Martin stood with his Bible in one hand. “As we begin our celebration of the Savior’s birth, we hear together these words from the prophet Isaiah, the eleventh chapter:
“A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse;
from his roots a Branch will bear fruit.
The Spirit of the Lord will rest on him—
the Spirit of wisdom and of understanding,
the Spirit of counsel and of might,
the Spirit of the knowledge and fear of the Lord—
and he will delight in the fear of the Lord….
“The wolf will live with the lamb,
the leopard will lie down with the goat,
the calf and the lion and the yearling together;
and a little child will lead them.
The cow will feed with the bear,
their young will lie down together,
and the lion will eat straw like the ox.
The infant will play near the cobra’s den,
and the young child will put its hand into the viper’s nest.
They will neither harm nor destroy
on all my holy mountain,
for the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the Lord.”
Angela signaled the choir to stand. The four-part harmony should shine, and it would, though she still wished Gabe were there. Gently, Angela played the starting pitches and then waved her right hand in the motion of four beats to set a tempo that neither rushed nor dragged. The choir inhaled and breathed out the first note in perfect harmony.
“Lo, how a Rose e’er blooming from tender stem hath sprung!
Of Jesse’s lineage coming, as men of old have sung.
It came, a floweret bright, amid the cold of winter,
When half spent was the night.
Isaiah ’twas foretold it, the Rose I have in mind;
With Mary we behold it, the virgin mother kind.
To show God’s love aright, she bore to us a Savior,
When half spent was the night.”
Angela raised one hand from the organ and cut them off. She waited a full five seconds before giving the sign they should sit again, and they did so with a minimum of shuffling and throat-clearing. She smiled and nodded.
Martin’s next reading came from Isaiah 9, culminating in the grand words that Handel’s Messiah had burned into the minds of the faithful with his unforgettable music.
“For to us a child is born,
to us a son is given,
and the government will be on his shoulders.
And he will be called
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”
Suddenly Angela’s fingers itched to play the music of this triumphant piece of choral music. Instead, she turned to the hymn the congregation would be asked to sing, “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.”
A few changes in the organ settings would give the familiar carol a plaintive, yearning tone. Angela played through the full hymn one time, arriving at full harmony at the end of the refrain and slowing just enough to cue the congregation to come in.
“O come, O come, Emmanuel
and ransom captive Israel,
that mourns in lowly exile here
until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Re—”
The organ squealed and fell silent. It was a decent organ, but it was an electric organ, and at the moment it was not getting any electricity. Nor was there any light above the hymnal on the music stand. There were no electric lights still burning anywhere in the sanctuary. A few determined voices carried on with the hymn, no doubt assuming the interruption would be short-lived. They were a people living in the land of deep darkness, as Martin had just read from the ninth chapter of Isaiah. Someone began the second stanza of the song, but fewer people sang, either out of less familiarity with the words or distracted by sounds of scuffling around in the darkness.
The only light in the sanctuary came from the four candles lit on the Advent wreath. The Christ candle would have been lit later in the service. Light from a lone streetlamp outside filtered in through a stained-glass window, casting a prism of color over the chancel. When Angela glanced at the choir, she found half its members were already looking at her. She shrugged slightly and raised her hands in a motion indicating they should stay where they were.
A young child called out, “Hey, who turned off the lights?”
For a moment laughter dispelled the oddity of the circumstances. People began pulling out cell phones and launching flashlight apps.
Martin came down in front of the pulpit. Without a working microphone, it didn’t matter where he stood. He stepped to a side aisle to confer with a couple of people and then turned to the congregation.
“Please be patient,” Martin said. “Several members of our property committee are here tonight, and they are investigating. Then we’ll continue our service.” He took a seat in the front pew.
Angela slid off the organ bench and moved to the piano, which required no electricity. Neither did it require light, because she could play Christmas carols from memory. She started with “Away in a Manger,” hoping to capture the attention of the youngest and most wiggly people present, and moved on from there. It was hard to tell, but Martin seemed grateful that at least one of them had an idea for a distraction. It wouldn’t amount to more than background music. Angela knew that. But it might keep people calm and in their seats rather than lose all focus while waiting for someone on the property committee to find the right fuse to change.
She returned to “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” keeping the stanzas unadorned but the refrain full-bodied just as she would have on the organ.
