Phillips Brooks was born in Boston on December 13, 1835. One of six sons, he was born into some privilege as far as wealth was concerned. But the greater wealth in his family was a deep and abiding faith in the Lord. Six sons were born to the Brooks family and four of them, including Philip, went into the ministry.

         At the age of 15, young Phillips entered Harvard College. This was a time when Harvard was a theological school, not anything like the school of today. Upon graduation from Harvard, he enrolled in the Virginia Theological Seminary in Alexandria, Virginia. For the first time in his life, he came face to face with slavery. Growing up and at Harvard, slavery was known of, but it was an abstract. But there in Virginia it became a huge burden on his soul. He graduated in 1859 with a Doctor of Divinity degree (which at the time was very respected) and he began to preach as opportunity offered. In 1862 he became the pastor of the Church of the Holy Trinity in Philadelphia. He had become such an outspoken enemy of slavery and such a dynamic preacher (at a time when sermons ran about an hour and a half on average) that, at the young age of 27, was already known throughout the country. His sermons were published in newspapers everywhere. Take a moment to think about that. Someone had to write the entire sermon down and then take it to the telegraph office. There, the telegraph operator had to send it out by Morris Code, word for word to telegraph offices all across the land, even into the South. On the receiving end another operator had to decipher the code, word for word, and write it down. Then it was taken to the newspaper where the type was set by hand and the newspaper was printed, including the sermon. So hungry were people for God’s Word. Now, when technology has made world wide access to any given preacher an instantaneous thing, very few listen.

         At any rate, given his position in Philadelphia, the President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, made it a practice to ask Brooks to board a train and come to the capital and give the President Spiritual advice and comfort. It was said that Lincoln liked Brooks because, since the preacher stood six foot four, he could look the President in the eye. Lincoln instinctively liked Brooks and relied on him as his Spiritual advisor. As the story goes, Brooks was sitting up with Lincoln late into the evening as the Civil War was drawing to a close, and it was that night that Brooks led the President to accept Christ as Savior. When Lincoln was killed, it was Brooks who led the State funeral for the fallen President in Washington DC.

         Brooks was not yet thirty years old, but he was famous all across America. He was a great bear of a man and the picture of health. But he had been so involved with ministry in a truly dynamic way that in 1865 he was tired. Still mourning the death of the President, whom he considered a great man in his own right and also a great friend, his congregation implored him to take a year and travel abroad. It sounds odd to us now, but then it was quite common. Most people in that situation would opt to go to Europe. Brooks, however, wanted to go to the Holy Land. Most of his year would be spent aboard ship but, again, this was not unusual for the time. He wrote at that time that all he had ever hoped to be was a pastor of a church. Now, wonder of wonders, he would have the opportunity to walk the paths of Jesus.

         This became his goal, to walk the places Jesus had walked. December 24, 1865 found him in the small town of Bethlehem. At midnight the bells of the small Christian churches in the town began to ring out. He was standing outside of the Church of the Nativity and he listened. He wrote a letter to his congregation and told them that he closed his eyes and could imagine all of them together the previous Christmas Eve. In his mind, the bells in Bethlehem were playing out the glorious songs he had grown up with that had lifted his spirit as a child and had directed him toward Christ. A legend has engulfed Brooks by religious writers, much as it does for Roman Catholic ‘saints.’ It has been written that he conducted the worship service that night at the Church of the Nativity, actually standing in the cave that they hold to be the birth place. But his fame did not stretch that far and the Church of the Nativity is a Roman Catholic church. Brooks was not Roman Catholic, therefore he would not be permitted. In fact, it was his position as an Episcopal minister, and therefore, a minister of the Church of England, that prompted him to stand outside. I find it interesting and inspiring that on that holy night in Bethlehem, at midnight, his thoughts were with his beloved congregation.

         In time his year abroad was up. He returned to a church that welcomed him with much fanfare and he returned to a country that was healing. He had returned home.

         Brooks contemplated marriage, but never married. As the stirrings of his calling began to rise up within him, he had felt that he would be too busy as an itinerant preacher to be able to spend time with his wife. When he actually became a nationally known minister rather than a ‘lowly’ itinerant, he realized that he really wouldn’t have the time to be fair to a wife. And yet, he loved children. While at the church in Philadelphia he even taught a Sunday School class. It was to this class of children that he wrote a poem in 1867 to try and convey his wonder and the depth of feeling he had that night in Bethlehem. A man who had helped to hold the country together Spiritually, who had prayed with a President, who was known nationwide and had walked the path of Jesus, wrote these words for the children; 

1.    O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

2.    For Christ is born of Mary, and gathered all above,
While mortals sleep, the angels keep their watch of wond’ring love.
O morning stars, together proclaim the holy birth,
And praises sing to God the King, and peace to men on earth!

