12/25/66

Scripture: from Luke 2: 1-20 (or other); [read John 1: 1-12].

A young man whom I knew well some years ago had confided the happy word that he expected to be a father. In due time word came, from their distant residence, that the baby had arrived - a little daughter whom the young father called their "lovely bit of star dust."

Most of the babies arriving in homes that we know about, bring with them some such joy to parents and family and friends. Possibly this is one reason why the whole Christian world responds so eagerly to the annual reminder of the birth of a babe in Judea a long time ago. For birth is so often joyful news. It seems to have been so at Bethlehem. Two New Testament writers, Matthew and Luke, lead the reader into the awe and happiness of it. To be sure, that babe was born in awkward and unusual circumstances. There was no hospital. The mother could not even be installed in a hotel. The only inn was completely filled. Perhaps her husband was fortunate even to find a bit of hay in a stable where the child could be born. But it seemed that the very heavens were filled with angelic voices. Shepherds on the hills became eager. Wise Orientals headed toward the Judean capital to find out what had happened.

We still delight to reenact the scene. In imagination, in tableaux, in song, in festive spirit we re-enact the birth of Jesus each year at the beginning of that season that is winter in much of the world. People go to their churches to worship and rejoice. They greet one another joyously, and with letters and gifts. Carolers go through some of the streets. Human nature mellows. And we rejoice.

Young folk of our own church and their friends, went last Sunday evening to sing carols in the homes of some who cannot usually get out to church. Last evening they led us in a brief Christmas evening worship in this room. It brought satisfaction to them and happiness to others.

People have decorated Christmas trees, put forth colored lights, prepared and shared and eaten festive foods, tried to gather with friends and family to celebrate a holy day as holiday. It is a lovely season -- this annual celebration of the birth of Jesus. And while we are in a celebrating mood, it may be well to recall that the babe became much more than just one more child in the world. He has become our Christ in vivid and sustaining ways.

Let me introduce you to an account of Christmas Eve in somber circumstance -- a Christmas Eve which brought an extraordinary comfort to a few who remembered and observed its significance. The account is related in the last issue of the magazine, "United Church Herald." One of the powerful Christian voices of our day is that of Hanns Lilje, presiding bishop of the United Evangelical Lutheran Church in Germany. Bishop Lilje was a German clergyman at the time of the second world war. Late in that conflict, he found himself a prisoner of the Nazi government. It was Christmas eve. None of the prisoners knew what might next happen to them. Some were already condemned to death. Probably all thought of loved ones. Probably all longed for the childhood joys they had known at Christmas. Even the prison guards, some of them unnecessarily brutal in behavior, were affected by the mellow sentiment of the season.

The Commandant relaxed his harshness a little bit. He allowed a condemned musician to have his violin for Christmas eve. And the strains of the violin music floated all over the great prison. Hanns Lilje had a little nativity scene mounted in his cell. It had been sent to him by his children. A single candle before the nativity scene and a few sprigs of fir branches were all the materials he could use to make the cell look like Christmas. He longed for his family; he longed for his congregation; he longed to be able, as a minister, to proclaim the wonders of the Christ in a time of dark trial. Quite suddenly, outside his cell door, he heard his number called. Usually this call meant nothing good. Too often it had meant ill-treatment, interrogation, removal from the prison, or worse. Tonight, though prepared for anything, he felt that they would hardly be doing anything very terrible. He arose, and followed the guard to the Commandant’s office door. The Commandant came out. In accordance with his usual custom, the Commandant did not speak. He walked on ahead to another cell. Before entering, he said to the guard, "Bring number 212 to this cell, too."

