Authentic Faith

I’d like to take you on a trip back in time to an event that occurred in the 1960s – on a snowy Christmas Eve;

When I was a boy I attended Church and "Sunday" School (school was actually conducted on Saturday mornings … I never understood that). My parents were adhering to the good guidance of Proverbs 22:6 - "Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.".
On Christmas we would attend a midnight service which promised a great deal of pageantry and a full attendance. As a child I had mixed feelings about the midnight service. On the one hand, this was the one night I wanted to get to bed early. My philosophy about the night before Christmas was; the earlier I went to bed and fell asleep the faster the night would go by, thus accelerating the moment when I’d wake up early to sneak downstairs to behold the multitude of gifts that always seemed to magically appear in great abundance around our tree. On the other hand, Mom promised that if we ( I was one of four) behaved, stayed awake and did not embarrass her at the midnight service she would let us open ONE gift when we got home. That was incentive enough.

One Christmas Eve (I guess I was around ten years old), we set out on a particularly nasty evening. It had started snowing a fluffy, wet snow that had accumulated quickly. The temperature hovered around the freezing mark and the wind was blowing hard. The roads were sloppy with several inches of snow and slush. I was a little hopeful that our Church plans might be shelved on account of the weather … but no such luck. Off we went. It was miserable outside and we scurried to the comfort and shelter of the car. I remember sitting in the right rear seat with my face pressed against the window, my breath fogging it as I drew smiley faces and wiped them clean to see what was passing by in the wintry night outside. Dad drove slowly and was making comments on how bad it was. At one point, on a particularly dark stretch of country road, we swerved to avoid a man riding a bicycle at the edge of the road. I recall my Mother exclaiming as my Dad successfully performed the maneuver. Of all things! With my face pressed against the window my eyes widened as we passed the image of a man on his bicycle as it passed by like a gray specter in the night … his head low, shoulders mantled in snow, determined, his long coat draping dangerously close to the chain and sprocket as he earnestly peddled with jerky movements of the handlebars. Then he was gone … in our wake, like he never was. Why was he out in this and that this hour? Was he real? We settled down and arrived safely at Church.

The place was packed and it was fabulous. The Church was all brilliant with gold, silver, green and red - the choir in full robes. I always though it was odd to get so dressed up for a midnight service. I mean; corsages, three-piece suits, ties, fancy shoes … all for the middle of the night … and then you went home and right to bed. It seemed like a waste of dressing up to me.

We worked our way to our familiar seats, everyone greeting everyone in our church pew “neighborhood”, remarking on their clothes and politely asking about those who were not present … hoping everything was “okay” and all. I was the older son so, with my Dad leading the family “Von Trapp” style into our row, I posted guard in the rear, usher-like, and sat on the aisle. Male bookends. The crowd settled down and the service started as we all stood, opened our service pamphlets, the organ music rose and we all broke out in a hymn. Ten minutes later the music worship ended and we were instructed to be seated. It was time to think about the gift I would open when I got home.

Then, as the Church paused and fell momentarily silent, as if on perfect queue, one of the big double front doors to the Church opened behind us and a gust of cold wind blew in from outside. You could feel the chill half way up the aisle. I snapped my head around.

There he was! It was the man on the bicycle! He stood alone at the entrance with the night behind him silhouetting his awkward and out of place figure. He wore no tie, his overcoat was long and dark gray with dirty smudges (just like I remembered it). His face was flushed red and wet, his hair askew. He was a mess. He was a bum! Ushers hurredly closed the doors.

I welcomed the interruption, my curiosity peaked by his appearance. I craned my neck to get a clearer view of the man, trying to reconcile my memory of him from the car to what was presented before me … us. He truly was out of place. I couldn’t tell from where I sat, but be looked like he probably had a stale smell. But I was in the minority, if not totally alone, in my fascination. Faces contorted throughout the church. There were hushed, disapproving remarks. I could feel the pressure of those around me to turn around and face toward the pulpit … ignore this man. I flushed like some out-of-line soldier in a parade and snapped my head forward … for a moment.

Then something welled up from within me. It was an indignant anger of sorts that I had never before experienced. I disobeyed the pressure to face-front and turned to take another look at the man as he slinked into a back row, congregants nervously pressing in and away from him as though his filth had a force-field. And I reflected.

I knew why “I” was at church; to get it done tonight so we didn’t have to go tomorrow morning … so I could open that one present before going to bed. What was he doing here? What were any of the others doing here? My brain could only produce one analysis of that man, the church, the crowd … the whole scene. That man really wanted to be there. He was not there to impress anyone for sure since he had surely struck out on that account already. He could have satisfied any sense of obligation by watching service on the television or waiting until tomorrow. No, he was here for “church”, to worship. He wanted to be here so bad that be had peddled his bicycle in a snow storm to get here.

I will never forget that man. I can still see him peddling to church. I remember the narrow imprint his tires made in the deepening snow. I remember him every Christmas. That man’s authenticity challenged me and illuminated a hypocrisy in my young self. His example, that brief taste of his fruit gave me a flavor of authentic faith that would stay with me for life.

And God does an incredible thing; so much is His love for us, so much does He desire to be with us that He humbles Himself and comes down to us, becoming a man and living among us and then, even in His perfection, suffers and dies for that which separates us from Him. But death can not hold Him and He rises from the grave conquering death for us all and forever. What a gift. What a God!

All the best!

Bill