Christmas Eve, 2007
O, this holy dark winter season when the sun hangs low in New England’s southern sky, arching quickly over the horizon through the course of each short December day; when a few brown leaves still cling to branches on barren trees; when lakes and ponds, rivers and streams feeze, becoming rumpled sheets of ice; when cold becomes freezing cold, rain becomes freezing rain, wind becomes freezing wind, biting wind, chilling wind, gusting wind; when wind rattles old windows in dry, dusty New England homes; when heaters rattle and bump as heat flows through old pipes, making eerie yet comforting sounds through the long dark night.
O, this holy dark winter season when the sun hangs low in New England’s southern sky, arching quickly over the horizon through the course of each short December day; when freezing wind, biting wind, chilling wind blows loose brown leaves across dry brown lawns until thick, cold snow covers everything—covers trees and turnpikes, covers bushes and busses, covers ponds and parkways, woods and Wal-Marts, marshes and malls, lawns and libraries, streams and sidewalks, dens and driveways; and everything is dark.
Into this darkness comes the light of the returning sun. Into this darkness come the mixing and blending lights of the great midwinter festivals: Saturnalia, Yule, Hanukah which came early this year, and, tomorrow, Christmas. Into this darkness comes the story of a homeless family in search of warm clean shelter in which to give birth; the story of an angel’s night-time proclamation to huddling, frightened shepherds, a message of peace and good will to all; the story of the journey of three wise men, reading the heavens, consulting the king, bearing gifts and following a star, searching, seeking, longing, yearning through the long, dark night.
It is in this holy dark winter season where our story from Katherine Patterson takes place, in which a father who isn’t sure how to express himself, isn’t sure how to be vulnerable, isn’t sure how to ask for help, grieves the loss of his oldest son in war, broods over the loss of his oldest son in war, loses his own taste for life because he has lost his oldest son in war. In this holy dark winter season this father no longer hears the songs which sing of peace, even as his younger, living son sings them. He no longer believes the songs which sing of peace—in fact he disdains the songs which sing of peace. He says to his family, “There’s no pretty angels flapping their wings. There’s no singing in the sky. There’s hate and suffering and cruel, cruel death….The air’s not full of music. It’s full of bombs crashing and people screaming.”
Surely, there have been times when we are like the father who cannot hear the song his younger, living son sings; times when the bombs over Iraq and Afghanistan have drowned out such songs; times when the violence in our own American cities has drowned out such songs; times when injustices in our own communities have drowned out such songs; times when our own suffering has drowned out such songs; times when the earth’s suffering has drowned out such songs. And, like the father, we feel hopeless. Our belief in the possibility of peace wanes. And, like the younger, living son, we feel lost and alone in the darkness.
But in this holy dark winter season this man’s wife, who surely carries immense grief at the loss of her oldest son in war, yet who still clearly longs for some solace in the midst of her grief, who still clearly sees the value of nurturing the living, of nurturing life, of sustaining life says, quietly, “the song is louder.”
And as the story goes, in this holy dark winter season, thirty years later, on Christmas Eve, as the younger, living son visits his father on his deathbed, he reflects, “no, the song is not louder, but it persists. It comes…a melody of the most stubborn sweetness, for which we are never prepared. And we turn away from it again and again and again. But…even though the song is not louder, it is stronger. And someday it will find you—out there alone in the darkness.”
My friends, even in the midst of wars abroad, even in the midst of violence in our society, even as we turn away from hope, as our expectations are dashed, as our fears grow, I pray this Christmas Eve that the song of peace may find us in the dark and sing anew through our lives. I pray this Christmas Eve that the song of Justice may find us in the dark and sing anew through our lives. I pray this Christmas Eve that the song of compassion may find us in the dark and sing anew through our lives. I pray this Christmas Eve that the song of healing may find us in the dark and sing anew through our lives. I pray this Christmas Eve that the song of love may find us in the dark and sing anew through our lives.
No, we may not be prepared to hear the song, let alone sing. We may be more prepared to turn away from its melody, to not hear it, to not even recognize it—angels take so many forms and the song is so soft at times. But like the sun hanging low in New England’s southern sky, arching quickly over the horizon through the course of each short December day, it persists. A melody of the most stubborn sweetness. A light shining in the darkness. It is there for us to hear. A melody of the most stubborn sweetness. A light shining in the darkness. It is there for us to sing. A melody of the most stubborn sweetness. A light shining in the darkness.
May we hear it! May we sing it! May our lives be transformed so that we may participate in the transformation of the world, making real the angelic message, peace on earth, good will to all. Amen and Blessed Be.