“Once in Royal David’s City.” Gabe had sung that one with her just a few days ago. Her fingers moved steadily over the keys while she watched doors at the back of the sanctuary for his arrival. There had to be some explanation.
“The First Noel.”
“Angels We Have Heard on High.”
“O Little Town of Bethlehem.”
Finally the property members returned to the sanctuary and conferred with Martin. They withdrew and Martin stood up. Angela let the melody on the piano gently fade.
“Many of you have been coming to Main Street Church for many years,” Martin said. “You know that our late service on Christmas Eve is a spiritual high point for the congregation and the many visitors who join us at this time of year. It looks like we will not have electric lights for the rest of this evening, but I wish to invite you to come with me in heart and mind to Bethlehem. Listening to Angela play carols as we waited for lights has given me an idea, and I hope she’ll be willing to play a little tag team with me.”
Angela nodded. How challenging could his request be if simple carols had inspired it?
“Every year on this night,” Martin said, “we read from Luke’s Gospel of the night that Jesus was born. Let us do so once again. I know many of you have your phones out and can simply look up the second chapter of Luke. I challenge you not to. Let’s go to Bethlehem together and discover how much of the story is in our hearts.”
Martin began to pace across the front of the church with no Bible and no cell phone in his hand.
“In those days,” Martin said, “Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria. And everyone went to their own town to register.
“So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child.”
Martin paused. “How am I doing so far?”
“Terrific!”
“Keep it up!”
“You have a great memory.”
“What song do you hear in your head now?” Martin asked.
Laughter rippled, but several
responses came in unison. “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”
Martin pointed at Angela, and she played a stanza while the congregation sang.
Then Martin pivoted and walked a few rows into the congregation. “While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.”
He looked up. “What song are you hearing now?”
The answer came quickly. “Away in a Manger.”
Angela played one stanza.
“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.” Martin paused. “This is any easy one. Which carol?”
“While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks.”
Angela played while the congregation sang.
Martin continued. “An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.’
“Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying … What did they say?”
“Glory to God!” several called out.
“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests,” Martin said.
Angela played “Angels We Have Heard on High.”
“When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, ‘Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.’ So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.”
Angela played “What Child Is This?”
“I almost forgot to go to Bethlehem this year,” Martin said. “I studied well this passage from Luke, and I outlined a strong sermon. And then I lost it. In this day and age, you might wonder how anybody loses a sermon. Isn’t it on a computer? Or an iPad? Couldn’t I just print another copy? No. My computer is in the shop, and I wrote the notes by hand. And I lost them. I was still festering over my own carelessness when I came into the building tonight. If the notes turn up, perhaps they’ll be a sermon for another Christmas Eve. But here, in this moment, despite losing the notes, and despite losing electricity, we have traveled to Bethlehem not to dwell on what we have lost but on what God has given.”
Emotion thickened Angela’s throat. “We have traveled to Bethlehem not to dwell on what we have lost but on what God has given.”
CHAPTER 21
This darkness is not what we expected,” Martin said. “Many of you hold candles that we planned to light for a fleeting few moments of our service tonight. Instead darkness fell around us.”
Angela hoped Martin was finished playing “Guess the Carol.” At the moment, she wasn’t confident she could coax her trembling fingers to cooperate.
“While I am not always successful,” Martin said, “the lesson I learn over and over is to receive even what disappoints as a gift that can enrich me in some way. In these minutes that tick toward midnight, and as we sit in darkness before we light our candles, what is enriching you? Let me challenge you to set your phones down and let the lights turn off. Don’t be afraid of a few minutes of darkness and quiet, for there you may find God’s surprising presence.”
Martin sat down. Angela sat on her fingers, tucked under her thighs on the piano bench. She needed to still them, knowing she would yet be called on for music before the service was over. For several minutes, worshippers rustled in the pews, perhaps looking around to see if others would let go of their phones and the light bearers they had become. Gradually, though, the spots of light around the sanctuary dimmed until only the four pillar candles of the Advent wreath remained. For a few golden moments, the still and silent sanctuary was just the sort of place where one might expect to meet God.
The first disturbance came from the other side of the sanctuary, about halfway back. It caused a hymnal to drop out of a rack, followed by a conflagration of Shhh and whispered requests for pardon. Angela couldn’t see that far with certainty, but it seemed someone was trying to get to the center aisle. Why not go out the side aisle and cause less commotion? She glanced at Martin. This can’t have been planned. Nothing beyond the opening few minutes of the service had gone according to plan. With neither her cell phone nor a candle within reach, Angela relied on her eyes to discern the disruption. Someone stepped into the aisle and began moving toward the front, trailing a finger along the carved oak end pieces of the pews.
