Final blog of 2023. Wow. So much going on in my mind. How does one sum up an entire year?

2023 has been vastly different from every other year. Started the year in the hospital. Have been sicker than at any other time in my life. Came to realize that the path God placed me on back in 1973 can actually have an end. Had to leave my church family and dear friends. 2023 has not been easy. 

But I have never been one to look back, even when the year was incredible. If it was a very, very good year (and there have been a number of those), it belonged to God. If it was a not so good year (and there have been a few of those), it belonged to God. That is the thing about walking the path God has laid before you; it is all His. No room for pats on the back, no room for despair. So, you don't look back.

You look forward!

Each one of you are facing change. Family changes, church changes, personal changes. 2024 holds so much uncertainty, yet so much promise. It is pretty much a given that 2024 will not end as we all imagined it would end. Now, if we are walking the path the Lord has laid out for us, we should be filled with anticipation, not dread as we look forward! 

I started 2023 in the hospital in more pain than I would have thought possible. My spinal cord had swollen inside my spine due to the arthritis spurs inside my spine. It was like every nerve in my body was on fire. I end 2023 feeling better than I have in years. I started 2023 pastoring a church family I loved more than my blood family. I end 2023 at loose ends, wondering if I will ever step into a pulpit again. It is all unpredictable.

But it is all in His hands. That is why I look to 2024 with joy! This is going to be so neat! And next year, when I look back to 2024 and see what kind of year it was, I will be content because I walked the path He set before me.

Blessings can be found even in the dark of pain and uncertainty. My prayer for you this day and throughout 2024 is to find God's blessings all along the way. 

   

 

          Issac Watts was a British minister and sometime hymn writer. He served in the early 1700s and dealt with the majestic yet dull music of the day. He wanted to make music more vibrant and soul stirring, but the powers that be within his belief system were pretty well locked into the old, clunky music. So, he toiled away at his calling and jotted down poems and songs.

        One day when he was deep in the Word, he read Psalm 98 and he was inspired. It was as though the Holy Spirit took control of his mind and crafted a poem that did justice to the Psalm. When you read the Psalm next to the poem, you can see some similarities, but the poem is different in that it incorporates elements from the New Testament. When had finished the poem, Issac was very pleased, but when he began to add the music, he was hinderd by the norms of the day. The great poem/song was stalled and would languish for over a century. 

        In 1848, an American composer by the name of Lowell Mason was going through old poems and songs, looking for inspiration. He came across Issac's old song and was immediately taken in by it. The whole of the Gospel was there, and Mason determined to write music that was suitable to such moving words. And this he did.

        When I asked for favorite hymns, this was the hands down winner, which surprised me. This song is more than a Christmas song. This is the story of Jesus and the Gospel. I would start every Advent with this song and end each Advent season with this song. The message pulls at the heart of the Christian. The first verse is, indeed, about the birth, but then the rest of the song speaks more about who He is, rather than Bethlehem and Mary and all of it. 

        It may not be the most beautiful hymn, nor the most majestic. But it never, ever fails to excite me. From a frustrated minister to an inspired composer 129 years later to our Christmas celebrations now, the words and music lift our spirits!

1.   Joy to the world, the Lord is come!
Let earth receive her King;
Let every heart prepare Him room,
And heav’n and nature sing,
And heav’n and nature sing,
And heav’n, and heav’n, and nature sing.

2.   Joy to the earth, the Savior reigns!
Let men their songs employ;
While fields and floods, rocks, hills, and plains
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat, repeat, the sounding joy.

3.   No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as, the curse is found.

4. He rules the world with truth and grace,
   And makes the nations prove
   The glories of His righteousness,
   And wonders of His love,
   And wonders of His love,
   And wonders, wonders, of His love.

         Thank you for making this trip with me. May you all have a very merry Christmas and an awesome 2024!

 Of all the things I have ever written, I think the following was my favorite thing. The church had passed through the pandemic year pretty well, but in 2020 and 2021 we had suffered some very hard deaths and there were others who were ill. It had been a tough two years. Now, as Christmas neared, we had nothing special to present to the congregation. Then, one morning I awoke very early with an idea. I went to the computer and in three hours I had written a little program for our little choir. Nothing hard, but something we could handle. Even though I had slept but two hours, I felt good and even renewed.

