smallovic. See him dressed in formal evening clothes.... sitting in a cafe chair.... in the middle of a street... directly in front of a bakery. Weeks earlier, in front of that same bakery, a mortar barrage landed in the middle of a bread line, killing twenty two hungry people. That's where Vedran Smallovic sits. But it is not enough to simply look at him. You need to hear him. For he is playing a cello in the middle of the street Which he does for twenty two days, braving sniper and artillery fire to play Albinoni's profoundly moving "Adagio In G Minor."

 

Since he is a member of the Sarajevo Opera Orchestra, he probably knows that this particular "Adagio" was reconstructed from a manuscript fragment found in the ruins of Dresden after World War II. The music somehow survived the firebombing, then. One can only hope that it will survive the firebombing now.

 

In time, the street corner where Vedran Smailovic plays becomes something of a local shrine. People go out of their way to pass by there.... take friends there.... kiss lovers there. Some lay flowers where his chair and cello once stood. I suppose that flowers and music have always been ways of expressing those hopes which never die.

 

And then his story (and song) take wings. His picture, depicting him leaning over his cello, appears in an issue of the New York Times Magazine. An artist in Seattle sees it. Her name is Beliz Brother (real person, real name). She promptly organizes twenty two cellists.... to play in twenty two public places.... for twenty two days.... all over Seattle. On the final day, all twenty two play together (in front of a store window displaying twenty two burned out bread pans.... twenty two loaves of bread.... and twenty two roses).

 

In time, others pick up the song in other cities. And on the twentieth day of January last, twenty two cellists play In Washington, D.C. as Bill Clinton is formerly sworn into office.

The man who tells Vedran's story writes

Is this man crazy? Maybe. Is his gesture futile? In a conventional sense, of course. What madness to go out alone in the streets of war with but a wooden box and a hair-strung bow. But speaking softly with his cello (one note at a time), he does the only thing he knows how to do, making like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, calling out the rats that sometimes infest the human spirit.

 

 

Somehow, when I read that story last August, I knew that I would share it with you Christmas Eve. I didn't know whether Vedran Smallovic would approve.... or if he is even a Christian. But his is a Christmas story. For his cello, if it does nothing else, serves up a counterpoint to the agonizing madness of the world, and offers a harbinger of hope, that songs of the spirit cannot be silenced by gunfire, nor can beauty be buried in the ruins and rubble of this world's lunacy.

 

And what, my friends, is the promise of this very night, if not that one? For God, Himself, once surprised the world in a most unorthodox way.... and in a most unexpected place.... with a gift that became a counterpoint to that world's madness. Bethlehem has seldom been without its own brand of strife. When our Business Administrator, Bertha Fuqua, was there two weeks ago, she almost didn't get to Manger Square and the Grotto of the Holy Nativity, because of another uprising between the Israelis who patrol there, and the Palestinians who live there. For Bethlehem is a West Bank town, and you have no need to look further (for what that means) than the front page of this morning's Free Press.

 

Yet what Veciran Smailovic could never have known (as he played in front of the ruins of a bombed-out bakery in Sarajevo) is that the very word "Bethlehem" means (quite literally) "House of Bread," with the implication that the child who appeared there once (accompanied by the music of an angelic chorus and one small drum) would be capable of satisfying the hunger of bread-seekers everywhere, including those who (from much of the world) receive nothing but a stone.

 

One cellist in Sarajevo is not enough (of course), unless we also sing the song that is played there. Just as one baby in Bethlehem may not be enough, unless we also pass the love that is laid there. Christmas may be a counterpoint to much of the world's madness. But somebody needs to preach that truth.... or play it.... in places as diverse (this night) as Sarajevo and Seattle, and in high schools as diverse (this night) as Chadsey and Chelsea. "Comfort ye.... comfort ye my people," says God through the prophet. "And cry unto her that her warfare is ended." All of which is good news, you see. Unless there is someone at whom you are presently sniping.... or a "madness" where you live that needs to be countered. God comes to us, this night, as if to say: "You know, it doesn't really have to be this way. And you don't really have to be this way." My friends, when we stop believing this, the music will surely die, and Christ will come to the earth in December, no more.