A child.
A boy.
Brian.
Angela slid toward one end of the piano bench. Someone should see what Brian needed. Perhaps Martin would. But Brian walked past the front pew, where Martin had sat down and maintained a posture of prayer. Brian reached the Advent wreath and dug in his jeans pocket. Only when he leaned toward the flames did Angela realize what he’d pulled out.
A blue candle.
He tipped it into one of the Advent candles and then lit the Christ candle in the center of the circle. Then he turned around, faced the congregation, and began to sing.
“Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright.”
Angela moved her fingers to the keys again. That child has perfect pitch. She’d heard him sing enough times in the children’s choir of Main Street Church to have a well-formed opinion. He was singing exactly in the key in which the carol appeared in the hymnal, the same notes she could see with her mind’s eye.
“‘Round yon virgin, mother and child, holy infant so tender and mild.”
He moved to the pew where Martin sat and illumined the pastor’s features with his flame, though no one but Angela was positioned to see the shock in Martin’s face. Angela’s fingers entered the music. Even singing alone in the dark sanctuary, Brian’s tone didn’t waver.
“Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace.”
Brian continued down the aisle bearing his flame and beginning the second stanza. As light spread through the sanctuary, so did the number of voices rising with the words of the familiar carol the congregation always sang when they lit their candles and prepared their hearts for the Christmas Eve reading of Luke’s telling of the birth of Christ and the shepherds. The elements of the traditional service had come in a new order this year, under unexpected circumstances, but a child among them now drew the congregation together. Brian lit the candles nearest the center aisle and the flames were passed outward.
“Silent night! Holy night! Shepherds quake at the sight.
Glories stream from heaven afar, heavenly hosts sing alleluia.
Christ the Savior is born! Christ the Savior is born!”
Martin stood and gestured for others to do the same. In the third stanza, Angela heard, at last, the voice she had sought since the choir had been warming up—not in the congregation, but robed and standing with the rest of the choir at the front of the sanctuary.
Gabe. He’d come.
“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.”
The service had taken a distinctly low-key turn once the electricity went out. Angela doubted she would need Gabe’s help with the soprano section, after all, but it did her heart good to hear his clear and penetrating tenor coming from among the choir.
They were all singing harmonies, she realized, and doing quite well.
Martin stepped forward as the last words echoed and dimmed, gesturing for the congregation to be seated.
“And a little child will lead them,” he said, his voice thick. “Thank you, Brian. I wish you could all stand where I stand and see the hope and gratitude lighting your faces. Finding ourselves without the organ tonight—or any electricity—brings to mind the familiar story of how the carol we just heard came to be. I’m sure many of you have heard it. On another Christmas Eve two hundred years ago, in another country, in another church, the organ was in disrepair and not available to accompany the congregation’s singing. And ‘Silent Night’ was offered for the first time. Now that we’ve had our own Christmas Eve without the organ and held candles in our hands, perhaps we’ll all remember this night.”
He turned toward Angela. “I wonder if the choir might manage one of their pieces for us by candlelight.”
Angela nodded, thinking which selection would be the easiest under the circumstances. But a voice came from the choir loft. “Still, Still, Still.”
Others murmured agreement and began turning pages in their choir folders.
Angela winced inwardly. All those sopranos sliding around. But Gabe was there, and while the piano’s accompaniment would not be as seamless and smooth as the organ’s, its gentle percussion might be more undergirding with the notes. She caught Gabe’s eye. He nodded, and she gave the signal for the choir to stand. Singers seemed to pair off quickly, one to hold the light and the other to hold the music. While she quickly moved to the organ long enough to retrieve her own copy of the music and then back to the piano, wondering what she would do for light, an eleven-year-old boy stood beside her with the solid flame of his blue candle. Brian didn’t like to practice his lesson music, but she was certain he could read music and would know where to cast the light.
The congregation settled expectantly. The eyes of the choir turned to Angela, and she beat the tempo in the air before beginning the introductory measures. Smooth. No breathing when your neighbor breathes. Watch dynamics. Every admonition she’d ever given about this piece of music raced through her mind. Either they would remember, or they wouldn’t, but it was time to sing.
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