The music would be the old standards, but the narration would go along with the songs. We could do it!

And so we did. Imagine ten or twelve people who did not sing together often, but on this special day they gathered at the front of the church. Our musician was ready, our singers were in fine voice (Well, most of them, anyway. Those who were struggling know who you are!) And our narrator was well prepared. This was God's gift to me and the choir was poised to give a gift to God. Perhaps you were there, perhaps not, but here is the Christmas program from 2021 as given in the middle of the night to an old preacher who would see only one more Christmas as an active pastor. 

Read the narration and then sing the songs in your mind.

Merry Christmas!

                                       Christine's Christmas 

Christine was eight years old and very grown up, at least in her mind. Christmas was coming and she was excited, but she was trying her very best to hold the excitement down. Not her stupid brother, though. He was ten, so he should be acting older, but there he was, looking on-line at all the new toys and deciding he wanted this and that. There was no way Santa could bring all that. Her brother was just stupid.

Still, the excitement gripped her, too. She had been on-line and had already messaged her list to Santa. It wasn’t too much. The sleigh was pretty large. It would all fit nicely and not put Santa out.

The house was all decorated and the tree was up! Daddy had put up the outside lights just in time, for snow was starting to fall. She looked out the window and thought how beautiful their house would look once it was dark and the lights came on!

It was exciting! So, how was a grown up eight year old girl supposed to wait three weeks?

Everything was exactly right, except Mommy was not playing Christmas music. No ‘Jingle Bells’ and no ‘White Christmas.’ Nothing like that. Mommy and Daddy were both different this year. Not ‘bad’ different. They were smiling more and seemed calmer. They had bought this thing with little toy people and a donkey and some sheep. All the people and all the animals were turned and looking at this little holder that had a little tiny toy baby in it. When they had taken it out of the box, they had been very quiet, but they had looks on their faces that Christine wondered about. Little smiles, knowing glances to one another. Little things like that Christine didn’t really understand. One morning early she had turned the people so that the men were facing each other like they were talking. That seemed more normal. Mommy didn’t seem to like that and she turned all of them back to that little toy baby. Christine, being pretty grown up for eight, decided that it was best to leave it alone. It seemed nice and it seemed to make her parents happy, so it was good.

But no Christmas music. What was up with that?

Mommy was playing music, of some kind. Kind of sounded like the stuff at church. Just after school had started, they had started going to a church. Christine didn’t really care for it. Boring! But she was pretty grown up, so she sat there and endured. Her stupid brother had been pretty rude at first, falling asleep when the man got up to talk, but for the last little bit he had been better. Mommy said that he had a great Sunday School teacher. Christine’s teacher was even more boring that the man who got up to talk. But they had this music that was OK, but different. And now that Christmas was coming, the music was really different.

Christine decided she would talk to Mommy about the music, so she went into the bedroom where Mommy was cleaning.

“Mommy, aren’t we going to have Christmas music this year?”

“This is Christmas music, Chrissy. It is just different from what you are used too.”

“I just don’t get it, Mommy.”

Christine’s mother looked around a little nervously. Then she went over and picked up a little book. She sat down on the bed and patted the place next to her, letting Christine know she could come and sit with her.

“This book came with the music we are hearing and it explains the songs. Let’s start at the beginning and listen to the music and then see what the song is all about.”

The first song was called, “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus.” (Choir sings the song.)

When it was over, Mommy read the story in the book. It was an old song, almost three hundred years old! The music sounded funny and the words didn’t make much sense, but Mommy explained that Jesus had been expected for a very, very long time and His people would be looking to Him to save them.

“In fact, in our new Nativity set, that’s the thing where you turned the men around to talk to each other,” Mommy made a stern face and Christine blushed. Then Mommy went on with a smile, “the little baby is Jesus.” Christine was confused. “But there are animals there!” “Yes, sweetie, Jesus was born in a barn.” “If they expected Him, why was He born in a barn?”

“Well, Chrissy, the world really didn’t want Jesus to come right then. They were living lives that God wasn’t happy with and they figured Jesus would make them stop. They expected Him, but they really didn’t want Him.” Here is the next song.

