In those days
a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be
registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was
governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town
of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem,
because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be
registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a
child.
While they
were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to
her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger,
because there was no place for them in the inn.
In that region
there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by
night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord
shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them,
“Do not be
afraid; for see — I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David,
a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will
find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.”
And suddenly
there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and
saying,
“Glory
to God in the highest heaven,
and
on earth peace among those whom he favors!”
***
On Christmas
Eve, in years past, I had worn heathered red, celebratory like snow on holly.
Other years, formal black, long sleeved, t-length and turtleneck, as if the
birth of Christ translated into a black-tie affair. There was too, my
grandmother’s wool Pendleton shift, which made my mom look up and smile, as if
three generations were present, as if our New York and Texas lineage came full
circle, to Eastern Oregon and it’s Woolen Mills, in the censes of a
seventy-year-old dress returned to its homeland. Yet, last Christmas, getting
ready alone at the parsonage, I put on purple silk, the color of waiting, it
was still Advent in my heart.
Dutifully, as
if getting ready for a date, I did my hair and makeup, with the sinking feeling
I would be stood up. Still, I imagined they would be there. That I would walk
into the warm, sepia-ed sanctuary, and there my family would sit: My dad,
ever-professorial, in his corduroy slacks and elbow-patched-suit-coat, his
thin-framed glasses at the crook of his nose. My mom in black pants, a rich-red
sweater and heirloom earnings - the oft plain-little-librarian - giddy for the
occasion - the pride of her daughter preaching Christmas Eve. And finally, my
sister beside them, beautiful and shy, always wearing something exquisite,
original, yet understated, be it tactile fabric, a well placed sparkle, or a
cascading braid flowing down decadent hair, a balance of being perfectly
executed without drawing attention, but for the glimpse of a hesitant smile
giving her away. All three of them, ever recognizable, ever predictable, as
family is. I prayed maybe they would be there, as they had always been. For
wasn’t that the way every Christmas story ever ended, the wreathed front door
opens, and with suitcase in hand and snow on jacket, the belated beloved enters
and shaking off boots - calls out - and there is warmth, there is family, there
is rejoicing on Christmas Eve.
I drove the
quiet streets to church, my eyes brimming tears mirrored by brooding low grey
snow clouds - both full and waiting for release.
Once in the
Pastor’s Study, I pulled off my black suede party heels and opening the closet,
exchanged them, sliding on well worn working flats. I hooked the zipper of my
long black robe, and, like a pall, covered my purple dress with the garment of
my calling. Finally, reaching for a stole, to round my neck, I marked the
liturgical change from Advent’s waiting-purple, to Christmas’
celebratory-white. This vestment, clergy’s only adorning, and with it’s
singular ceremony, I placed the white stole over my head, a ritual anointing -
‘You child, will bring Christmas to the people, even if it is still Advent in
your heart.’ I sighed too deep for words, yet as reverently as an intercessory
prayer.
The sanctuary
was full, and bright, and warm, with people’s relatives and neighbors crowded
together, adults in black and gold, flannel and velvet, little girls in green
Christmas dresses with stain sashes and little boys in red button-downs all
tucked in - as familiar as a uniform, as predictable as family. I quickly
scanned for what I already knew. They were not there. They were not going to be
there. This was my first Christmas alone, and still, sigh, I was called
to bear a message of good news and great joy.
My closest
friends knew. There in the pew had come Mary Stevenson and her three teenagers,
standing in for my family. Likewise, it was they to whom my eyes traveled
during the first congregational hymn, O Little Town of Bethlehem. In that brief
moment, when the song of the congregation upheld the liturgy, I let go enough
to meet Mary’s daughter’s gaze. From halfway back in the pews, she knew me well
enough to see through the veil of my station, to my emotion’s reflection in the
lyrics,“The hopes and fears of all the years, are met in thee tonight.” And with that nakedness, a single tear crested.
Looking away, from her, and the chorus, I fragilely wiped its wet flake away. I
could not forever hold back my grey clouds; and outside snow began to dust.
Upon leaving, Mary’s son, who had been less than excited for worship, told his
mom, “I didn’t know why we were going, now I know why we went.” It wasn’t for
the message, nor for the carols, or the candlelight, but, “we went for Katy,”
he said.
