Regional Synod of Canada - Reformed Church in America

Pioneer Christian Monthly

Date - Nov/91

Contributor - Dirk Kramer

Title - Love's Endeavour

Topic - Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse... " Only a disturbed boy and an agitated pastor. Henry Carter was working feverishly on his Christmas sermon. The hour was late; the pressure was on. Christmas, he was discovering all over again, is one of the hardest times in any minister's year to find something fresh to say.

As Henry Carter laboured on, the floor mother of the church home for emotionally disturbed children of which he was the administrator, appeared at the door of his study. Her presence and the look on her face indicated trouble brewing, another crisis upstairs. Christmas Eve, Carter had discovered over the years, is also a difficult time for the emotionally disturbed. Most of the children had gone home for the holiday. Those who were left were left to react to the change in routine. Quiet halls and empty beds were tauting reminders of things amiss.

Following the matronly lady up the stairs, each tread and riser reminded the long-suffering pastor of the many unwelcome interruptions he had had to endure that afternoon and evening. The culprit was a young lad by the name of Tommy, who was nowhere to be seen. "So where is he?" Carter wondered as the lady pointed persistently to a row of empty cots. Tommy was under one of them; and it was the task of the preacher-turned counsellor to take him out from under it. Consummate negotiating skills were what was called for here. Sure, it would have been easier to move the bed; but what really needed moving was the boy.

Carter began by talking down to the bedspread below, its cowboys and bucking broncos signaling him that he was at the centre of the arena. What exactly should he say, he wasn't sure. Tommy was one hard-to-read little fellow even at the best of times. Visions, not of sugar plums, but what was in the vestibule of the church next door is what Carter decided to describe. With literary effort that should have been going into his sermon he described in detail the tree with tinsel and lights towering over a pile of gaily wrapped packages. One of them, he said, had Tonnny's name on it. And in the kitchen of the church, there were treats waiting for Tommy. But Tommy didn't stir.

In a very unprofessional way, the good Reverend got down on all fours. He drew back the bedspread which nearly touched the dusty floor. There lay Tommy, his face forlorn, his eyes filled with a look of infinite sadness.

He lay motionless except for the occasional blinking of his blue eyes and the steady rhythm of his breath. The breath from his nostrils created mist patches, the edges of which grew and shrank on the cold linoleum floor. In a further effort to entice the unresponsive youngster, the minister went on to describe the Christmas dinner that was waiting. He hoped the scent of it would convince Tommy. But all of his efforts were met with a sullen silence. Tommy seemed to have little interest in the Christmas going on.

In a last ditch effort the minister stretched out on his stomach and wriggled underneath the bed, snagging the twill of his wool jacket on the bedsprings in the process. With his cheek pressed against the tile he lay there for several moments in silence beside Tonuny. Then he began to speak qtfietly of the big wreath above the Communion table and the candles set in pine boughs in the window sills. He spoke of the Christmas carol that Tommy and the other children were going to sing. And when, finally, there was no more to be said, he simply waited there beside him.

As he waited, a small chilled hand slowly crept into his. "You know, Tommy," he said after a while, "it's kind of close quarters under here. Let's you and me go out where we can stand up." And slowly they did.

Since that story first appeared in its original form in Guideposts magazine several years ago, it's been a favourite of mine. It is a graphic reminder to us of how God, in His own unique way, has reached out to a troubled, alienated human race, at first from above and later from below.

God has called us from above. "The heavens are telling the glory of God' and the firmament proclaims His handiwork," the Psalmist tells us. (Ps. 19:1) The Apostle Paul echoes this thought when he points out that ever since the creation of the world (God's) invisible nature, namely His eternal power and deity, has been clearly perceived in the things that have been made." (Rom. 1:20)

It's been said that the stars are God's oldest testament What if they could speak? Would they not borrow the language of the poet?

"Gaze on that arch above;

The glittering vault admire.

Who taught those orbs to move?

Who lit their ceaseless fire?

"Who guides the moons to run

In silence through the sides?

Who bids the dawning sun

In strength and beauty rise?"

The answer that is called for is God, an omnipotent eternal God. The planetary hosts of heaven bear an unmistakable and untiring witness to Him.

But mankind has refused to listen to the Voice from above; so God drew closer. He sent emissaries, spokesmen. "In many and various ways God spoke of old to our fathers by the prophets" announces the opening verse of the Letter to the Hebrews. Warnings and rebukes left their bps like bullets spinning from a smoldering barrel. And though their aim was true, mankind ducked and remained hidden under the bed.

What followed was four hundred years of silence. Like the "voice blackout" that occurs when astronauts orbit the far side of the moon, for four centuries God's voice was not heard. He withheld communication to mankind.

But we must not interpret this as a sign that God has given up in reaching out to His children. The Voice from above was replaced by a voice from below. God stooped to earth, entered the dust and pain of our existence, and was willing to snag the robes of His royalty on the sharp places where we hide. And all at an incalculable cost.

This is what the mystery of the Incarnation, the mystery of the Word become flesh is all about and that God was willing to enter our loneliness and isolation, to coax us from it, and to rescue us from what caused it, all at great expense to Himself.

If Christmas is anything, it is an invitation to people everywhere, wherever they may be hiding, to stretch out their hand and take hold of God's loving hand, to come out from under the bed and join the party He has prepared for them.

The poet Walter Ridyard is right:

Christmas Day to Christians dear,

Happiest day of all the year,

Rejoice we all with one accord,

In worshipping our Infant Lord;

Son of God in helpless state,

The Son of Man, God Incarnate

Meanly housed in cattle stall,

Acclaimed by Angels,

Lord of all

Saviour of a fallen race.

"Divinely stooping to embrace

All and sundry, whosoever

Yield themselves to

Love's endeavour."

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