Mommy hit PLAY and the next song started. It was called “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” It was an old song, too, but not as old as the other one. Christine understood it better. (Choir now sings this song.)

“OK, this Jesus was born in some little town with a funny name and He was born in a barn. They must’ve really not liked the little guy.” Mommy laughed out loud at Jesus being called a little guy. “Well, Jesus was going to be born kind of in secret. He was God’s Son, but he wanted to be known first to regular people.”

Christine was startled. “God’s Son??? Everyone in the world should have been there!” Mommy smiled. “You would think so. But it was just His mother and father, Mary and Joseph, and some shepherds there.” “Shepherds? What is a shepherd?” “Oh, that is someone who watches the sheep in the field and takes care of them.” “That’s silly! Why would those guys be there?” Mommy smile again. It seemed Mommy was smiling a lot these days. “Let’s listen to the next song. It’s about the shepherds. It is called “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks.” (The choir sings this song.)

“Mommy, how were the shepherds dressed? If they were out in the field with a bunch of sheep all the time, they had to be wearing some old, ragged clothes.” Mommy nodded her head. “I have that picture in my mind, too. I bet they even smelled worse than your uncle Bill when he gets home from work!” Christine made a face. Uncle Bill had lived with them for a while. Mommy laughed at the face, but Christine was serious.

“But Mommy, on that toy set of people and animals you have next to the tree, there are three men who look like they are dressed really good. Who are they?” “Those are the Wise men who came from a land far, far away. They weren’t actually there for the birth of Jesus, but they got there eventually. They are usually included to show that Jesus was sent by God for the poorest of the poor and for the richest of the rich. They brought very valuable gifts. Sometimes they are referred to as kings. The next song is called “We Three Kings.” (Brian, Ed and Jim sing.)

Christine looked at her mother and said, “I haven’t heard that one before.” Mommy sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “Well, to be honest, I don’t really like how that one sounds, so I took it off my play list.” “Thank you, Mommy!”

“Thinking about babies always makes me happy!” Christine was your typical grown up eight year old girl. Mommy chuckled. “Yes, me too. But there were two people who were worried. The Mom and Dad, Mary and Joseph. An angel first came to Mary and told her that she was going to give birth to God’s Son. She went and told Joseph, who she was engaged to, and he didn’t believe her. They were just common people! Why would God choose them? And it was the wrong time! They knew that that their leaders didn’t Jesus born yet. They were afraid they would lose their jobs. But then, the angel came and told Joseph the good news, too. Now they were in a barn because there was no room for them anywhere else. Stinky shepherds were there and animals and who knows what else? No, Mary and Joseph had to be a little scared. But they could think back to the angel who came to them. That was real. The Bible doesn’t tell us much about Joseph, but this next song kind of tells about Mary and the Baby. (The choir sings “What Child is This?”)

“That is a really good story, Mommy, but it was a long, long time ago. Who is it important to now?” “Well, it is important to me and to Daddy and to millions and millions of others. In fact, the story has change the way your Daddy and I see things now. And it has helped people for all these years. In fact, there is a song in here that was written by a famous American writer. He was depressed and really sad and he was going to kill himself right on Christmas Day!” Christine jerked back in surprise and shock. “That’s right. He was so sad! But on Christmas morning, as he laid in bed thinking of how best to end his life, he heard a church close by playing their bells that played out these very songs. He listened a long while, and he was so moved that he changed his mind about killing himself. Do you want to hear that song?” Christine, fascinated, nodded her head. (Choir sings “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,”)

Mommy was surprised to see that her little girl had tears in her eyes. “Honey, would you like me to tell you the story of Jesus and how He gave His life for us. Little Christine could only nod her head. And right there, on the bed, Mommy told her daughter about Jesus. And right there, on the bed, Christine took Jesus as he Savior.

When Christine went back into the living room, it had gotten dark outside. Someone, probably her brother (she didn’t even think of him as stupid), had plugged the tree in. She looked down at the Nativity Set and smiled at the reflections of the different colored lights on the characters. But on Jesus, one of the white lights seemed to be shining right on Him.