3.    How silently, how silently, the wondrous Gift is giv’n;
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His Heav’n.
No ear may hear His coming, but in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive Him still, the dear Christ enters in.

4.    Where children pure and happy pray to the blessed Child,
Where misery cries out to Thee, Son of the mother mild;
Where charity stands watching and faith holds wide the door,
The dark night wakes, the glory breaks, and Christmas comes once more.

5.    O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin, and enter in, be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels the great glad tidings tell;
Oh, come to us, abide with us, our Lord Emmanuel!

   Phillips Brooks was removed as a pastor and was made a Bishop of the Episcopal church at the age of 56, quite young for such an honor. He was installed as Bishop of the Boston area, which was his hometown. But perhaps because he was no longer doing what he loved to do, that is, pastoring, he passed away seven months later. There is, however, an enduring legacy. It may be that you have whispered the song “O Little Town of Bethlehem” to your child to relax them as Christmas nears, or in church looked over at your child with love as the congregation sings out the words to the great song. That’s OK. It was written for children by one of America’s greatest men of God.   

             The idea for this series of blog articles actually came to me a year ago. In conversation with someone, I pointed out that other holidays, such as Easter and Thanksgiving, have very little in the way of music when compared to Christmas. You don’t go into Wal-Mart a month and a half before Easter and hear nothing but Easter music. Other than “Here Comes Peter Cottentail” there is not much in the popular secular music category related to Easter and the sacred music for Easter is mostly slow and dirge-like. You can only play “He Lives!” and “Up From the Grave He Arose” so often. I told my companion that it hardly seemed right that Christmas had dozens of songs. She replied that I would think that, being Scrooge’s first cousin, but Christmas was the peaceful feeling holiday, and much of the music reflected that. I vaguely resented being called Scrooge’s first cousin. I had always thought of him as a brother by a different mother. However, I really began to think of the music itself and decided to look into it. So, for the next few weeks, and hopefully twice each week, we will look into different Christmas songs.

          To that end, a couple of weeks ago I put out over our church’s prayer chain, a request for favorite songs. I expected in the replies at least twenty for “Silent Night.” I was surprised when the old standard only received two votes. Two! No Christmas Eve service can end without “Silent Night,” but it is not the favorite Christmas hymn. For that honor, there was a tie between “Joy to the World!” and “O! Holy Night.” Somewhat interesting. A song that surprised me because of the numbers it received was “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.” Another interesting choice. In any church you could go the entire Advent season and not sing that song and no one would blink an eye. And yet, there are quite a few who consider it a favorite. And, since it is my favorite Christmas song, we will begin this series with “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.”

          It began as a poem written by Henry W. Longfellow called “Christmas Bells.” Longfellow was perhaps America’s best known poet. Personally, I prefer Robert Frost, but I actually remember him. And he wrote the poem that I often think of as my life path. But Longfellow always seemed as though he had come from ancient times. We had an English teacher who insisted we memorize some of his poetry. If we could have just read it, that would have been fine. But we had to memorize!

          One year in seminary, as Christmas neared, one of our professors assigned us various Christmas songs to do backstories on. He had a long list and was assigning a song to each student. I desperately wanted “Silent Night” because I knew the backstory already, but I drew “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” instead. AGH! Longfellow! But since I had this notion I might one day want to graduate, I took the assignment with a smile.

          Once I got into it, I was fascinated.

          Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine in 1807. He grew up with a love of country that was, at that time, a hallmark of New Englanders. His first wife died during a miscarriage and he then married his beloved Frances after a pursuit that took years. Fanny, as she was known, was so loved by Longfellow that he once said that the only thing he loved more than country, was Frances. For the first 20 odd years of his adult life he taught at a college level and wrote poetry on the side. Eventually, in 1854, he retired from teaching to concentrate on writing and spending time with Fanny.

          It is said that as the war clouds preceding the Civil War came, he went into a depression. His country, that he loved intently, was tearing itself apart. Frances despaired over her husband’s anguish. She would drag him off to various entertainments, hoping music and laughter would revive his spirit, but to no avail. Finally, in April of 1861, war actually came. His sadness was profound.

          On July 9, 1861, Fanny was putting locks of her children’s hair in envelopes and sealing the envelopes with hot wax. (I didn’t know about this practice, but I guess it was pretty common.) The fashion at the time was for women to wear the large hooped skirts that we see in pictures of the time. These were known as crinoline skirts and were all puffy and lacey and frilly. They were made in such a way as to disguise a woman’s form and thus keep men from lusting after them. (I kid you not.) It was the Victorian era, after all, and New England women were largely influenced in fashion by what was worn in London and Paris. Under these dresses a woman wore a tight corset that she had to be tied into, and then she was tied into the dress. The dresses were made frilly by the use of certain chemicals, including arsenic, that made the cotton very light. The problem of these dresses was that some women died from arsenic poisoning and, because the chemicals made the dresses so flammable, many died when the dress caught fire and it couldn’t be removed fast enough. These things were worn as everyday dresses in New England. In one year over 3,000 women died in dress fires!