 

Christmas Eve, 1993. Strangely different, for me, this year.  But challengingly so. New places. New faces. My only sister gone, from this life, permanently. My two children gone, from this house, Increasingly. The nest is largely empty.

 

But the nest is also feathered.... with more memories than regrets.... with more friends than rooms.... with kids who are proving to be as fascinating as adults as they were as children.... and with a wonderful woman who fills it (and me) with love. Late last night, in this very nest-like sanctuary, several of us were meeting over mechanics. With Chris and Doris Hall, Dick Kopple and Steve Langley, it was a time for moving pianos, resetting furniture and adjusting lights. Where would I stand? When would I move? Where would I go? All of these things had to do with my "fitting in".... here.... tonight.

 

Then later last night, with a log on the fire in the family room, came the realization (to Kris and myself) that fitting in was not really something that either of us had to achieve, so much as something that many of you have already made possible. For, like all good things, love has come to us as a gift.... more than either of us has really earned or deserved. And about the only thing we can say to our credit is that, whenever it has come, we have had enough good sense to open the door and let it in.

 

It is my prayer that love may come to you and yours, as it has to me and mine…. And that you will know what to do with it when it does.  Merry Christmas.  And may God bless you…. everyone.

   

 

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Night-Light 12/24/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

For those of you who thought you’d never get from the waiting room to the birthing room, welcome home. You’ve come to the right place. The stores are closed now. The traffic has thinned now. The mood has mellowed now. And, as Ed Ames once sang: “There’s a kind of hush, all over the world.” I only hope that you feel as settled on the inside as you look on the outside.

 

“Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight,” wrote the poet. And I suspect ‘tis true. Certainly in Traverse City, where one church has widely circulated its intention to hold Christmas Eve services in a barn. “Dress warmly and bring lawn chairs,” the advertisement reads. But also in the major cities of Indonesia, where services will also be held, but where Christians are warned to be wary in attending them, given that large numbers make attractive targets….in a nation where 25% of the polled population recently voiced sympathy for those who express ideological conviction through suicidal terrorism.

 

Clearly, the baby is not the only thing we must be watchful for tonight. For were I to say the words “on stand-by alert,” virtually all of you think “military,” while almost none of you think “maternity.”

 

But such has been the case more often than not. The biblical vision of the Peaceable Kingdom is still more “vision” than “peaceable.” Do you remember the Russian exhibit at the last great World’s Fair? Where, in the interest of world peace, the Russians put a lion and a lamb in the same cage….and the people oohed and aahed, until someone finally said to the keeper: “Tell me, how do you do it? How do you manage to have a lion and a lamb share the same cage?” “Oh, it’s very simple,” said the keeper. “We change the lamb every morning.”

 

Sadly, we live in a world where lambs get carried out….frequently, if not daily. For, as someone said: “The meek may inherit the earth, but that’s not the popular way to bet.” To those of us living in the north, Christmas comes when it is both dark and cold. Which may be a good thing. Because, quite apart from how the weather is, that’s often how life feels.

 

Except it needn’t be that way. It can be other than it is. It can also be better than it is. For Christmas is the ultimate rebuttal to the pragmatist….the verbal “yes, but” which interrupts the argument of the realist.

 

While certainly not a Christmas movie, one of my all-time favorite scenes occurs in a rather dark film entitled Grand Canyon. In it, a hotshot attorney, driving a sleek and expensive car, finds himself in a humongous traffic jam on an L.A. freeway. Spotting an exit ramp, he impulsively takes it in hopes of advancing his progress. Hey, I’ve done it. You’ve done it. Nothing to it. Except, he gets lost in the effort and his route takes him along streets that grow progressively darker and more deserted. Then the nightmare happens. His expensive car stalls on one of those alarming streets where teenage gang members favor expensive guns and even more expensive sneakers. Locking himself in the car, the attorney does manage to phone for a tow truck. But before it arrives, five young street toughs surround his disabled car and threaten him with considerable bodily harm.