Just then there was the sound of singing coming from outside. Christine grabbed her coat and ran out to the porch. There, walking down the sidewalk in the softly falling snow, came a group of people singing. They had just finished one of the songs that she and Mommy had just heard and were starting a new one. “Joy to the World!” (Choir sings this song as they exit out of the sanctuary and sing as they walk down the hall.) Yes! Christine lifted her arms as the group walked off in the snow. Joy to the World! 

 

          The mid 1860s must have been quite a time for music in Heaven. First, we see Henry W. Longfellow awakening to the sounds of Christmas bells on Christmas morning in 1863. Then we see Phillips Brooks standing outside the Church of the Nativity on Christmas Eve of 1865 and listening to the bells ring in Bethlehem. Great men having great thoughts. But the common man was also moved by the holiness of the season. So it is that we find a 29 year old maritime insurance executive in Glasgow, Scotland named William Chatterton Dix. It is 1865. He is lying in his bed, sick, as they say, unto death. Not particularly religious, it is this near death experience that brings him to the Lord. For the rest of his life, he writes poems and prose and songs lifting up Jesus while maintaining his secular career. He is one of the drivers behind a revival within the Church of England. Not specifically trained as a writer, his poems and songs are considered amateurish to the elevated writers of the day, but his words connect with the common man in a way others cannot.

          In the 1860s, Great Britain was ruled by Queen Victoria. The country was a somber place at that time, mostly because the Queen was somber. Great advances were made, largely due to the colonies abroad. In all of this the Roman Catholics were put down and, in some cases, imprisoned. Victoria was much loved, but the rest of the government was harsh. Hymns and religious poetry and writings reflected this crushing attitude. Into this came Dix, with his lighthearted writing and his hopeful poetry.

          He saw hypocrisy in the Church of England and he banded together with other believers to give an alternative. So inspired was he by his own recovery that he could hardly contain himself, causing many to see hope rather than despair.

          As he emerged from his illness, and with the newness and excitement of his salvation, he began to write. And write. And write. Poetry. Prose. He wrote words for songs and played them in his head using popular tunes of the day. One of the great criticisms of his work was that some of the melodies were little more than drinking songs or had lewd words in them. Dix didn’t care. So intent was he to produce new works, and not really being a musician himself, he helped himself to the melodies mostly heard in the pubs. His new words raised Jesus high and the people began to sing the new songs.

          The churches in the cities mostly stayed with what they considered traditional music, but the churches in the countryside, many of which had only hand instruments, eagerly embraced the new music. Dix was not the only one doing the composing, but it was he who hit on probably the best of the new music.

          By 1871 the Church of England could no longer stem the tide of revivalism that gripped the country. Dix had not yet published any of his songs, but now the Church asked him to contribute to a new songbook called Christmas Carols Old and New. And here was published for the first time, these words;

 

What Child is this who, laid to rest,
On Mary’s lap is sleeping?
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet,
While shepherds watch are keeping?
This, this is Christ the King,
Whom shepherds guard and angels sing;
Haste, haste to bring Him laud,
The Babe, the Son of Mary.

Why lies He in such mean estate,
Where ox and ass are feeding?
Good Christians, fear, for sinners here
The silent Word is pleading.
Nails, spear shall pierce Him through,
The cross be borne for me, for you;
Hail, hail the Word made flesh,
The Babe, the Son of Mary.

 

So bring Him incense, gold, and myrrh,
Come peasant, king to own Him;
The King of kings salvation brings,
Let loving hearts enthrone Him.
Raise, raise a song on high,
The virgin sings her lullaby;
Joy, joy for Christ is born,
The Babe, the Son of Mary.

 

         A far cry from the heavy and cumbersome songs of the day. Most thought this new music would pass away. But the simplicity of the song, the earnest wonder of a new Christian and the desire to Raise, raise a song on high, makes “What Child is This?” one of the great songs of the season. 

This has been a long week, and sometimes you learn a lot from long weeks.

Last Saturday my son called me and told me he had just talked to his mother and she was slurring her speech. When I checked, she was, indeed, slurring her speech, stumbling as she walked and going into a trance like state and staring off in the distance. Since she has already had two strokes, I called 911 and off she went to ER. 

This is where the education began.

