Christmas Eve just so happened to fall on a Tuesday bringing church leaders all over the world to a fork in the road.
“What is to be done with the gaping chasm between the weekends?”
There were two predominant schools of thought that came to the table, both bringing their own merit. One was the “throttle-down” method. Those who opted for this method were the rain-shine-sleet-or snow types. Church! Come hell or high-water. They started on Sunday with Christmas Eve themed services and stacked them up in multiples all the way through the twilight hours of Tuesday the 24th. After all, its one of the highest attended events of the church calendar. Production serve-staffers, parking volunteers, and preachers were pushed to the limit, many scheduled in shifts to accommodate the load. By the end worship leaders were raspy and fatigued from long exposure to the heights of “O Holy Night.” For these the carrion cry sounded:
“not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is…” (Hebrews 10: 25 KJV)
Their efforts produced great kingdom fruit. People by the thousands were exposed to Luke’s detailed account of Jesus’ birth as the fulcrum of the celebration, especially those who only find themselves in church a few times a year.
Some took a different road. They found creative ways to connect with their parishioners through digital means throughout the week, reminding them of the significance of the season. But the church buildings themselves were vacant. I was on this road. The bright neon parking vests and cones that would usually find themselves out on the asphalt remained undisturbed in vestibule utility closets. The lobbies were quiet. There were no lighting cues to program, no monitors to mix, and there was no countdown clock to follow. Instead, the season was largely experienced in homes and apartments, on living room sofas and around dining room tables. Board games were played. Memories were had. Stories were told.
At first it seemed vacuous. The interruption of what the in-and-out rhythm of the gathering of the saints regularly brings felt like a jolt to the system. Especially for the vocational minister. For some there was even a twinge of guilt. “I should be working,” I thought. Then, after awhile something beautiful started to surface. I slowed down enough to notice it. Nana, who was down from the small town in rural Ontario with Pop, was reading her Bible in the lamplight seated in the leather chair off the corner of the living room. The sun hadn’t yet come up this Christmas Eve morning. It was dead silent. On her way over she had turned on the lights that were strung around the Christmas tree in the big panorama window of the front room. The tiny bulbs each reflected off the angled panes of glass giving the illusion of deep space constellations against the blackness of the pre-dawn sky on the other side. It grabbed my attention. I stopped to notice. “All is calm, all is bright,” I thought. I sat in the chair facing the window long enough for the sun to begin to light up the sky behind the tree. The little reflections began to lose their punch as the room brightened. The two younger boys came sauntering down the stairs in their pajamas, their hair shooting up in every direction imaginable. I got up from my chair and walked into the kitchen that opened to where Nana was reading and started making a cappuccino. My favorite hand-painted cup and saucer care of my friends in Poland in hand. They plopped down on the couch across from Nana and pulled her attention up from her Bible. I took a glance from pressing the ground espresso into the portafilter to see the gratitude for being in their presence appear in her eyes. She addressed them with a warm “Goodmorning.” They started talking about nothing in particular. It was the usual “how’d you sleep?”, “did you have any dreams?” kind of talk. The boys answered in turn. Something in me perked up. As I listened I could tell something else was happening under the surface and I recognized it. It was the transfer of generational blessing from Nana down to the boys. “Thank God,” I whispered under my breath. Just then I heard the door to Pop and Nana’s room creak open on the other side of the house. Pop appeared in the kitchen in his flannel pants and L.L. Bean slippers (I’ve got the same pair, but he wears them better than me). The boys lit up when his head popped around the corner. “Goodmorning boys!” he bellowed in full radio voice. He comes by that honestly as he had been a legit morning man for decades before retirement. He immediately launched into his light-hearted antics with Bentley and Beckett. They giggled in response. It was beautiful to observe. I looked at Bentley’s frame as he lay on the couch. He was built exactly like Pop. They were cut from the same cloth in more ways than one, stouter and stalkier than the Olson line. Also, more prone to discover mischievous humor. Two peas in a pod. Ashley was next with our Bernedoodle, Tilly, close behind. If I know anyone who can light up a room, its her. She can do it as potently in her comfies as she can in a cocktail dress. “She’s mine. How in the world did I pull that one off?” I stood and stared at her. While Pop entertained the boys, Ashley and Nana immediately connected on the latest in dietary health. Currently the topic is the power of the Olive tree. There was an excitement in their voices as they unpacked the science behind harness the goodness in the tiny little fruit. Eventually our eldest, Brody, made his way into the room after a classic teenage sleep-in. As I watched him move, I wondered if he’d grown a few additional inches in the night. He’s all legs like I was at that age. He gave his mom a hug and joined in on the conversation with Pop and his brothers. The house had come alive. The smell of coffee and toasted bread was in the air. I stood and watched it all from behind the kitchen island.