          Fanny was thus attired, and as she was melting wax for the envelopes, her dress caught fire. Longfellow, hearing her screams, rushed into the room. She was already on the floor, totally engulfed in flame. He threw a small rug over her, but it wasn’t big enough. So he covered her body with his, beating the flames out with his hands. She was horribly burned and died the next day. Longfellow’s own burns were extensive. He was in bed for a long time, even unable to go to his wife’s funeral. His hands were disfigured and he had burn scars all over the front of his body. His face was so burned that he eventually grew a scraggly beard to cover the scars. Already in the grip of depression, he sank even lower.

          Then, his oldest son, Charles, informed him that he was joining the Union Army. Longfellow forbade it, but the young man joined anyway. In late 1863, Longfellow received word that Charles had been mortally wounded in battle and was being moved to a military hospital in Washington DC to die. Longfellow journeyed by train to the Capital. There he found his son would most likely live, but the injury was quite bad and required a long recovery period. Now, completely covered in grief and sorrow, he determined that life was not worth living. When he went to bed on Christmas Eve, he was determined that it would be his last night on earth. He would die by his own hand on Christmas.

          As the first rays of light graced the sky on Christmas morning, the city’s church bells began to ring. Lying there in his bed, he listened, and then went and opened the windows to hear better. The Confederate Army of Northern Virginia had invaded the North that year, getting very close to Washington DC before being beaten at Gettysburg. People were scared, people were losing hope. But there, on Christmas morning, the bells announced, once again, the birth of the Savior. Using his crippled hands as best he could, he wrote the words to the song we know now. As a poem, it had seven stanzas. Eight years later, when it was put to music by Jean Baptiste Calkin, Calkin shortened it to five. He considered the other two as to be too dark for Christmas. These are the words to the poem, “Christmas Bells.” I will put the stanzas Calkin took out in italics. Think, as you read, how the realization of Christ was like food and drink to someone who was starving.

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The Carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
    And made forlorn
    The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
‘For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!’

            The magnificent story of our Savior brings peace even into the most troubled soul.

          When I was growing up, we were very poor. It was a while before I realized that, though. We weren’t ever really hungry. We ate a lot of fish and squirrel and rabbit and, on occasion, raccoon. (I do not recommend the coon) We also ate pig’s brains and pig’s feet and chitlins. Chicken gizzards were a favorite. I always wondered why I didn’t get the cool toys the other kids got for Christmas, but my mother would explain that I was probably not good enough. This had the dual effect of making me try really hard to be good every year and also to despise Santa.

We farmed and my father also worked at a factory. Every year my father’s work gave everyone a turkey at Thanksgiving and a ham at Christmas. (I get sick when I eat pork now, but not so much then, and I loved ham.) We ate well at the holidays.

Until the year came when my father’s factory was on strike for October, November and December. Our huge garden did not do well that year, nor did the crops. Living paycheck to paycheck, there was no money to carry us through those months. Our parents set us all down one night and explained the situation. No special meals and no presents for Christmas. Being a child who enjoyed a good meal (really enjoyed) I was more upset at the prospect of no turkey or ham. Having wild game every night gets old, and it got more and more scarce when the snow started. I honestly didn’t care about the gifts so much. I wanted the feeling that only comes when you can feast.

As Thanksgiving neared my mother was able to secure a small, whole chicken. Once she was done, she assured me, I wouldn’t know the difference between it and turkey. I was not comforted. Chicken was great on Sunday afternoon, but not for a holiday.

I was a child and didn’t understand and I could not hide my disappointment. I had heard a little bit about God and how He could provide, but that year it was like my feeling about Santa. We were just being ignored.

Two days before Thanksgiving my uncle and aunt walked in. Uncle Bert was carrying the biggest turkey I had ever seen and Aunt Evie was carrying a paper shopping bag filled with all the things that go with a Thanksgiving meal. She had my sisters go out to their car and bring in the two pumpkin pies from the backseat. My mother stood there and sobbed and even my father had tears in his eyes. Thanksgiving was saved! Later, at Christmas, a local church did the same thing. No ham, but another turkey, which was fine with me since I like turkey better. Christmas was saved!

Since I have been alone, I always get invited to eat with someone at the holidays. I always turn it down. No offence is intended. It is just now, in my solitude, I can really focus on my gratefulness. It isn’t that I feel I can’t be grateful with other people. It is just there is a need in me to be alone with my Lord. No football or basketball, no ‘touching, heartfelt movies,’ just… well, ‘be still and know that I am Lord.’

With the help of Bob Evans, I will have my turkey. I look forward to it. In Bible days, you let your honored quests eat first. I will do that and eat whatever the Lord leaves behind. It always works out great like that.

Happy Thanksgiving to all!