Silent
Night (or The
Ghosts of Christmas Carols)
Rev. Mark Stringer
First Unitarian Church of Des Moines
12/15/02
Meditation
for 12/15/02
Creative
Spirit, Spirit of Life
Known
by many names spoken and unspoken.
As
the year winds down to its close
And
we are submerged once again
In
the seasonal darkness we have come to know so well,
We
have reason to think back upon the year that was,
If
only because it will soon be gone.
We
think back to the friends we have made,
The
sorrow we have endured
The
love we have found
The
loneliness we have survived.
We
think back to the blessings of being forgiven
And
the gift we offered to ourselves when we forgave.
We
think back to those who listened to us in our times
of need
And
the times we could have listened more.
We
think back to the things we traded for our time
And
to what we may have overlooked in the process.
We
think back to the times when we were afraid and
uncertain
and
we trudged ahead anyway,
and
the times when we were compassionate
when we could have been cold.
In
this season of growing night
May
we see more clearly
Against
the dark backdrop of our living
The
true light of our lives:
The
love we give to others
And
the peace we nurture in ourselves.
Amen.
Reading
"The Season of Remembrance" by
Howard Thurman
Again
and again, it comes:
The
Time of Recollection,
The
Season of Remembrance.
Empty
vessels of hope fill up again;
Forgotten
treasures of dreams reclaim their place;
Long-lost
memories come trooping back to me.
This
is my season of remembrance,
My
time of recollection.
Into
the challenge of my anguish
I
throw the strength of all my hope:
I
match the darts of my despair with the treasures of
my dreams.
Upon
the current of my heart
I
float the burdens of the years;
I
challenge the mind of death with my love of life.
Such
to me is the Time of Recollection,
The
Season of Remembrance.
Sermon
I
was having dinner with some friends the other night,
and, knowing that I would be writing this sermon
that would touch upon the role that Christmas music
can play in our lives, I asked those gathered to
recall their favorite Christmas song.
I got many responses, “The Little Drummer
Boy,” “The Christmas Song” (… you know,
“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”), “God
Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” among them.
No one there seemed to latch on to my request
with much enthusiasm, though.
Even the hosts’ children did not seem all
that interested in the question.
When we asked the youngest to sing us a
Christmas song, she kind of rolled her eyes and
mumbled through a rushed version of “Jingle
Bells,” as though she had been down this road many
times before…already “over” the whole
Christmas music scene…at the age of four.
Hearing his sister sing a few strands of
“Jingle Bells” did bring the first-grader in
from the back room, though, if only because he
wanted to sing the line about Batman smelling and
Robin laying an egg.
This
of course prompted hearty laughter. Hearing a
six-year old sing the words of a childhood
classic—even one about Batman—can invoke that
warm and fuzzy Christmas feeling as well as almost
anything else.
Let’s sing it together now:
“Jingle
Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg
The
Bat-mobile lost its wheel and the Joker got
away-hey.”
Almost
instantaneously, then my wife and I had to sing the
altered version of “We Three Kings.”
Sing along if you know it:
“We
Three Kings of Orient Are,
Tried
to smoke a rubber cigar.
It
was loaded and exploded…”
Can
any of you sing or hear those songs without thinking
of your children or grandchildren, or your own
childhood?
Music
can do that to us.
Almost instantly, it seems, music can
transport us to different times in our lives and
Christmas music is particularly good at this because
it returns every year, right on schedule, no matter
where we are, or what we may be going through. Sometime around Thanksgiving, the
Christmas jukebox of our American lives gets pumped
with quarters, and it doesn’t stop until the New
Year. This
jukebox seems to play everywhere we go:
on the radio, on the television, in the
stores, in church, and in our heads, providing the
accompaniment for the ever-developing picture
postcards that will become our memories.
As
I have thought about it carefully this week, almost
every Christmas song can remind me of a story from
my life.
“Winter
Wonderland” takes me back to my first and only
piano recital.
My teacher asked me to play a version of the
song that required my hands to dance all over the
piano. I
practiced and practiced and practiced.
And when the day came, I choked.
Big time.
My teacher had saved me, her oldest student,
for the end of the program. You can picture me at
14, an age when humiliation comes as easy as
breathing, sitting in a room filled with third
graders and their parents, wondering why I was doing
this to myself.
By the time I sat down at the keys, my clammy
hands foreshadowed the performance to come. I sloshed my way through the first
page, but only after I had stopped and started over
at least twice.
Finally I just slogged forward, knowing that
the sooner I reached the last page, the sooner
everyone could go home. In a room bedecked with
Christmas decorations, I’m sure that my bright red
face fit right in.
