Christmas in Harmony (3 page)

W
ith the Christmas cards stamped and mailed, I could now direct my attention to the real purpose of Christmas, which was to make sure we didn’t repeat the dreadful mistake from the year before, when a hundred and thirty-five people crammed our pews for the Christmas Eve service. We had been expecting our usual ninety-three and had failed to carry up folding chairs from the basement. The old-timers walked in, saw the hordes of people sitting in their pews, and were appalled. Pews, which had been in their family for generations, now occupied by total strangers! Fern Hampton fainted on the spot, and only regained consciousness after being stretched out on her pew and inhaling the fragrance of Hampton sweat, which after eighty humid, Indiana summers now permeated the pew. She sat up, blinked her eyes, and said, “Who in the world are these people and who invited them?”

Inquiries were made and meetings held, where it was determined the culprits were Miriam and Ellis Hodge, who’d had the gall to invite guests to the Christmas Eve service without instructing them to bring their own chairs. As for the cookies, the Friendly Women’s Circle had to lop them in half to have enough. Baked to perfection and beautifully decorated, the angels underwent tearful amputation, halos and heads on one plate, wings and skirts on another.

It took many months for passions to cool. Then at the September elders meeting, Fern Hampton revisited the subject. “Well, I just hope certain people have learned from their mistakes and we won’t have a repeat of last year’s Christmas service.” She looked sideways at Miriam Hodge.

“You know, Fern,” I said, “some churches actually encourage their members to bring visitors to church. They’ve found it to be an effective way to share the gospel.”

“Listen here, young man, when my grandmother staked out our pew in 1922, she did not intend for every Tom, Dick, or Harry to come along and plop his hiney down there.”

“I must say I have to agree with Fern,” Bea Majors said. “Elsewise, there’d be all types of rabble in here. They’ve already ruined our beautiful angels.” She shuddered at the memory of it.

“Maybe we could run an advertisement in the
Herald
asking people not to come to our Christmas Eve worship,” I suggested, trying not to sound ironic.

The elders pondered my counsel for several moments. “No, I don’t think so,” Fern said. “An ad would cost money. Why don’t we just have Bea mention in the church column that nonmembers who attend our Christmas Eve service must bring their own cookies and chairs? That way it gets in the newspaper, but we don’t have to pay for it.”

“Good thinking,” Bea said, writing a note to herself. “Consider it done.”

“If you ask me,” Dale Hinshaw said, “I think we oughta give serious thought to not even having our Christmas Eve service here in the meetinghouse. It’s nothing but a mess. Kids bellyaching to ring the bell. Cookie crumbs everywhere. Toilets not getting flushed. Bulletins left on the pews. Took me and the missus two hours to get the place clean after last year’s service. And we didn’t even get to take us up an offering,” he added, frowning in my direction.

The year before, I had recommended we not collect an offering at the Christmas Eve service. In the past, the pastor would pause in the reading of the Gospel of Luke so the ushers could collect an offering. The loot gathered, he would resume his reading and bring in the Christ child. It had always troubled me. “It looks like we’re holding Christ hostage and won’t let him loose until someone coughs up some money,” I’d said. “I think we want to avoid sending that message.”

“And just what are my ushers gonna do?” Dale asked. “It’s our biggest collection of the year. Four ushers with two reserves and an extra counter. We’ve been practicin’ for three months, and now you’re telling us we’re not welcome. How do you expect me to keep up their morale when you’re stabbing ’em in the back like that.”

Dale finally conceded when we agreed to have the ushers take up two offerings the following Sunday. But he’d been gunning for me ever since. Now he was suggesting we not hold our Christmas Eve service in our own meetinghouse.

“Dale, have you given any thought to where else we might hold our Christmas Eve service, if not here?” Miriam Hodge asked.

“Well, I’ve been thinkin’ on that and I believe we oughta have ourselves a live Nativity scene.”