When the heavy cell door was opened, Lilje recognized the prisoner at once to be a certain Count X. The Count’s brother had been executed shortly after the ill-fated attempt on Hitler’s life. That brother had been in Lilje’s congregation on Christmas eve a year earlier, and in the custom of that church, had received communion. Now Lilje, quite spontaneously, and forgetting where he was, mentioned this recollection to Count X. But the Commandant interrupted harshly, saying, "I have not brought you gentlemen together for personal conversation." Then he added to the other prisoners, "You asked that a certain clergyman, your own friend, might be allowed to visit you this evening in a pastoral capacity. Unfortunately, I have not been able to accede to your request. But here is Dr. Lilje, who will address some words to you." Now Lilje knew what was expected of him. The Count replied: "What I really want, sir, is to make my confession, and then to receive Holy Communion." Lilje assured him that he was ready to do what was required. The Commandant appeared to have no objection. A small silver cup was brought, a little wine and some bread. Meanwhile Number 212, the condemned violinist, was brought into the cell. The guard was sent out of the cell. So there were four men alone together; Count X, the prisoner-musician, the Commandant and Hanns Lilje.

At the Commandant’s suggestion, the violinist played a Christmas Chorale -- exquisitely. Then, in that prison cell, before that tiny congregation, Lilje read the Gospel for Christmas Day: "Now it came to pass in those days there went out a decree ..." The violinist played another Christmas Chorale. Meanwhile Lilje arranged his thoughts a little about the passage in Isaiah which had filled his mind when he was summoned downstairs; and he said to his fellow-prisoner: "This evening we are a congregation, a part of the Church of Christ, and this great word of divine promise is as true for us today, as it was for those of a year ago, among whom, at that time, was your own brother -- and for all who this year receive it in faith. Our chief concern is to believe that God, through Jesus Christ, has allowed the Eternal Light to ‘arise and shine’ upon this world which is plunged into the darkness of death, and that He will also make this Light to shine for us. At this moment, in our cells, we have practically nothing that makes the Christmas Festival so familiar and lovely, and there is one thing left to us: God’s great promise. Let us cling to this promise, and to Him, in the midst of the darkness. Here and now, in the midst of the uncertainty of our prison life in the shadow of death, we will praise him by a firm and unshaken faith in his Word, which is addressed to us."

Then, in the midst of the cell, the Count knelt on the hard stone floor, Lilje prayed a beautiful old prayer of confession by Thomas a Kempis (which the Count had requested.) Then he pronounced the assurance of forgiveness, while tears coursed down the Count’s cheeks.

It was a quiet celebration of the sacrament, full of deep confidence in God. Three were prisoners in the hands of the Gestapo, in Berlin. One was the stern commanding officer. But the peace of God enfolded them. It was like the divine Hand laid gently upon them. Obviously the Commandant had done all this without permission, on his own personal responsibility. So he could allow no further conversation. The violinist played a closing chorale. And Lilje parted from the Count with a warm handshake, saying, "God bless you, brother X."

When they reached the corridor, the Commandant shook the hand of Dr. Lilje twice, with an iron grip. He was deeply moved. Turning to his prisoner he said, "Thank you! You cannot imagine what you have done for me, this evening, in my sad and difficult daily work." Hanns Lilje was immediately taken back to his cell. But he praised God from his whole being that a Christian congregation of only 4 people, in a Nazi prison, under the very shadow of death, had been able to gather in a sacred rite at Christmas.

There are people now, more than 2 decades later, who have been able to find sustaining grace in the remembrance, on Christmas Eve, of Christ’s birth and of his continuing, guiding presence with them now. Some need that lift because of impending sorrow, or recent grief, or anxiety and uncertainty. Many more have been able to toss cares to the winds and to enjoy Christmas Eve in a festive spirit. Perhaps most families in our community brought in a Christmas tree some days ago, and then decorated it bit by bit as time and leisure permitted. Others brought in a tree early yesterday, erected it with care, and proceeded to decorate it. Family and friends pitched in -- some with skilled hands -- some with not a little free advice! Then gifts have been brought in, and the parcels arranged about the tree.

Meanwhile a candle may have been lit in the window. Or perhaps the fourth candle of Advent was lighted with appropriate observance. It is in observance of him who is the Light of the World. And hearts are lifted up and filled with glad expectation. Christmas Eve is a time of gladness -- whether celebrated in surroundings as somber as that Berlin prison or in the joyful eagerness of a house where little children are excited and happy. For it is a time to remember and realize "Immanuel" -- "God with us."

