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While I am far from young, let the record
show that I am not so old so as to have fought in any of the
wars my elders call "The Big Ones"….namely, World
Wars I and II, and that regional skirmish (nearly a
century-and-a-half back) known as the Civil War. I am not even
a great student of the Civil War, although I have walked the
battlefields at Gettysburg, Harper’s Ferry and Antietam.
But Bruce Catton knew the Civil War and, in
marvelous books like Stillness at Appomattox, wrote so
vividly that one could read about it in one’s armchair and
(yet) be there at the same time. Some day I shall take the
time to read those books and refight that war. But that time
is not now.
Truth be told, I have read only one of
Bruce Catton’s books all the way through and that book had
little, if anything, to do with armed conflict. What it had to
do with was growing up….his growing up….in Benzie County
in northern Michigan. Bruce’s father started a private
school, Benzonia Academy, early in the twentieth century.
Benzonia, the town, sat on top of a hill. Beulah, its sister
town, sat at the bottom of the hill. Kissing up to the edges
of Beulah was Crystal Lake, which (if you swam the length of
it, east to west) would take you eight miles to Frankfort.
Still will, for that matter. And there are those who say there
is no more beautiful body of water in Michigan than Crystal
Lake. I don’t know about that. I don’t want to start a
fight with the Walloon people. But what I do know is that, in
size and shape, there is no lake anywhere that more closely
resembles the Sea of Galilee than Crystal Lake. Which, as
information goes, might be worth something to you in the event
that you never make it to the Middle East.
My purpose in placing you at Crystal Lake
is because that is where Bruce Catton’s two stories take
place….the two stories I am going to tell you this morning….after
which I shall append a comment or two and sit down. If that
sounds like a lazy way to go on my part, at least listen to
the stories before rendering judgment. Ready or not, here we
go.
Story Number One
It concerns the morning that Lewis
Stoneman and I went sailing on skates. I do not know whether
anyone does that nowadays, but it was quite the thing at the
time and we had read about it in some magazine. You took
thin strips of wood and made an oblong frame about four feet
long and three feet wide and added an old, discarded bed
sheet, cut to size and tacked to the frame. Then you put on
your skates, held the frame out in front of you, and let the
wind take charge.
So one day, frames erected, we went down
to Crystal Lake which, as luck would have it, was as clear
and smooth as a pane of glass. Skating conditions were
perfect. The sun was bright. The bare ice was as polished
steel and there was a brisk wind to the east. The wind soon
filled our sails and took us down the lake from east to west
at what seemed like a fabulous speed. We had never moved so
fast on skates before. In fact, we had not even imagined
that it was possible to move so fast. And it was all so
completely effortless. It was like being a hawk, soaring
above the ridge on a great updraft of air.
Neither of us knew anything about
sailing. To tack or even to go on a broad reach was entirely
foreign to us. We simply had to go where the wind went. And,
if I had thought about it, the realization that I would have
to walk back into the face of it would have sobered me a
bit. But there would be time to worry about that later.
For the moment, it seemed as if the whole
world had been made for our enjoyment. The hills that rimmed
the lake were white with snow, cut in places by bare tree
trunks standing like sentinels observing our passing….while
the sun beat down as a friendly weight upon our shoulders.
Save for the creasing of our blades upon the ice, there was
hardly a sound anywhere. I do not believe that I have ever
felt so completely in tune with the universe than I felt
that morning on Crystal Lake. It was friendly. And all of
its secrets were good.
Then, suddenly, came the awakening. We
had ridden the wind for about six miles or so and were
within two miles of the western end of the lake. When we
realized that not far ahead of us was a broad stretch of
sparkling, dazzling blue….running from shore to shore,
flecked with picturesque whitecaps. Open water….beautiful,
but carrying with it the threat of sudden death. The lake
was not entirely frozen after all, and we would reach its
open end in no time. The lake was a good 100 feet deep
there, and the temperature of the water scarcely one degree
warmer than the ice itself.
Suddenly we looked down. There was also a
change in the ice beneath us. It was transparent ….and the
water below was as black as a starless midnight. Moreover,
it was now sagging under our weight, giving out ominous
creaking and cracking sounds. We dropped our sails and made
a grotesque race for safety….half skating….half running….until
we clumsily reached the beach and collapsed on a log to
catch our breath.
Yet the whole business cut a hard groove
in my mind. I found I did not want to talk about it. I did
not even want to think about it. For what I had seen through
the transparent, bending ice seemed to be nothing less than
the heart of darkness. It was not just my own death that lie
down there…. it was the ultimate horror lying below all
life….a horror held at bay by something so fragile it
could break at any moment.
Although it does not happen the same way to
every kid….or at the same age to every kid….no one makes
it all the way through high school without some experience
where, after surviving it, one is led to say: "Whew, that
was a close one." Which means "I could have died
there.…been badly hurt there….been crippled or maimed
there….been caught and arrested there….or gotten myself in
a lot of trouble and lost a whole big chunk of my future
there." Life is full of near misses. More than once, you
and I have skated on some very thin ice.