Opal Majors groaned. “Not more livestock. When we had that Mohammed the Baptist here for our revival, I cleaned up after his camel a good month afterwards. I’d rather sweep up cookie crumbs.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Dale said. “We don’t gotta have the Nativity scene here. We can have it at the park. We’ll set it up in center field of the Little League diamond. That way folks’ll have to get out of their cars and walk over to see it. By the time they get there, they’ll be frozen stiff. Me and my ushers can set up a hot chocolate stand at first base and make a mint.” He leaned back in his chair, a triumphant smile spreading across his face.

“I’m concerned how that will look,” Miriam Hodge said. “Why don’t we just give people hot chocolate? Why do we need to make money?”

“We wasn’t gonna keep the money. I was thinkin’ maybe we could give it to a good cause.”

Opal Majors eyed him suspiciously. “You wouldn’t be thinking of sending the money to that kook on the radio you’ve been listening to? That Eddie character who talks about the end times?”

“For your information, he’s a recognized expert on the end times. And you’ll be whistling a different tune when the Rapture comes and you’re left to the devil for hinderin’ the Lord’s work.”

I tried to get the meeting back on track. “Dale, I’m sure Eddie is sincere in his beliefs, and I’m glad you’ve found him helpful. But I’m not sure we can even hold a Nativity scene at a public park. It’s probably against the law.”

“Well, that’s another thing Eddie warned about, how the end is near when you can’t even talk about Jesus in a public place. I say we sue the town before it sues us. That’ll teach ’em not to pick on the Lord.”

I glanced at my watch. It was almost nine o’clock. If we ended the meeting now, I could be home in time to kiss my boys good night. “Why don’t we pray about this matter, then discuss it further at our next meeting. It’s only September, after all. We have plenty of time before Christmas.” Then, before anyone could object, I bowed my head and closed in prayer.

The October meeting of the elders didn’t fare any better. Dale accused Miriam Hodge of promoting one world order—yet another warning sign, according to Eddie, that the Rapture was near. Then Dale questioned the wisdom of having any Christmas Eve program. “The Lord’ll probably be back by then, and we’d have wasted time planning for something that ain’t even gonna happen. I say we just concern ourselves with gettin’ as many folks as we can right with the Lord. Eddie thinks the Rapture could come any day now, maybe even next Tuesday.”

Dale Hinshaw’s membership on the board of elders has caused me to question God as nothing else ever has. How could an all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-loving God permit such a thing to happen, I asked my wife, after the October elders meeting.

“Maybe God isn’t all-powerful,” she suggested. “Maybe God shares power with us, so we can be a part of his work. Like Clarence the angel.”

“Who’s Clarence the angel?”

“You know, Clarence the angel in
It’s a Wonderful Life.
He jumps off the bridge and saves Jimmy Stewart.”

“Oh, that Clarence the angel. What’s he got to do with anything?” I ask.

“I’m just saying that maybe God uses us like he used Clarence to help accomplish his purposes.”

I pondered that for a moment. “There’s only one problem with that theory,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“It would mean God had to depend on people like Dale Hinshaw.”

She winced. “That is an alarming thought, isn’t it?”

This is the problem of theology—instead of bringing clarity, it often raises questions too frightening to consider.

Some ministers’ wives memorize Scripture; my wife finds solace in old movies.
It’s a Wonderful Life
is her favorite. Our town doesn’t have cable television, but Clevis Nagle, the owner of the Royal Theater, shows
It’s a Wonderful Life
for free just before Christmas. When I was growing up, I would attend with my parents and brother, Roger. We’d buy our popcorn, then take our place in the fifth row from the back, left side. Everyone else knew better than to sit there.

By craning my neck, I could peer through the gap in the curtain and watch Nora Nagle, the future state Sausage Queen, working the popcorn machine. For a number of years, the smell of popcorn had a carnal effect on me. One whiff of popcorn and I had thoughts true Christians shouldn’t have. At least if you took Matthew 5:28 literally, which, growing up where I did, was the only way to take it.