 

Just in time, the tow truck shows up and its driver….an earnest, genial man who answers to the name of Mac….begins to hook up the disabled car. The gang members protest that the truck driver is interrupting their meal. So the driver takes the leader of the group aside and gives him a five-sentence introduction to theology.

 

Man (he says), the world ain’t supposed to work like this. Maybe you don’t know that, but this ain’t the way it’s supposed to be. I’m supposed to be able to do my job without askin’ you if I can. And that dude is supposed to be able to wait with his car without you rippin’ him off. Everything’s supposed to be different than what it is here.

 

I’ve gotta tell you, I like that. And I’ve gotta tell you why I like that. I like it because while (for purposes of Hollywood) Mac may be a mythical truck driver, for purposes of organized religion, Mac is a biblical prophet. For what is a prophet, if not someone who….for better or worse….and in situations ranging from hell to high water….stands in for God, saying: “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

 

Well, the cynic counters, it’s been this way for as long as any of us can remember. Back in the neighborhood (and the neighborhood church) of my childhood, there was a woman whose sins were sufficiently known, so that people whispered to each other about her “having a past.” But the painful truth is that all of us have….had a past, I mean.

 

But while that weighs us down, it need not tie us down, don’t you see. Evil rolls across the stage. But so does good. And to speak of what has gone wrong….is going wrong….will go wrong….is to forget the resolve of God, who wants peace around us, peace among us, peace within us, and will pay any price to get it. To concentrate solely on our depression and defection is to say to the world: “I have some bad news….and I have some more bad news. Which do you want first?”

 

But this news is good news, given that it’s God’s news….“as God imparts to human hearts, the blessings of his heaven.” For years, I sang that line wrong….singing not “the blessings of his heaven,” but “the message of his heaven.” But either way, it works, don’t you see. Because the message is the blessing. A child is born. And with it, comes the light….whether it be the light of a great star whose path has been aligned in the highest of the heavens, or the light of a 40-watt bulb whose chain has been pulled in the brains of humans. To be sure, Christmas is about light, as in “I see it.” But Christmas is also about light, as in “I get it.” It really doesn’t have to be this way. There is more to life than meets the naked eye.

 

The light still shines, dear friends. Trust me, the light still shines.

 

·         In the eyes of those who go the second mile,

·         In the home fires awaiting one who has gone the longest mile,

·         On the porch of a parent whose child has wandered the deviant mile,

·         In the confidence of a saint who is walking life’s final mile,

·         Atop the candles of a cake, being cut by a couple who have logged 50 years’ worth of miles,

·         In the warming shelter at Cass, where there are toddlers who have to be carried a mile,

·         And in tonight’s manger in Bethlehem where God’s child has yet to walk his first mile.

 

Christmas Eve, 2002.

As for me, presently jogging my 38th lap around the oval called “ministry”….and my 62nd lap around the bigger oval called “life”….I pray that there are yet miles to go before I quit, and even more before I sleep. In the midst of so much about Christmas Eve that (mercifully) stays the same, life’s circumstances do change (not always mercifully) from year to year.

 

Following her death at the end of August, this is the first Christmas without my mother. But come Saturday….along about 4:30….Miss Becky Mayhew will have said “yes” to Mr. Trevor Wilson (right there in the middle of the aisle), and our family will be able to call the year a draw. One lost. One gained. And come March, we may even be one to the good, when Juli (the niece) delivers herself of a child….recalling Sister Mary Corita’s wonderful line that each newborn infant is God’s way of announcing that life will go on.

 

Meanwhile, Julie (the daughter) has a new job that really challenges, while Kris (the wife) has a new job that really blesses. As for me, I am the lucky one, given that I have a job that does both, along with two women in my life who do it all. Meanwhile, a building goes up in the east….the same direction (I have noticed) when whence the kings come. Next year, they can come early and play basketball.

 

Tonight, the three of us will wend our way home about a quarter to one….light the fire….turn up the volume under the Three Tenors….zap the crab cakes (the gift of one of the best chefs inMichigan, who just happens to worship here at First Church)….while Kris ladles up three bowls of bisque made from some of the ocean’s most delectable crustaceans.