The
song “Sleigh Ride” reminds me of the Johnny
Mathis Christmas album I bought for my mother when I
was in first grade.
It also brings to mind when I sang it with my
high school show choir, when we would get dressed up
in tuxedo shirts, black pants and red bow ties, do
some cheesy choreography and sing Christmas music
for elementary schools and nursing homes.
And
some music of the season reminds me of things I
didn’t directly experience…except through the
television. The
touching singing of “Auld Lang Syne” at the end
of It’s a
Wonderful Life, for example.
And
who of my generation can hear “O Come All Ye
Faithful” without picturing the triumphant moment
when TV’s Carol Brady was able to overcome her
laryngitis and sing at church on Christmas morning?
In
recent years, I’ve had a lot of fun buying CDs of
the Christmas albums my family used to listen to
when I was young, albums like The Kingston Trio’s
“Last Month of the Year” and “John Denver and
the Muppets”.
I play these CDs now and I am always amazed
how the music can instantly trigger memories of the
various interiors of my childhood homes,
particularly our split-level house in Akron, Ohio. I
can see the artificial tree in its traditional
position in front of the picture window, lit with
colored lights, the family cat sitting underneath
it. My mother is cooking, I’m usually playing
video games or trying to annoy my sister.
You know, having quality family time.
Thinking
about my own memories of Christmas songs has gotten
me thinking about those that others may hold dear.
Songs that may have accompanied more trying
times than moments on a sitcom or a screwed-up piano
recital. How
about the significance of “I’ll Be Home for
Christmas” to soldiers serving overseas, or the
meaning that “Have Yourself a Merry Little
Christmas” holds each year for people mourning the
loss of a loved one?
No
doubt, each of us has a favorite song or two that we
love to sing…and maybe a couple that never fail to
bring a lump to our throat or a tear to our eyes. There may even be a song or two that make
us angry.
When
I was in high school, I was in the car with a good
friend of mine who, with great passion, switched off
the radio at the opening strains of a popular 80s
Christmas tune.
“I hate that song!” she yelled.
You see, her grandmother had died earlier
that month and the lyrics apparently hit too close
to home. The
song?
“Grandma
Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”
Last
year, my wife got so tired of hearing me sing
“Silver Bells” that she outlawed it.
Seriously.
Now before you think Susan is a music
Scrooge, let me assure you, I deserved it. For weeks
already, I had been singing the tune of “Silver
Bells”, sometimes with the traditional words, but
more often than not with silly rhymes that fit
whatever situation we were in.
I’m sure her patience was already wearing
thin because whenever I would sing it, she could not
help but join in; thereby effectively torturing herself! I clearly remember the day she had had
enough. We
were at a Christmas tree farm north of Des Moines
and had just cut down our own tree.
I had never done this before so I was teeming
with holiday spirit…and the music was flowing.
I’m sure by the time we made it past the
reindeer petting zoo, I had sung the tune of
“Silver Bells” at least a hundred different
ways. When
I started singing about “reindeer, Christmas
reindeer, dressed in holiday style” Susan grabbed
me by the arm and blurted out, “I can’t take it
anymore. You
have to stop!”
I started to laugh…and she didn’t…at
least not at first.
Which was a sure sign that she was serious.
You may be pleased to know that I have tried to
honor my dear wife’s request and have mostly
avoided subjecting her to my various renditions of
“Silver Bells,” but the song has even more
meaning to me now because it will forever trigger a
memory of that day at the Christmas tree farm.
As
each year passes and my Christmas music memory bank
continues to grow, I have grown to appreciate their
arrival, for these songs have become mileposts along
the roadway of my life.
At regular intervals, here have come the
Christmas carols, regardless of where I am or what I
am feeling. They
appear right on schedule, chock-full with memories,
with Christmas memories…memories of family, of
friends, of life itself—complete with joy and
sorrow. And
that, I have come to learn, is their gift to
me…their gift to all of us—their mere presence.
They are the recurring December soundtracks of our
lives, prodding us with annual reminders of where we
have been and where we are now, whether we like it
or not.
There
are years when we may not want to hear certain
carols, for they may remind us of things we would
rather forget…and yet, there they are anyway,
standing witness to the passage of time…the
passing of life…reminding us that, as much as we
might try, we cannot completely hide from the
past…it will always surface eventually.
Therefore, the carols serve as yearly
reminders that it is up to us to make peace with the
ghosts of the past, to live better today because we
have endured and learned from the pain of yesterday.