As a teenager, obsessed with piety, I considered either plucking out my eyes (per Matthew 5:29) or cutting off my nose, thereby eliminating my olfactory capacity and, with it, the temptation to sin. I did neither, opting instead to wear nose plugs to the Royal Theater. While this had a chilling effect on my reputation, it kept me blameless against the day Jesus would return to take my soul to heaven.

Still, I had dreams of Jesus coming back and finding me in the movie theater.

“But I was wearing nose plugs,” I would plead with Jesus.

“That might be, but you were still watching Nora Nagle through the gap in the curtain,” He would say, leaving my sorry carcass behind for the dogs to chew on.

In time, these worries passed, for which I’m grateful, as fear of the Divine is a heavy burden. Which is why I feel sorry for Dale Hinshaw, who goes through life with a wary eye cast toward the heavens. He listens to Eddie talk on the radio about the unforgivable sin—grieving the Holy Spirit. Dale worries he might have accidentally done that, and thinks extra zeal on his part might get him off the hook. This is why he keeps nominating himself to serve as an elder. He hopes God will think twice before smiting a leader of the church.

Dale took it upon himself to stop by Owen Stout’s law office to inquire if the church could hold a Nativity scene on public property. Owen didn’t think so. “’Fraid not, Dale. All we’d need is for the ACLU to find out and sue the skivvies right off of you and all the other elders. You could maybe even lose your homes.”

This did not deter Dale from encouraging the other elders to stand strong for the Lord at our November meeting. “Let ’em have our houses, I don’t care. I’d rather be homeless and show the world I loved the Lord than live in a fancy mansion and be afraid to call myself a Christian. How many of you are willin’ to stand up for the Lord, even it means losin’ your house? Raise your hands.”

“But I like my house,” Bea Majors said. “Besides, I just got new carpet for my living room.”

“Is there any way we can love the Lord and still keep our homes?” Asa Peacock asked. “My house has been in my family since 1893. I’d kinda hate to lose it. If I’d known that was gonna happen, I’d have never agreed to be an elder. Sam, you didn’t tell me about this. You just said there’d be one meeting a month, and that I wouldn’t have to pray in public unless I wanted to. You didn’t say nothing about me having to give up my house.”

It took me half an hour to settle Dale down and convince the elders they could keep their homes. I finally told them we could have the live Nativity scene in my yard.

“Oh, sure,” Dale groused. “Hog all the glory for yourself. Why can’t we have it at my house?”

“That’s fine with me, Dale. I just thought it would help matters along if I volunteered my yard, that’s all.”

“How come Dale always gets his way?” Bea Majors complained. “Why couldn’t we have it at my house? I might not have a big, fancy house like certain other people, but it’s not a dump either.”

“I’m sure Jessie wouldn’t mind if we had the Nativity scene in our yard,” Asa Peacock volunteered. “She was saying just the other day that she wanted to do more with the church.”

Fern Hampton let out a heavy sigh. “I’ve been a member of this church all my life and we’ve never had one thing at my house. Not one thing. It’s like the rest of you don’t even want to be around me.”

“Why don’t we find a way to share?” Miriam Hodge suggested. “That way everyone can be involved.”

Yes, sharing was a grand idea. We appointed Dale Hinshaw to work out the details and proceed. By then it was ten o’clock, and I was wrung out. Christmas was five weeks away, and I was already exhausted. Walking home, I had a creeping dread about how a Nativity scene could be shared. But I shrugged it off, and thought how glad I would be when Christ got here, so life could get back to normal.

Surprisingly, the next few weeks were blissful. Dale made himself scarce, though rumors circulated of his whereabouts: he was seen at the lumberyard buying wood for a manger, he’d stopped by Ellis Hodge’s farm to borrow assorted livestock, he and the missus were seen buying material and a bathrobe pattern at Kivett’s Five and Dime. In real fact, it was the calm before the Christmas storm.