 

Then we will lift a glass to Bill (who has inherited the Kingdom)….offer a prayer to God (who owns the Kingdom)….and give thanks for you (who constitute the fruits of the Kingdom).

 

So from us and ours to you and yours, Merry Christmas.

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Were You Born in a Barn? 12/24/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Christmas Eve, 1998

Earlier this December, a preacher from “way up north” was traveling “way down south,” when he stopped for lunch at an out-of-the-way diner. Mounting a stool at the counter, and anticipating his first forkful of ham and redeye gravy, he summoned the waitress and asked if she could answer a question about the nativity set out front….which, he said, was lovely….just lovely…. save for one small thing. “What’s that?” she said (rocking back on her heels). “Well,” he began, “I just found myself wondering why your wise men….which look splendid on their camels, don’t you know….are all wearing firemen’s hats.”

 

“That’s because the wise men were firemen,” she answered.

 

“Were not,” he said.

 

“Were so,” she responded.

 

“Prove it,” he challenged.

 

“I will,” she countered.

 

Whereupon she took a well-thumbed Bible from under the counter….muttered something about “Yankees knowing nothing about the Word of God”….thumbed until she came to the second chapter of Matthew….announced, “It says so right here”….and proceeded to read: “And in those days, three wise men came from afar.”

 

Well, maybe they did. The Bible doesn’t say where their trip originated. From the East, says the book. From the Orient, says the carol. From Persia, says modern scholarship (meaning Iraq…. according to today’s atlas….and, if true, isn’t that just shot through and dripping with irony).

 

I once had a friend who said (concerning the three kings) that they came in a Honda….because the Bible says that “they were of one accord.” But when I looked it up, it was the disciples who were “of one accord” (Acts 1:14)….meaning that it was they who traveled by Honda, if anybody traveled by Honda.

But I find myself less interested in where the kings (wise men, magi, Iraqi astrologers, whatever) came from, as where they went. Meaning Bethlehem. Or, more to the point, to a barn in Bethlehem….at least a place with animals in Bethlehem.

 

Like I said a few weeks ago, I know next-to-nothing about animals, and (therefore) next-to-nothing about barns. But I do remember my father asking me, from time to time, if I was born in one. I figured if anybody should know, he should know. I mean, he was there, wasn’t he?

 

I wasn’t far into my childhood before I learned that when my father said, “Were you born in a barn,” he wasn’t referring to the place I was delivered, so much as the door I’d left opened. Which is why his rebuke, voiced in its entirety, read: “Shut the door. Were you born in a barn?”

 

Just so you will know, I wasn’t. And Jesus probably wasn’t either. Biblical scholar, Kenneth Bailey, points out that the word in our Bible translated as “inn,” is (in the original Greek) “kataluma.” Which does not mean “inn”….or “hotel”….so much as it means “guest room.” In the typical Mid-Eastern home, there is a room designated for out-of-town visitors….the “kataluma”….or the “guest room.” So the place where Mary and Joseph took respite probably wasn’t an inn at all, but a private home (perhaps even the home of a relative).

 

But with the “kataluma” (guest room) already filled….by Uncle Oscar and Aunt Mildred from Dubuque, most likely….Mary and Joseph were given the next best place in the house to stay, which was probably the outer room (front room) of the house. It was to this room that livestock were brought on winter nights, only to be ushered out in the morning so as to allow for other family activities. Those of you who go to sleep, this Christmas Eve, on somebody’s hide-a-bed….because Uncle Oscar and Aunt Mildred beat you to the queen-sized bed in the kataluma….will know whereof I speak.

 

But if there were animals there, it probably felt like a barn. So a barn, we’ll let it be. Why? Because it will preach better that way. That’s why.

 

If this child is a gift from God….and if this child (in ways you can’t begin to imagine and I can’t begin to explain) somehow is God….I suppose it can be said that God was born in a barn. Which sounds appropriate, given that God’s first appearance to humankind was in a garden. Now, 1200 pages later, God’s come indoors.

 

And could it be that God….growing out of his desire to tinker with creation on a daily basis….might be more at home in a barn than anyplace else? For God is more farmer than field general….more farmer than watchmaker….more farmer than (say) artist, architect, or even astrophysicist….more farmer (certainly) than Supreme Court judge or slum landlord.