I held out
through the shaking of hands and watched the sanctuary quickly empty out into
the now snowy, snowy night. Where headlights in the white speckled darkness led
families home, to be with one another, and I too would later go to be with a
friend’s family, to read to her kids in my biggest accent, “The Texas Night
Before Christmas,” and they would greet me the next morning, Alex, in his
squeaky voice, “Merry Christmas, Katy!” It, and wrapping paper swords, would
warm my heart for distracted moments, but that Christmas was still an Advent to
get through, snow through which to trudge. I had wanted something to come, in
the snow, in the singing, in the candles, in the children, but instead, I lived
out in the fields and watched my flock by night.
I was their
shepherd, and this was my wilderness, of sanctuary fold, chancel hill and
pulpit lookout. I was their shepherd, called to count them, each one, to find
their familiar and foreign faces amid the pews, and call them by name. I was
their shepherd leading them to green pastures and still waters on whose
moonlight was reflected in countless silent nights, holy nights, where
all was calm, all was bright. I was their shepherd, preparing a living
offering and an alter, on which to lay down our praise in Gloria, Gloria, in
excelsis deos. I was their shepherd and what a grand calling, to be out in
the field, caring for such wonders as these, who yearly fill the pews in woolen
splendor, all of us grazing under the stars of royal beauty bright. It
was a grand calling, to be amongst such as these, good and tender sheep. But,
though surrounded by their softest blankets there was still a chill in being so
invisibly alone. Such it was, when all the world went to be registered, I and
my fellow shepherds, remained uncounted.
I turned off
the narthex lights, locked the heavy wooden doors, and through the darkness
climbed the stairs to the Pastor’s Study, to doff my black robe, and shed my
adorning white stole like a flower upon the grave, as I too now knew what so
many I counseled had already, what was to be alone, on Christmas. Though no one
else was inside the building, I reached behind me and closed the study door,
and in that final solitude, when the fever of Christmas was over, and the busy
world was hushed, and my work was done, - sigh- I breathed my last. My
body hunched as if shoveling snow, my tears too wet to lift, and outside my
study window winter’s white quickened to a blur.
Then, suddenly,
something loud crashed against the glass. -SCREAM- My shepherd’s
instinct rifled out its reactions, "What was that, who’s out there, are
the side doors locked, I am alone,” and not without sarcasm, “of course I am
alone.” Accustomed to drama in the darkness, I froze in the sound’s startled
silence, a Shepherd listening acutely for anything that would move.
PAUSE
What I heard,
was laughing, which, after a moment, I realized was familiar, as was the ball
of snow sliding down my window. I scoffed, sarcasm turned in, smile turned up.
A snowball.
Still
disoriented, but aware enough to be embarrassed, I walked to the window.
Peering out, the snow seemed to cease and through cloven skies I saw an angel
of the Lord. My best friend Lizzy stood before me, bundled up, with knit hat
and warm jacket framing pink cheeks, cheeks whose smile said, “Do not be
afraid, for I am bringing you good news of great joy.”
She and her
family, out for a winter’s walk, had seen my lamp still burning far off in the
felid, “Why is Katy there so late on Christmas Eve?” Why have not the shepherds
come into town? And so over pastures of powder they came to the place I was.
Those common heavenly hosts, came to the darkened church, to the silence after
the carols were over, and to the solitude of being alone in the wilderness of
my work, and to that place, they brought Christmas.
And isn’t this
how every Christmas story ever ends, how the first Christmas story ended, and
maybe, how your Christmas story ends. That after we have lost all hope and gone
to bed, counted our sheep and locked the sanctuary doors, then in quiet of the
night, when loneliness is at its greatest, and we have settled in under the
covers of our heartbreaks, the empty spaces left by loved ones now gone, the
memories of the places we'd rather be called home, or those we’d wish had come
called family or friends, or the field where the work calls us on Christmas
Eve, to these places, where we are, to these shepherds who we are, to all
people, Christmas has come. May we be startled, by the sound, of an opening
door, Glorias of angels in the sky, and the crash of a snowball against the
window.
Stepping back,
I looked at the snowball, and in it’s opaque clump and melting silage, I
recognized the transformation of my own tears - that water, which I released in
sorrow had been returned in joy. It was as if Lizzy packed the flakes of my
sobbing, all tight in a frozen ball, and with the glories of the skies,
reminded me that this is a night for all people, for you my sheep, but also for
me too.
“Glory to God
in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to all people.”