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And Christmas Day -- well, we wake up -- perhaps a little late if there are no young children about and a bit of extra sleep seems welcome. If there are young children, the odds are that the family awakes early -- no matter how short the night may have been! At any rate, we find our world transformed by love and laughter and the spirit of good will. Before long, the house is one big litter, but we do not mind it. For it seems altogether good and glorious. Our hearts are warm within us.

If it be one of those rare years when Christmas Day falls on Sunday, we go to the church of our choice. We bow in worship, we sing our praises, we meet others who have come for the same purpose -- some of whom we have not seen in a long while, if they have lived at a distance. And we are glad.

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And then comes the day after Christmas -- and that may seem quite different! Where then are the glad expectations of Christmas Eve; where the strange joy of Christmas morning? Christmas, when it is past, may seem as a dream - a beautiful dream from which, alas, we must waken to the hard realities of living in a tough old world!

And yet, it is not necessarily inevitable that there be a let-down on the day after Christmas. It is true that the exhilaration of Advent, the expectation of Christmas Eve, and the sheer joy of Christmas Day do not continue at a high pitch. Probably that is not even desirable. But Christmas vision can be kept after Christmas Day is past. In the Christmas story as told by Luke, the shepherds, when the angels went away from them into heaven, did not resume their watch in the fields as though nothing had happened. They went with haste to Bethlehem -- and returned glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen.

On the day after Christmas, the shepherds went back to work, as we ordinarily must do (except that, this year, we shall have the leisure of one legal holiday after Christmas day.) But those shepherds did not go back with sinking hearts. There was apparently no "let-down" feeling in them. They returned, "glorifying and praising God." It would be in keeping with the early Christian history to suppose that they lived, from that time on, in the light and power "of the things that they had seen and heard." The pure exaltation of Christmas may not last. The angels do go away into the heavens. But Christmas vision lasts if we undertake to live by it.

The Christmas vision has to do with the final reality and power of the world. There are grim realities which are not to be denied -- hunger, cold and heat, desperation, chaos, greed, cruelty, tyranny, entrenched injustice, mortal struggles in battle -- these are real in today’s world. But they are not the final reality! The final reality with which we have to deal is God -- the God of Jesus Christ.

The vast arsenals of modern weapons of war are among the powers of today’s world. But they are not the supreme power. The supreme power with which we have to deal is the power that keeps the stars in their courses; the power that, taking the form of a servant, stoops to minister to the children of mankind. This is what we see on Christmas Eve when candles are lighted and carols are sung and the world is strangely still and hearts are lifted up. This is what we know on Christmas Day. And somehow we know that it is not an illusion but is eternal truth.

This vision of the love of God can be maintained on the day after Christmas, and on every day after that. It can be maintained on the condition that we do not neglect the heavenly vision, but undertake to live by it, carrying it, like any other living insight, in to each area of our living. Of course this condition must be met. You can no more keep a heavenly vision, if you do not live by it, than you can keep a friendship if you do not cultivate it.

What would it mean to live by the vision that comes at Christmas time? It would mean to trust God and his goodness and not give way to fruitless fears. It would mean to act on the faith that the supreme power in the universe is not naked force but is the love of God seeking good for all men everywhere. It would mean to practice love in daily life, at home and in every human relationship.

One of the Christmas greetings which arrived this season at our house from friends in another city bears these lines from Howard Thurman, which I commend to you:

When the song of the angels is stilled,

When the star in the sky is gone,

When the kings and princes are home,

When the shepherds are back with their flock,

The work of Christmas begins:

To find the lost,

To heal the broken,

To feed the hungry,

To release the prisoner,

To rebuild the nations,

To bring peace among brothers,

To make music in the heart.

May Christmas continue to live in the way we live!

Amen.

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Delivered in Wisconsin Rapids, December 25, 1966

Also at St. James Episcopal Church of Kamuela,

December 24, 1969.

Hanalei Plantation Hotel Christmas Service,

December 25, 1971.

Waioli Hui’ia Church, December 26, 1971.