Our son and I were both there. As the doctor quizzed Marsha, we found out that she keeps all of her current meds in a drawer as well as all the meds she has been taken off of over the years. This creates the possibility of her taking drugs that are out of date or that she has been off for a while. It was pointed out by my son that since I am seeing to her needs that I should have known about this and changed it. And he is absolutely right. My thinking was that her thought processes have not been impaired (seemingly) and I have been letting her do as much as possible without my interference. That has changed and I am making sure she takes the right medication when she is supposed to take them. And she is not happy.

But, even with that, it really did seem as though she was having another stroke. I told my son that I would not be able to get her to the bathroom and feed her and do all the other things that might need to be done simply because I am not physically able, to which he agreed. Now we were facing some dark decisions. 

After all the tests that exist, her neurologist, whom I am really impressed with, came in and told us that Marsha was not having another stroke. Apparently, they have discovered that a high percentage of stroke victims will develop, within a year, tiny little seizures in the brain at the point of the stroke. These mimic a new stroke but are not a new stroke at all. In the past they have been treated as strokes, but now are treated as seizures. A tiny little pill and Marsha is doing just fine. Better, actually, since all her medication is now under control.

Which brings to mind the thought that how can anyone believe that the human body is the result of evolution, when it is so complicated and intricate"? Evolution is an accident while such a level of complexity would indicate design. All living creatures must be the result of divine design. 

Marsha's doctor, renowned in her field, on the very cutting edge of the study of the brain and greatly respected by her colleagues, explained the function like this; "We really don't understand all of it, but for me it is enough that this is God's handiwork."

And that is good enough for me.           

When I originally did this series, I asked for favorite Christmas hymns. I thought this would be the all time favorite. But I was wrong. Maybe it is too familiar to us and kind of slips under the radar. However, like all of these stories, we see God at work. Such a meaningful piece forged from trial. Such a beautiful song.  

            War had decimated Europe. For twelve years, battles had raged. And not just in Europe, but also in far flung places around the globe. Millions of people died. Property was destroyed. Untold numbers of people lost everything and became refugees, only they had nowhere to flee. War was everywhere and it did not let up. And all because of one man and his maniacal obsession to control the world.

          Some would immediately say Hitler and WWII. Others might say the Kaiser and WWI. But this war ended a hundred years before WWI. In fact, it ended fifty years before Germany was even a nation. (At that time, Germany was 39 small fiefdoms that made up the German Confederation. It was a very loose union and they often fought among themselves.) In our time, we rarely looked back beyond the 20^th century and the two gruesome wars. But there was a nightmare war before those two wars. It was a war fought around the world in far flung colonial countries as well as in Europe. This was the time of Napoleon and all the battlefronts, known collectively as the Napoleonic Wars, reshaped the world and, in a real sense, served as kindling that sparked the fires that gave us the two World Wars.  

          It would take decades for Europe to recover. The grinding reality of war had destroyed so much as to be almost unbelievable. One of the side effects was in religious life. So many men had died that the various religious institutions had to dip into much younger ranks to find the people to lead the churches. One such young man was Joseph Mohr, a young priest at the St. Nicholas Church in Oberndorf, a small church in a small Austrian town. The young priest wanted desperately to bring peace and serenity to his people. But the effects of war could be seen everywhere. Grieving mothers and widows, crippled men, a lack of food and a general feeling of loss and pain. The Wars had ended on November 20, 1815, but news took a while to filter down. The next several years that followed were grim. Christmas of 1815 had hardly been one to celebrate. Young Mohr was in way over his head, but his heart was in the right place, and he grieved for his people.

          One crisp and clear night in November of 1816, he stood on a hill and looked out over the town to which he was giving his life. It had snowed the day before and as he looked over Oberndorf, he was amazed at how peaceful the town looked. He hurried back to his quarters, took up a quill, and wrote a heartfelt poem of his feelings.

          Two years later, in 1818, right after the harvest had been brought in, it began to rain. And rain. And rain. The Salzach River that ran right through town began to rise and, after a few days, lifted beyond its banks. As floods went, this was not a terrible flood. However, it did reach St. Nicholas Church. Water flowed in several inches high and soaked everything. But the real damage was to the organ. Since Christmas was just a couple of weeks away, young Mohr sent for the organ builder and repair man, Karl Mauracher. He would try, but he just didn’t think it would be ready by Christmas Eve services. Mohr knew how much pain his congregation had suffered, and was still suffering, and his heart broke. No music on Christmas Eve!

