Across the Pastor’s Desk by Daphne Hamborg

When I was young, my home church held two family Christmas Eve services. One was at 4 p.m. and the other was at 5 p.m. The services announced Jesus’ birth, of course — but the focus was a live nativity with a set of parents and a new, tiny baby settled within a wooden stable, among the hay bales.

What’s more, a surprising triple row of boards ran the entire length of the front of the scene, with holes drilled all along the boards to hold tall, white tapered candles. The scene held great and inspiring beauty.

For my family, the Christmas Eve service formed a prelude to Christmas Eve and Christmas Day celebrations with family. We ate lefse, lutefisk and meatballs on Christmas Eve and ham or turkey on Christmas Day. Time with cousins. Laughter and warmth. And, of course, most importantly at that time, presents.

But amidst these memories, I have another sort of memory, as well. Beauty filled the worship service: candles, trees, Christmas carols and stories about Jesus and angels and shepherds. Even when a child, I was filled with beauty, wonder, familiar contentment, and I wanted to carry a candle out into the darkness.

Each family exited the sanctuary by the front rather than the back. Everyone walked past the manger scene, viewing the tiny baby (who might have been sleeping or who might have been crying unhappily.) As we made our way, each family was given one of the tall tapered candles, lit, to take home. It was at this moment, when we were to be deeply devotional, that my brother and I would fall into a fierce, whispered battle about who would get to carry the candle out into the cold, dark air. I assumed that, as the oldest, the privilege should always be mine. My brother’s arguments about sharing were persuasive, however, so my parents saw to it that we alternated years.

With the long nights of late December, we could not leave even the 4 p.m. service without entering the darkness outside. Usually the wind was up, blowing intensely. I remember one year in particular — although it was probably not much different from any of the others — and I remember stepping out into a wind that whipped wildly. The candle, in those first few seconds, came perilously close to blowing out. I cupped my mittened hand around the weak, tiny flame, and watched it flicker to life. The flame was small, but it burned with confidence.

The baby came to Earth as a weak flame. He could easily have perished in the bitter winds that blew. The air was cold and dark. But his parents stood protectively, already loving this child — not yet because he was the Savior, but because he was theirs. Eventually he would become the world’s, but in the first hours of that night he was simply theirs.

And then, as in countless Christmas services, the announcers and the viewers appeared. Angels sang songs filled with the word “glory.” Shepherds edged into the scene, both bewildered and awe-struck. Eventually, magi (the wisemen, the three kings) arrived, bringing three gifts: gold for a king, frankincense for a god, and myrrh for a death. Christmas held Easter even as Easter holds Christmas.

But everything began with that lovely and remarkable night, when a tiny brightness was born. It would grow and it would fulfill its destiny. It would destroy every darkness. It would fill the world completely with its glowing power and light.

 

The Rev. Daphne Hamborg is pastor at Bear Lake Concordia Lutheran Church in Albert Lea and St. Paul Evangelical Lutheran Parish in Conger.