 

            For what does a farmer do?

 

                        He does his chores, that’s what he does.

 

 

 

And when does a farmer do them?

 

                        He does them daily, that’s when he does them.

 

            And what happens when the farmer misses a few days?

 

                        Things go to hell in a hand basket, that’s what happens.

 

Farmers not only sow it and reap it, farmers also have to keep after it, stay on top of it, and seldom (if ever) get to leave it....especially if the “it” is not corn and carrots, but cows and chickens. Farming is daily work. Barns are symbols of where such work is done. Chores are the nature of that work. And we are God’s chores.

 

As for barn doors being open, I suppose that such is a good thing. For it means that anybody can come there. And it means that everybody belongs there. Which includes both shepherds and kings….who can be readily distinguished by their feet. That’s because kings ride about the “stuff” of earth, while shepherds walk through it. But it doesn’t matter in a barn. Because everything smells a little bit in a barn. Sort of like in here….if the unperfumed truth be told.

 

In this December’s issue of New York Magazine, there is a half-page ad for Marble Collegiate Church….Norman Vincent Peale’s old church…..where (as they proclaim) “good things happen.” And what do they say in their Christmas Eve ad? They say, in big block letters:
“WE DON’T ASK IF YOU’VE BEEN NAUGHTY OR NICE.” Well, neither do I. Because I already know, don’t you see. I already know.

 

And God doesn’t care. At least for tonight.

 

Marilyn Monroe has become a pop icon of our time. Arthur Miller, in his autobiography Timebends, tells of his marriage to her. During the filming of The Misfits, Miller watched Marilyn descend into the depths of depression and despair. Fearing for her life, he watched her estrangement, her paranoia and her increasing dependence on barbiturates. One evening, after a doctor had been persuaded to give Marilyn yet another shot, she was sleeping. Arthur Miller stood watching her, reflecting:

 

I found myself straining to imagine miracles. What if she were to wake and I were able to say: “God loves you, darling.” And what if she were able to believe it? How I wish I still had my religion and she, hers.

 

I don’t know what brought you here tonight….or how you got from home to church. I only hope that you are “straining to imagine miracles.” For it is nothing less than the miracle Arthur wanted for Marilyn that I proclaim to you in the midst of the Christmas Eve darkness.

 

Remember the kid who was afraid to go from the house to the barn at night because, as he put it, “it was so dark.” So his daddy handed him a lantern. But the kid said: “Even with this light in my hand, I can’t see the barn.” So his daddy said: “You don’t have to see the barn right now. Just walk to the end of your light.”

Well, you’ve come to the barn. And we’ve handed you a light. Maybe not all the light you wanted. But all the light you need.

 

And maybe you don’t need much. Maybe you are among those who swallowed a Franklin Planner for breakfast and have the next 20 years of your life all planned out. Hey, that’s great…. smart….and very resourceful.

 

But maybe you are here tonight, not knowing where you are going to be 20 months, 20 days or 20 hours from now….not knowing whether you’re going to have a job, a spouse, a happy home, or any home (for that matter). Things change so fast, don’t you know. At 7:30 this morning, I was in line for croissants and brioche at the Petit Prince Bakery. The lady in front of me spotted a lady in back of me. “It’s been forever since I’ve seen you,” she said. “How are you?” “I’m homeless,” said her friend. “I’ve been out of my house since December 7 when a tree fell on our roof.” Now I know there is a mild incongruity between “being homeless” and standing in line at the most expensive French bakery in Birmingham. Still, on the morning of December 7, there was no entry in her Franklin Planner that said: “Roof caves in.”

 

Nor in yours. So what I want you to do this night is take as much light as you can grab….from this old barn of a place….and from this old farmer of a God….and then walk to the end of it. Knowing that it will be enough….even more than enough….for the living of your days.

 

* * * * *

 

Christmas Eve, 1998….“chilling the body, but not the soul.” For along about 1:00 this morning, the house waits….the fire waits….the lobster bisque waits….the chilled shrimp waits….the presents wait….the peace waits….and two wonderful women wait.