          Christmas Eve dawned and the organ was not going to be ready. In a neighboring town there was a young man, Franz Xaver Gruber, who was a school teacher and song leader. Mohr sent a messenger and brought Gruber to Saint Nicholas Church. There the priest asked if Gruber could put the poem he had written two years earlier to music and if he could make it for the guitar. (Mohr played guitar) They sat in the church that still had that musty, moldy smell only a recently flooded building can have, and spent several hours putting it together. By the time it was completed it was too late for Gruber to get back to his village, so he took his evening meal with Mohr and they decided that Gruber would sing the new song with Mohr that night at Mass. The organ repair man, Karl Mauracher, had heard the little tune they had put together and asked if he could have a copy of it to take back to his parish, and this was done.

          Mohr watched as the people came into the cold church. The wood burners couldn’t drive the cold away that night. But as Mohr watched the folks come in, his heart filled with love. He so regretted that there would be no music that night, except for what he and Gruber had hastily created, but the situation could not be changed. Word had gotten around the village that the organ was not working, but still the people streamed in. Mohr’s spirit was lifted. Here was music of the heart! It would be OK.

          After the homily, or message, Mohr invited Gruber up and they sat down on the steps that led to the pulpit area. There, for the first time, with only candles to light the building, the song that evokes feelings of peace and calmness was put forth. In a war torn village that had paid a high price for the mania of a power hungry man, a song was given that would transcend war. A song that opposing forces in WWI would sing together, from their trenches and in their own languages. The song that has been translated into 140 languages, and yet has lost none of its power to calm and heal. A song that probably would have never moved beyond a cold and damp building in a small, insignificant village in Austria, except for the organ repair man who took it home and passed it on to two families who traveled and sang folk songs. All the pieces fell into place to create a song that is loved the world over.

          A number of years ago I went to my organist, who also played the guitar, and asked him if he would play and sing this song on the guitar at the Christmas Eve service. He said he would, but only if I sang with him. So it was, on Christmas Eve of 1999, with candles as the only light, a black man and a white man sat down on the steps that led up to the pulpit area and sang that blessed song. Even the children in the room stilled and all was quiet, except for the soft tones of the guitar and the sound of two men singing;

Silent night, holy night!
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and Child.
Holy Infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.

Silent night, holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight.
Glories stream from heaven afar,
Heav’nly hosts sing, Alleluia!
Christ, the Savior, is born!
Christ, the Savior, is born!

Silent night, holy night!
Son of God, love’s pure light
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.

          You have felt it, too. The sense of peace, the sense of wonder. And now you know it came from a war weary village, a caring parish priest, a teacher who couldn’t get home in time to spend Christmas Eve with his own people and an organ repair man who took the song and passed it on. All part of God’s plan. 

When I was a child, my parents had a percolator to make their coffee. What I liked about the percolator was that it made a distinctive sound. Those of you who have used a percolator know what sound I am talking about. Put the coffee in and turn it on. After a minute or so there would be a satisfying a little sound of water making a 'blurp' sound as it reached the boiling point. Then the sound would come again. And again. Soon it was a steady perking sound and then it would stop. The coffee was ready. Because I was quite young and because my brain works in a weird way, much as Mary Earle's, I connected that sound with the thought process that takes place when we gradually come to a thought that starts out small and grows. I even say that I have a thought percolating. This is not an original idea. I have heard others say the same thing, but it is a concept that started to go away with the Mr. Coffees and now the Keurigs. The sound is not the same and the coffee tastes different.

I say all of that so that the younger reader can understand. I have had a thought percolating. I am not sure it gives off that pleasant aroma (more like burning wires) but the process is now complete. The sounds in my brain have ceased.

In the state of Ohio, football reigns supreme, much like basketball in Indiana or soccer in the rest of the world. All other sports just fill the time void until football begins again. Baseball is the secondary sport in Ohio, then basketball and hockey are tied and then the track and field sports. Fishing is not really a sport here so much as it is a grocery run. But football is the big sport. I grew up in Ohio and I now live in Ohio, so I am back in the land of football. Highschool football is probably the most watched sport in the land, and it really does draw communities together.