So what can be most annoying about these Christmas
songs is also the source of their gift to us. Why
would we want to be reminded of pain, of times when
the carols have accompanied unpleasant
circumstances?
I guess, for the same reason that we would
want to be reminded of good times, the Decembers
when the carols were the background for our
happiness.
In
this way, the Christmas carols can be great teachers
for us. Their
return each year is not a curse, but an
opportunity…an opportunity for us to take stock of
our lives. To
reflect back on what we have enjoyed and endured,
survived and learned.
One
Christmas song that encourages me to reflect on my
own life each year has been “Silent Night.”
Let’s sing together the first verse.
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.
I
imagine the song “Silent Night” means many
different things to the people gathered here this
morning. When
you hear its tune are you filled with memories of
holidays past or are you simply confused at the
thought of a holy infant in the hands of yon Virgin
mother? Are you comforted by its tender words and
melody or are you perplexed by the concept of
“heavenly peace?” Whatever the tradition from
which you hail, chances are good that “Silent
Night” means something to you, or at least provokes memories
of something. What
is it about this simple song that has enabled it to
endure?
The
tale of the first performance of “Silent Night”
may be a good place to begin, for it, like the
Christmas story itself, is a story of a miraculous
birth. On
Christmas Eve in 1818, in a small village church in
the Austrian Alps, Joseph Mohr—a 26-year old
assistant to the priest—was concerned about the
evening’s mass.
The old church organ, frequently on the
fritz, had broken down again.
It would be spring before the itinerant organ
repairman would come by to fix it, leaving the
unappealing prospect of Mass on Christmas Eve
without music. Mohr had written a poem, a simple verse
describing what he imagined the scene to be at
Jesus’ birth.
He approached his friend, 31-year-old Franz
Gruber, a schoolteacher from a neighboring village
and organist at the church. After Mohr had shared his poem with
Gruber, he asked him to set it to music so that they
could sing it together with guitar accompaniment at
the midnight service.
Thus, out of less than ideal circumstances, a
Christmas classic was born.
In recent years, the truth of this story has
been questioned by scholars who have cast doubt on
whether or the song was crafted because
of the organ’s breakdown or if it had actually
been written many days, if not months before that
Christmas Eve service. I prefer, however, to think
of the song arriving that night, as if its presence
were a gift bestowed on the writers, a gift of
inspiration from some unknown source, much like the
story of Jesus, a man whose love knew no bounds, has
been an inspiration to many throughout history.
It makes for a better story.
Because
the song was meant for a one-time event in a small
church, it was quickly forgotten.
Seven years later, a man named Carl Mauracher
was commissioned to rebuild the organ at the church.
During his work in the organ loft, he found a
handwritten copy of the words and musical notation. He then took it home to his village in
the mountains of Tyrol, where the song became
popular with the folk choirs of the region,
eventually finding its way into the hands of the
Royal Court Choir of Berlin, and thereafter, the
world. So
what began as a simple last-minute Christmas Eve
offering for a tiny church grew into something else
altogether.
The
translation most of us know, the one we sang a few
minutes ago, varies in key ways from a more literal
translation of the original German.
A more accurate translation is
Silent
Night, Holy Night
All
are asleep, alone awake
Only
the intimate Holy pair,
Charming
child with curly hair
Sleep
in heavenly peace
Sleep
in heavenly peace.
Silent
Night, Holy Night
In
the heavens the star shines
Proclaiming
the mystery is taking place
This
child asleep on the straw
He
is infinite Love!
He
is infinite love!
When
I read this translation, I get a different feel for
the point of the song.
I hear in its words an enormous sense of
potential, of unfolding mystery and love.
I hear in its words not dogma, but a respect
for the mystery of life itself…the “infinite
love” possible in every birth. It brings to mind a reading by Sophia
Lyon Fahs that we often share this time of year in
UU churches. She
wrote:
“…each night a child is born is a holy night,
Fathers
and mothers—sitting beside their children’s
cribs feel glory in the sight of new life beginning.
They
ask, “Where and how will this new life end?
Or will it ever end?”
Each
night a child is born is a holy night—
A time for singing, a
time for wondering, a time for worshipping.”
So
while I know that “Silent Night” is a song that
some of us may object to theologically, I think if
we focus too much on dogmatic details, we may be
missing a greater message.
When
I was a child, of course, theology didn’t matter
at all. Still,
“Silent Night” did not impel me toward
contemplation of the miracle of birth.
In fact, its tune mostly just affected me
like a bell affected Pavlov’s dogs.
I suppose like many of you, I was conditioned
to know that once the Christmas Eve congregation at
the family church began singing “Silent Night”,
the candles would be lit, the service would soon be
over, and I could get home…my holiday penance of
church attendance paid.