 

Life is not meager. Love is not wanting. Friends are not scarce. Memories are still mixed (most of them sweet, but some of them, incredibly sad….given that a full table does not always disguise an empty chair).

But you still come. Words still come. The Word still comes. And with it, the fire.

For I was born in a barn, don’t you see? And I have yet to reach the end of its light. So Merry Christmas. And peace to all who are within the house.

Note:  Let me share my appreciation with Lloyd Heussner for passing along the ad from New York Magazine featuring Marble Collegiate Church.

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Is Your Home Childproof? 12/24/2001

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Christmas Eve, 2001

If I am not mistaken, it was the late E. Stanley Jones who told of an elementary-age schoolboy who was sent back to America by his missionary father because the education he could get in a boarding school here would be far superior to the education he could get in a village school there. The boy accepted the logic behind his return to the States and, separated from his family, actually did quite well. Until Christmastime. Hearing reports that the boy was nursing a pretty good case of pre-holiday blues, the headmaster paid a visit to his room. Before leaving, he asked if there was one thing, more than any other, that he would like for Christmas. Whereupon the boy, looking at the photograph of his father hanging on the wall above his bed, said: “All I want is for my father to step out of that frame.”

Well, that kid has plenty of company. For many of you would say the same thing to a photograph that hangs on one of your walls, or sits on one of your tables. “If only, just for one night, you could step out of that frame.” I know I have pictures like that at my house, along with wishes like that in my heart. And so do you. I know you do.

I suppose it would be simple to suggest that Christmas Eve is the night our heavenly Father stepped out of the frame….the better to meet and greet us in the flesh. For isn’t that what John (who wasn’t into nativities) said about the Word….that it became flesh and dwelt among us….full of grace….full of truth….sufficient so that we could see it….and in seeing it, experience a small splash of its glory?

People had been on God’s case for a long time to step out of the frame. And, insofar as I can discern it, we are on it still (God’s case, I mean). “Make thyself plain,” is one way of putting it….not “plain” as in “bland,” but “plain” as in “clear.”

The problem, however, is that there is no clear consensus about which God….and which frame. Some want a Father who is a fighter. Others want a Father who is a forgiver. Still others, a Father who is a befriender. And nobody would turn their back upon a Father who is a lover. Although, now that I say it, I’m not all that sure.

Trying (as I get paid to do) to put my finger on the pulse of this particular year, I think I know the kind of Father we are looking for….the kind of Incarnation we want. I think the One we want to see step from the frame is a Father who looks like an ice hockey linesman. You know who I mean. I’m talking about the guy in the striped shirt….no name on his back….who skates in and around play (more or less anonymously)…. blowing the whistle when anyone ventures off-side….signaling infractions when rules are flagrantly violated….and occasionally jumping into the fray and breaking up fights. A hockey linesman knows that fights are inevitable….that they are part of the game (sometimes, the greater part of the game, as in Johnny Carson’s old joke about going to Madison Square Garden for a prize fight, only to see a hockey game break out). But the linesman waits for just the right moment in a fight and then skates in….separating the combatants….hauling this one off that one….doing whatever needs to be done to restore a bit of order.

I suppose that this hockey image surfaced in my head because my daughter….my sweet, serene daughter….my Harvard-matriculating daughter….my corporate-bound, turn-the-recession-around-overnight-once-I-graduate daughter….called earlier in the fall to announce that she had joined the Harvard Business School women’s hockey team. Not because she’d ever played hockey before. Not because she’d ever worn a pair of hockey skates before. And not because she’d taken many twirls around a frozen pond before. So why did she do it? Because, like the mountain (I guess), it was there. Now, every time I talk to her, instead of inquiring about her grades, I ask about her teeth.

She claims that girls’ games have rules against body checking. But what I want to know is whether they also have rules against boarding, tripping, spearing, slashing, or otherwise….in any way….for any reason….at any time….disfiguring my daughter’s pretty face. Lacking such rules, I guess I’ll just have to trust the linesman.