But I promised you a second story. Same
kid. Same town. Same December. So here it is.
Story Number Two
Shortly after the experience on the lake
came Christmas. By the time I was 16, the old excitement of
Christmas gifts had, of course, worn thin. And I was about
ready to admit that the intense emotion centering about the
tree in the living room was primarily for small children
(whose ranks I was certain I had left). Yet, in some ways,
Christmas that year had an impact it had never had before.
It seemed to come out of what I had always considered a
routine observance….the Christmas Eve service in our
little village church.
Every year in the week before Christmas,
the tallest balsam which could be cut and gotten into the
church was erected on the raised platform where the choir
ordinarily sat, and it was covered with homemade decorations….looped
chains out of colored paper….white popcorn threaded on
long strings….silver stars….and metal clips holding
lighted candles. We had no electric lights in those days.
And the fire hazard represented by open candle flame must
have been enormous. But nothing ever seemed to happen.
Anyway, the church was filled with
people, and just to be in it on Christmas Eve seemed as to
be partaking in a mystery. The service was extremely simple.
There were carols….prayers, I suspect…. the reading of
the Gospel story….a few quiet remarks by the minister….the
distribution of candy canes and popcorn balls to the
youngest children….and a final hymn.
And when the wheezy organ, pumped
vigorously by a sweating young man behind the pulpit screen,
gave forth with "Joy to the World," and the doors
swung open to let us out into the winter night, it was as if
we heard the sound of far-off trumpets.
Walking home afterward….the frozen snow
creaking under our boots….and the silent air still echoing
the carols we had sung….there seemed to be an endless host
of stars whose clear flames denied the darkness. The message
was unmistakable. Life was leading us somewhere… somehow….miraculously….to
a transfiguration.
It stayed with me. I felt that I had
caught a glimpse behind the veil. I had seen the ultimate
truth. And the truth was good (or so it seemed to me at the
time).
And then I remembered that, under the ice
on my wind-driven cruise across Crystal Lake, I had seen
something entirely different. For under that ice lay an
outright denial of everything I had seen in the stars on
Christmas Eve. In the space of but a few days, I had seen
two visions….one of horror….and one of transfiguration….and
they seemed equally authentic. They spoke with equal force.
And I could not accept one and discard the other.
* * * * *
Nearly every one of you I have talked to….along
with all you Christmas letter writers out there….have told
me the same four things.
-
That this Christmas is different.
-
That this Christmas is more painful and perilous than
those previous.
-
That this Christmas is also more precious than those
previous.
-
And that the song is right….that we "need a
little Christmas, right this very minute"….even
though some of you went so far as to replace "a
little" with "a lot."
I don’t need to belabor the point. Bruce
Catton’s stories have already made it. Life is not without
its horror….or its glory.
Eight days after Jesus was born, they
brought him into the Temple for three very ancient and very
Jewish ceremonies. The first….circumcision. The second….the
redemption of the first born. The third….the purification of
Mary. All of which are interesting. But they do not concern me
here. What concerns me is this old man….this very old man….this
one Luke calls Simeon, who is hanging around the Temple on the
day Jesus is brought to it.
As you know, every Jew waited for a
Messiah. And most Jews waited with expectations that included
political dominance and military might. The argument went as
follows: The Messiah will come over and we will overcome….anybody
and everybody ….those who got in our way once…. those who
get in our way now…..and those who could ever conceivably
get in our way in the future.
But not everybody waited thusly. There were
some who were known as "the quiet in the land," who
had no thoughts of violence and no dreams of power. By
contrast, they practiced a life of gentle watchfulness and
constant prayer against the day of God’s coming. Simeon was
one of "the quiet in the land."
Upon seeing the baby, he breathed a sigh of
relief….smiled a very deep smile….and then said
(prayerfully) to God: "Thanks for the vision. Having seen
it….having seen him….I can die now." But before he
did, he said to Mary: "This is only the beginning.
Because of your baby, some will rise…some will fall….and
before this mothering business of yours is finished, your
heart will be broken."
Which it was, of course. As will all of
ours….be broken, I mean (at some time or another). But, as
Simeon suggests, we can bear the worst because we have seen
the best.
It could not have been much lovelier than
it was here on Christmas Eve. Then, about 2:45 p.m. on
Christmas day, something in me said: "Ritter, you’ve
got a few minutes. Go over to Beaumont and see Pat Work."
Which I did. And, upon walking into her room, found her dead.
It had just happened a couple of minutes earlier. Although it
was hardly a surprise.
We shall remember her at 2:00 this
afternoon. At which time I shall respond to someone’s
suggestion that the death of a loved one on December 25 could
(conceivably) spoil Christmas forever. To which I will say:
No, you mustn’t look at Christmas
through what has happened.
You must look at what has happened through Christmas.
Note: Bruce Catton’s boyhood memoirs were published under
the title Waiting for the Morning Train and, to my
knowledge, are still very much in circulation. The wonderful
quote that closes the sermon was passed along to me by Carl
Price. And it is Carl’s recollection that he heard it from
our former ecclesiastic leader, Bishop Dwight Loder.
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