Then all I had to do was make it through the
night and gifts would be waiting for me under the
family tree.
But
when I was in college, “Silent Night,” gained
added importance.
As
a student at Ashland University, I had the privilege
to sing every December as a member of a madrigal
troupe. We
worked all fall, learning traditional carols and
English music from the 16th century and
doing our best to grow beards…the men, that
is…to prepare for a week of performances at the
annual Madrigal feast.
Each night, over the course of seven days, my
fellow madrigals and I would dress in mock-ups of
Renaissance garb, complete with goofy hats, tights,
and ill-fitting footwear, and attempt to entertain
about 200 people who paid to consume Cornish game
hens, applaud at the arrival of some kind of flaming
dessert soaked in rum, and hear music of the season.
One of the highlights of the night was the final set
of more traditional Christmas music, culminating
with a special performance of “Silent Night.”
The troupe would sing the first verse in German,
then the audience with lit candles in hand, would
join in signing the remainder in English. It was
always a touching moment.
Over
the four years I participated in the feasts, I grew
quite fond of the tradition.
My family enjoyed it, as well, making the
hour-long drive from their home in Akron one night
each December to participate.
One year, though, my mother had been
suffering one of her frequent and crippling bouts
with depression and it was unlikely that she would
be able to attend.
After years of roller coaster-like ups and
downs, it appeared as though she might be nearing
the end of her rope.
Just when I had resigned myself to the fact
that she wouldn’t be coming, she somehow got up
enough gumption to join my father and sister in
making the trip.
I don’t remember much about the performance
she attended that year, except for the end.
As
the candles flickered their eerie yellow glow, I
remember standing there in my forest green madrigal
costume made of old curtains and smelling pungent
with the years of accumulated perspiration.
My feet, clad in thin slippers to look
Madrigally, were blocks of ice against the marble
floor of Redwood Hall.
The air was lightly touched with the
intermingled smell of coffee and candle wax, and the
troupe began to quietly sing:
(sung)
Stille
Nacht, heilige Nacht
Alles
schlaft, einsam wacht,
Nur
das traute hochheilge Paar
Holder
Knabe im lockigen Haar,
Schlaf
in himmlischer Ruh
Schlaf
in himmlischer Ruh.
As
the crowd joined in, I looked out to the table where
I had reserved seats for my family and there was my
mother, my beautiful, troubled mother singing
“Silent Night.”
I could not hear her voice, yet I knew it was
somewhere in the unison mix emanating from the
makeshift community of local townspeople, friends
and families. Out
of the music, and the hazy glow of the shared candle
light, came a truly holy moment for me.
A moment of peace.
A moment of transcendence.
If only for this moment, things were ok.
My mother was there, singing, I was singing,
everyone was singing.
We were singing about hope, about miracles,
about light. Suddenly a song that had been significant
simply for its place in the Christmas soundtrack of
my life had new meaning, new depth.
I found myself connected not only to the
tune, but to the words as well.
Who cares if I didn’t believe Christ was
Lord. At
that moment, that was not what the song was really
about anyway.
In
the years since that night, much has changed.
My mother is no longer alive, my family
doesn’t get together every December the way we
used to, and I now find myself leading the singing
of “Silent Night” not as a madrigal, but
as a minister.
But singing “Silent Night” can still take
me back to that night, fifteen years ago, and has
therefore become, like many other Christmas carols,
more than just a song for me. It is an annual reminder of the fragile
gift we can be to one another…the temporary nature
of our shared lives and the blessings that life has
to offer…even in our suffering…even in our pain. The singing of “Silent Night” has
become for me annual evidence of the miracle that we
exist, that we can gather together, and share…and
love, and lose…and keep living anyway.
Am I stretching this all too far?
Maybe, but it seems to me that stretching is
what the Christmas celebration is all about.
For
one glorious season each year, one magical night,
maybe even just an occasional precious moment, what
we have lost or have yet to receive is not as
important as what we have.
And our individual lives are not as important
as our collective presence…how we are with each
other and how we choose to live.
So
this Christmas, as you gather with your families and
friends, at home or at church, I invite you to
reclaim those Christmas classics, those trite old
Christmas songs you’ve known for years, and I
encourage to you sing them with gusto.
You never know… you may be creating the
soundtrack for a treasured memory.
Closing
Words (Jane Rzepka)
“When
all is quiet and we are small and the night is dark,
may we hear the tender breathing of all who lie
awake with us in fear, that together we may gather
strength to live with love, and kindness, and
confidence.”
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