From the 1930s through 1970, my old high school had one winning season. A winning season is defined as winning more games than you lose. A very poor farming community, we lacked the tax base for good equipment or even a nice playing field. Would-be players often had to hurry home from school to get the chores done. In a farm community, the farm comes first. The urban sprawl of Cleveland stopped just short of our little town, so we were small and everyone we played were much larger communities and had a much larger pool of players to select from. On other teams you had to try out to make the team. On our team you were good if you had seventeen players on the entire team.

In 1970 we had a new, young coach come in who was looking for a challenge. I was a freshman that year and this no-nonsense coach kind of scared me. He made us work and work really hard. He was kind of nuts. That first year we had four wins and six loses. Another losing season but better than most years. We were happy, but coach was not. During the off season that followed, if you had two study halls, one had to be spent lifting weights and running wind sprints. Four wins was not acceptable! 1971 was going to be different, or we would die trying!

And it was different. In 1971 we won seven and lost three. The next year we had a winning season again. And then, in 1973, my senior year, we again had a winning season. In fact, in every year since, that high school has had a winning season. Imagine, forty years of losing seasons followed by fifty two years of winning seasons until, finally, a state championship. What happened?

The coach who came in for my freshman year created a tradition of winning. He was there for seven years and then left to pursue another field. (Actually, he went into the ministry, which is another story.) The next coach was there well over a decade. He had been an assistant under the first coach. He was there until he passed away from cancer. The next coach, an assistant to the coach who had died, was there for an extended time. And the present coach, an assistant to the last coach, has led the team to the state championship this year. That winning attitude has spread to the other sports, as well, and Perry High School (Lake County) is one of the winningest programs in the state for all sports. When other schools now look at their schedules, they dread those games against Perry. 

What has been percolating in my mind is this; Other schools see only the winning tradition now. They don't see what preceded that winning tradition. You have to be an old goat like me to know. In the same way, when people see a large church, they see only the current programs and successes. But at some point, there was struggle. There was a time when the successful church had to put aside what the people wanted and embraced what God wanted. There was a time when that small, struggling church had to make some hard decisions to move forward in the Lord's path. There was a time when that small church realized they were not in charge. Most churches have personalities in them who see their ideas as being God's ideas because these personalities are arrogant. But, to be a growing, vibrant church, these arrogant personalities have to either let go of their arrogance or fall by the wayside. Victory is just in Jesus!

I have seen churches come to that crossroads. It is hard to look at what you think is right and realize it is your idea rather than the Lord's. It may not work out the way you envision, but it must work out the way the Lord has planned.

Some years ago I was working with a church that was in crisis. Good people and a good plan. Someone had gifted them ten prime acres of land. On one of our first meetings, I asked them what their goal was for the church. To a person in that room, they all agreed that the goal was to have a large church on that ten acres. Then I asked them what God's goal was for the church. There was confusion. Of course it was God's goal, as well! But was it? After three years of intense prayer, those people gifted the property to another Bible group and they dispersed to several different churches in the area. What those other churches received were Godly men and women who gave themselves up to follow the Lord and the whole area was stronger for it.

The winning tradition is always built on the foundation of those giving themselves up. BE THOSE PEOPLE WHO GIVE IT ALL TO THE LORD!

And be blessed.  

                                              

          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. However, 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.   

      During Advent of 2021 I wanted to do something special. We had survived COVID the year before and most of that panic and fear had dissipated. We were all a little older and a little wiser, which is to say we had come to really distrust government. For Christians, most had grown in our faith because we had found there was very little else we could trust in. It was, at least where I was, an awakening of sorts. As I thought on these things I came upon the idea of telling the stories of our special Christmas music. I know it was just two years ago, but a lot has changed. This is a good time go back and visit a few of these stories. Until Christmas Day, I will rerun one of those blogs on Mondays. And then, the Thursday before Christmas, I will give you folks the writing that gave me the most pleasure ever to write. During this Advent season, I will write a new blog, so it will not be all reruns. Having said all of this, from Advent of 2021, our songs of faith that proclaim the power and majesty of our Lord.

        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 before he died. 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 that 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.