A Christmas Eve Story

It was a Christmas Eve about fifteen or so years ago. My family and I lived in the parsonage of St. John United Church of Christ in Cannelton, Indiana, which was located within spitting distance of the church building. Obviously, since I lived in the parsonage, I was the pastor of the church.

Christmas Eve services have always been uniquely special to me. The liturgies that I have written almost always consist of scripture readings of the Christmas story alternating with carols. The service ends with the singing of Silent Night, with the first verse sung in the original German—Stille Nacht—because of the congregation’s German heritage. As the hymn is sung, the lights in the sanctuary dim and candles held by each worshiper are lighted. By the final verses, the entire sanctuary is aglow in candle light.

I, too, am aglow with the light of the spirit of Christmas, as are the majority of those in the sanctuary. There are quite a few smiles and a bunch hugs as I stand of the steps of the church wishing each person a blessed Christmas.

That Christmas Eve fifteen or so years ago I followed my family the few steps from the church to the parsonage. It was a cold, freezing night. On the porch of the parsonage I noticed some white ice. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered what had formed the white ice. But it was no mystery I wanted to solve on a Christmas Eve; my family and I had other wonderful things to do.

As I entered the front door, I heard my wife’s voice, somewhat louder than usual, exclaim. “The ham’s gone!” In the kitchen I found my wife and sons standing by our open refrigerator door. A quick inventory revealed that not only was our Christmas ham missing, but so was a plastic gallon of milk. That explained the white ice on the porch: the thief must have dropped the milk while leaving the parsonage.

The four of us stood in the kitchen without speaking. Each of us thought about the Christmas Day meal that we had been anticipating. The warm glow of the spirit of Christmas seemed to drain from us.

We did a quick inventory of the house and discovered that only the ham and milk were missing. All of the Christmas presents remained under the tree. Even my wallet, which I had left on the desk of my study when I donned my alb and stole for the service, had not been touched. Evidently whoever stole from us was hungry.

And that made the mystery even greater. All anyone who was hungry had to do was ask me and from the emergency food closet in the church or from my own larder, I would have given them much more food than a ham and a gallon of milk. I have never understood this theft.

I thought of that Christmas Eve fifteen or so years ago when I read in Mimi’s blog that he house had been robbed the day after Christmas. I identify with her feeling of being violated—a feeling that anyone whose house has ever been burgled must share. That feeling can be especially strong at Christmas time, undermining the warm glow of the spirit of Christmas.

My story of that Christmas Eve has a rather strange ending. Christmas morning, as I was preparing for the Christmas Day service, there was a knock on the parsonage door. Standing on the porch was Hargis, the mayor of the town and president of St. John’s congregation. He handed me a ham—a ham much larger than the one that had been taken from our refrigerator the night before.

Hargis said to me, “People keep giving me these hams and I keep giving them away. I hope you and your family can use this. Merry Christmas, Reverend.”