An AGO Christmas
Meditation
John Bishop
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the nave
Parents were hissing, “Sit still
and behave.
We won’t drag you back here again until Easter,
So quiet
your mouth and sit down on your keester.”
A boy in a shepherd suit fastens his sandals,
The ushers are
frantically handing out candles.
One says to the other, “I think this is crazy.
Each
Christmas we do this – our thinking is hazy.
This beautiful building’s a hundred years old.
We work all
year long doing just as we’re told
To take care of the place.
We treat it like gold.
“But one night a year we go out of our minds,
The people
walk in here – they’re fools of all kinds.
We give them a smile, our best Christmas cheer,
Then we
give them a torch – will it happen this year?
I’ve been saying in meetings that this has to stop,
We’re
asking for trouble, it’s over the top.
At least we should quit with the kids in the choir.
Just one of
them trips and we’ll have a big fire.”
A family arrives in a swirl of good cheer,
(it seems they
drink eggnog just once every year!)
The father resplendent in holiday dress,
(Plaid
pants, red carnation, an old green felt vest)
Comes through the front door and trips on the sill.
His wife
shoots a dagger – that look that could kill.
He spots an old friend across the big room,
Hasn’t seen
him since April (when Christ left the tomb).
He bellows a greeting in well-oiled voice.
The friend
only grunts ‘cause he’s not there by choice.
The Pastor enrobed is outwardly merry.
He’s proud
of himself, had just one glass of sherry.
The day’s been a long one – first show was at seven.
He’s
running on fumes now at ten ‘till eleven.
His mind is well filled with plans for the service,
But a
thought passes through that makes him feel nervous.
He remembers a box back at home in the attic,
He bought
it himself ‘cause his son’s a fanatic
For moving at speed.
So some time before six
His hands
will be bleeding. He’ll run out of
tricks.
A shiny new bike should be built before morning,
But he
wonders just what will go wrong without warning.
This job that he loves takes control of his life,
He yearns
for more quality time with his wife.
Each year at Christmas this problem gets worse.
His family
life shifts for two weeks to reverse.
The flower committee did it big time this year.
They
drafted their husbands who worked without fear
On ladders and stools with nails and hammerous,
Their wives
were so proud that it made them feel amorous.
Wreaths and fresh garlands stretched here, there, and far,
The whole thing
topped off by a fake natal star.
The organ façade was covered with greens,
And ribbons
and sparkles of various sheens.
It was tricky to fasten that stuff to the pipes,
“Just a few
little holes couldn’t hurt, holy cripes.”
The R.E. director lassoes the great crowd
Of donkeys
and angels and kings with heads bowed.
They huddle together and practice the script
And try not
to laugh when a shepherd gets tripped.
Joseph pipes up that his costume is ripped.
The organist sits by himself on the stair,
He cradles
his face in his hands in despair.
He wonders what force
dragged him in to this mess.
But he
knows deep inside that he has to confess
That part of the plan for this night was his work.
The love of
the pageant – a personal quirk.
It started last fall, in early September,
He had an
idea, a smoldering ember.
The staff went away for its planning retreat,
They sat by
the waves, hot sand under their feet.
Each one of them brainstormed when asked by the pastor,
The silly
ideas came faster and faster.
They developed a plan that they thought they could master.
Not one of
them saw it could cause a disaster.
Eleven o’clock, the hour appointed,
But we
can’t start yet – the crowd’s still disjointed.
The ushers encourage the folks to the pews,
“The wise
men are waiting and so are the ewes.
If we can’t get started we’ll never get finished,
The later
it gets, the more joy gets diminished.”
A ten past the hour the signal light blinks.
The prelude
is ended, the organist thinks
About how to arrive in the key of G major.
From where
he is now, this is all about danger.
But suddenly, somehow it happened like magic.
They came, all those faithful, and
nothing was tragic.
An improvised intro that sounded just glorious,
Including a
hint of a descant notorious.
The choir appeared in the aisle like a vision
With nary a
hint of rehearsal derision.
The chorus of creatures in costumes a-flowing
Were
following suit, their faces were glowing.
The last verse with harmonies rich and appealing
Concluded –
the church was in silence revealing
A beautiful scene – a well honed tableau,
Outside, in
the dark, it started to snow.
A moment of silence, and then invocation,
A reading,
an anthem, a psalm incantation.
A carol, and then the Luke-based Christmas sermon,
Not even
the littlest donkey was squirmin’.
The pageant was next – parents’ eyes starting tearing.
The kids
DID speak up, so the people were hearing
The young tuneful voices with words full of meaning
While
camels and oxen and sheep sat there preening.
One kid whispered, “Mommy, it’s not even boring.”
There was
no other sound save the green vest man’s snoring.
At the end of the story the lights were turned down.
And a
pretty young angel in flowing white gown
Lit a candle. And
under the gaze of that usher,
All candles
were lit, and the hush became husher.
A shimmering sound from enclosed Unda Maris,
A note from
the chimes, and the prayerful parish
Began to sing quietly, then gradually swelling
Silent Night, Holy Night, the old story
retelling.
We work all year long, down in the trenches,
Sometimes
it seems the gears fill up with wrenches.
Holiday times can bring out great frustration
But you
shouldn’t forget that all through the nation
Your colleagues are sharing the work of the season.
The
planning. The practice. Remember the reason.
Your talents have been freely given as gifts;
In order to
hone them, you work double shifts.
Then freely and humbly you offer them back
To the
folks in your church. So stay on the
track.
Keep up your strength, keep your eye on the prize,
And give to
the parish a Christmas surprise.
Come Rutter, come Willcocks, come Benjamin Britten
Composers of carols with which we
are smitten.
Come T. Tertius Noble, come William Matthias,
Come
writers of music that’s stirring and pious.
There’s no better way to adore Virgin Mary
Than with music
by Bach and C. Hubert H. Parry.
The service is ended, the candles are snuffed,
The fear of
a fire once more is rebuffed.
The blower is off now, the costumes are shed,
The angels
and donkeys and cows are in bed.
The choir room table is covered with piles
Of music
that brought all those holiday smiles.
The pastor’s son’s bike gleams bright in the hall,
And finally
the parking lot’s closed at the mall.
The man with the funny green vest is in bed
While
visions of sugarplums dance in his head!
The AGO member now turns off the light,
“Merry
Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”