Over the following days the preciousness of those kind of moments only grew. Uncle Reid, Aunt Jen, and the cousins showed up from Atlanta. We put all the leaves in the table so everyone had a place to sit. I bought an 8lb, four-bone, standing rib roast and Reid, Pop, and I haggled over the best way to cook it. Reid printed out a full color instructional one-pager and notated the actual times for each step in the margin to avoid ambiguity. The table was set and the wine was poured. That night before we dug in, we paused for a moment of vocalized gratitude to God in prayer in Jesus' name, and then we cranked Sinatra’s Christmas albums while we ate. Reid’s one pager worked like a charm. When we were finished everybody, even the boys, cleared their plates to the kitchen sink and helped with cleanup. The tins of homemade goodies that had materialized out of nowhere on the kitchen counter were opened and colorful displays of cookies, tarts, and chocolates were put out for the picking. We ate them one by one while playing card games. One evening when the weather was particularly good, I lit a fire in the fire-pit that sits in the yard off the side of the house. It overlooks a small pond that acts as a water hazard for the golf course across the way. The adults sat around and drank warm spiced wine out of mugs while the sun went down. We watched the kids cast lines out into the pond in attempt to land a big one.
There was a special sense about all of it, a wholeness. We were operating in God’s design and blessing, and we were enjoying it. I can only conclude that the time was sacramental in nature. I could see the reconciliatory work of Jesus in the preparation of the meals and the washing of the dishes. I felt the welcoming of His Spirit in the smiles and laughter of those around me at the table. It was beautiful.
In Life Together, Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s book on living in Christian community, Bonhoeffer calls our attention to the power and necessity of daily table fellowship alongside the Eucharist and the final table in the coming Kingdom. He quotes Luke 24: 30-31.
“And it came to pass as he sat at meet with them, he took bread and blessed it and break and gave to them and their eyes were opened and they knew him.”
I agree with Bonhoeffer. There’s something mysterious and wonderful that occurs when Christ is acknowledged and bread is broken in the context of loving community and togetherness. A transcendent wholeness materializes out of nowhere. Our stomachs are filled and our physical bodies receive what they need to keep us upright. But there is a deeper nourishment that takes place. Christ is present in the bonds of genuine, heartfelt relationship. His Living Word creeps down into the depths of who we really are, and we are re-energized by the fruit comes with his presence. We participate in love, joy, peace, and patience alongside those who truly know us and whom we truly know.
We’re well on our way into the new year now. It’s 1:20pm EST on January the 14th as I write this. The kids are over a week into their morning routines. Early morning wake-up calls, uniforms, signing reading logs, packing lunches, and carlines are all back in full swing. Nana and Pop have made their way back to Canada and things look a lot like they did before their arrival. There are issues to attend to and problems to solve in all shapes and sizes. But inside of it I’m hopeful for a sensitivity to the sacred. I’ve been a worship pastor for a long time. My job has been to create environments where people can encounter the presence of God corporately, mostly by the thousands. I’ve really loved it, and I think the work is valuable. It strikes me that God is continually and perpetually at work doing the same thing for me in the most unassuming ways, and on an individual level. He is calling out with an invitation to that same kind of wholeness in the ordinary right under my nose. There are times when I am attuned to it, but there are times when I’m just not paying attention. I want to be able to recognize the everywhere holiness of God. I want to understand just how incarnate He really is. He is in the menial and the mundane transforming it into the high and holy.
As the new year continues, I’m sure that the presence of God will be experienced and celebrated in the gathering of the saints in church buildings. The same leaders that were brought to the fork in the road over the conundrum of Christmas Eve on Tuesday will apply their heart, soul, and strength into deciding how to best serve their local expressions of Jesus’ bride in the months to come. We will make plans, build teams, spend dollars, and run plays. It’s helpful to remember that as we do Jesus is the great initiator and he is active in pursuit in every way imaginable. My experience this past Christmas brings me to believe that while this is all going on he will be subtly inviting us into the recognition of the sacred in the simple.
