Born Afresh in a barn for a Stable

To be sure, there is much for which to be grateful in a Christmas-time centered around the farm instead of the church’s activities.  We cleaned the house at a leisurely pace in anticipation of family time together instead of making sure the candles and correct bulletins were laid out for the congregation’s time together.  We double-checked recipe notes for the evening meal rather than sermon notes for the service.  We walked around the snow-covered field looking for animal tracks instead of circling through the sanctuary looking for miscellaneous trash and liturgical detritus otherwise out of place.  There was no anxiety about time constraints, no wistful apprehension about the size of the crowd, no nervousness about “how it all would go.”

The kids arrived, we honored, deepened and massaged well-established traditions, we loaded into the car for the trip into town and then loaded into a common pew from which to hear the readings and sing the carols, and then returned home to share the gifts we had to give -- chief among them the sentiments, the considerations, and the hours in each others’ keeping.  We hugged, thanked, voiced our love, and bade goodnight -- full in more ways than one.

But one thing was lost in this vocational transition.

In that previous life, the exclamation point of Christmas Eve -- quietly but movingly punctuating the evening’s long and celebratory sentence -- was the 11 pm service.  Each year, after the kinetic and frenetic grandeur of the early service with its choirs and crowds and children, after family time with kids, Lori and I would bundle back up and return to the church for the night’s quieter conclusion.  

Always an intimate gathering, we never knew who to expect; typically it was a small cluster of strangers huddled in from the neighborhood, along with a Mom or a Dad weary of assembling toys.  A few dozen at the most.  And having dismissed the rest of the staff to their families, the two of us would alternate the readings, harmonize the carols, and wink with love across the chancel.  Candlelight would be shared, Silent Night would be sung, a hushed “Merry Christmas” would be exchanged, and then, the last to leave, we would turn out the lights, lock the doors, and cross the emptied parking lot from which we would drive into Christmas morning.

We loved those services; treasured those quietly simple, spiritually and maritally precious moments.  And we miss them -- all the commensurate joys of Taproot Garden notwithstanding.

And so we had an idea.  

Last night, after church time with the family, after mealtime and gift time and all the joy of Christmas Eve tradition -- after we were once again alone -- just before midnight we shivered across the driveway to the barn, just the two of us, turned on the heater, plugged in the Christmas tree lights and nativity scene, and with hymnals in hand called ourselves to worship.  We remembered the Divine’s intention, we read the prophets’ expectation and the angel’s annunciation, we dueted the carols of the season and, having already shared with the larger congregation bread and wine, considered the other ways we had communed with Holiness throughout the day.  

We weren't, of course, truly alone.  We were circled by the memories of loved ones lost and deep gratitude for loved ones near.  We were fed by traditions that had shaped us, and in note and word and flame and story were, in the twinkling silence that followed benediction, palpably aware of the Word-made-flesh among us -- the light the darkness can't overcome.  

And with a tear in our eyes, we turned off the lights, locked the door, and gratefully, mindfully, reverently, and happily crossed the snowy driveway into Christmas.