Oh, if only God would step out of history’s frame tonight….strong of hand….swift of skate…. striped of shirt….and roll through Bethlehem (and every town and village within 90 miles). That way, God could sort out the mayhem….separating this one from that one….pulling that one off this one….sending everybody to their respective benches, locker rooms or bedrooms (maybe even without supper)….handing out penalties where appropriate (don’t they sometimes call the penalty box, “The Sin Bin”?)….two minutes for spearing….five minutes for fighting….eight minutes for grenade throwing….eleven minutes for settlement leveling….twenty-three minutes for suicide bombing….complete with game misconducts for the recalcitrant and unrepentant…. and maybe even life misconducts for those who not only inflict pain and sorrow, but sneer and laugh while others suffer and die.

I’m not necessarily proud of this feeling or comfortable with this longing, but there are times when virtues like peace, harmony, justice and righteousness seem so far in the distance, that the restoration of order seems like a wondrous gift, indeed. As every policeman who has ever responded to a domestic violence call knows, you can’t work things out until you first calm things down.

But when God steps out of Bethlehem’s frame….now as well as then….he is neither swift of step nor striped of shirt. He does not skate from the womb or the frame. He restores nothing. He penalizes no one. For he comes as a baby. That’s right, a baby. Love is a baby, tonight….who, in his infancy, will ask more of us than he will bring to us. For, in the short run, we will have to take care of him….he, who in the eternal scheme of things, was born to take care of us.

But I have noticed something about life. I have noticed the most precious things tend to require the most cautious handling and the most delicate care. Babies come into the world with “special handling” stickers attached. As do marriages….friendships….congregations….not to mention truces, cease-fires, coalition governments and dreams (especially dreams). In a world where people continually drop the ball, we had better not drop the baby.

For to all who would receive the baby….welcome the baby….hold the baby….open their hearts to the baby…. amazing things can happen. After more than a quarter century of no babies on my side of the family, my niece Lauren was born last year at Christmastime. This week, she turned one. We spent last night together at a family dinner. Now concerning my extended family, you need to know that Norman Rockwell never knocked on our door and suggested painting us for posterity. So watching a one-year-old draw us close to her….and (in the process) draw us closer to each other…..I was freshly impressed with how much one so new can do. But then, God has known this all along.

Not everybody welcomes children. It is a common practice for adults….especially for adults who have a lot of nice things and want to protect them….to childproof their homes, making sure that visiting children can’t touch anything of value. Leading Don Rush, a columnist out of Florida, to write: “My wife and I childproofed our home three years ago, and they’re still getting in.” As will this one, my friends. You can count on it. For whatever else Christmas is, it is the story of a child who will not be denied.

* * * * *

Christmas Eve – 2001. Like the song will soon remind us, the night is silent now….especially (and sadly) in Bethlehem, where the silence has nothing to do with reverence and everything to do with fear. Which does not mean that Jesus cannot be born there, but that only those who have no choice but to live there will welcome him there. Which is all right….maybe even good…. because if healing should start and metastasize from anywhere, maybe it should start and metastasize from Bethlehem.

Fewer of us are flying high this Christmas. And those of us who are, are being forced to shed our shoes at the airport. But, as with most things, there’s biblical precedent for that, too. Thanks be to God, we are grounded in faith, although we have rediscovered that holding fast to one religion gives no mandate to wipe out all the others.

As for me and mine, life is good….church is good….we are good. To be able to work in a place where we are wanted, needed and valued is a blessing that many covet, but few receive. At the end of the working day, the sweat of my labor is still sweet to the taste, leaving me wanting more.

In a little while, we shall sing the last song here….turn off the last light here….and wend our way home from here. To where at least this gentleman will “rest ye merry” with two of the loveliest women God ever granted to share road and load. Together, we shall butter a little bread and sip a little soup….well, not just any bread or any soup, so much as baguette and bisque….oh, all right, lobster bisque, if you must know. Then, looking at the pictures on our mantle, we shall think about the one who we would call forth from his frame. But then we will cherish what we have and whose we are. By which time it will already be dawn somewhere in the world. Like, maybe Bethlehem. Merry Christmas, dear ones. Merry Christmas.

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