Notes from my Knapsack 12-23-21

Notes from my Knapsack 12-23-21
Jeff Gill

O little town on Raccoon Creek, how still…
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Bishop Phillips Brooks went on a post-Civil War pilgrimage to the Holy Land in 1868. Along the way from Jaffa to Jerusalem and on to the Dead Sea, his party visited Bethlehem, spending the night in a hostel just off Manger Square, near the Church of the Nativity built by the Emperor Justinian over the grotto where tradition says Jesus was born.

Late at night, Brooks looked out of his window onto the dark and quiet streets of that little town in the Judean hills. He saw the heavens above, and the stone below, the candle light flickering in the church windows across the way. And then he sat back down and began to write what was at first a poem.

"Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by."

Bethlehem 150-plus years ago was quiet after the sun went down and folks went to bed. During the day, pilgrims came and went, caravans were still passing through on their way from Hebron to Jerusalem, shepherds from the rural countryside passed tourists from Massachusetts and even farther afield. Manger Square and the road past Rachel's Tomb were bustling places. After dark, storefronts closed down and the streets cleared.

Two thousand years ago, how was it? The census staff closed down at dusk, the inns barred their doors, and families retreated to their homes and stables. Roads were empty, and the marketplace was quiet. Somewhere along a side street, a home for a relative of Joseph's hosted him and his betrothed, opening up a temporary lodging where her child could be born.

"The hopes and fears of all the years, are met in thee to-night."

Seventeen years ago, I remember driving slowly into Granville on Christmas Eve. The ice storm of December 23, 2004 had brought down power lines, added a thick coat of snow to pretty much everything, and by late in the day on the 24th, little light or heat was available to most people. Generators here and there allowed some Christmas Eve services to happen, along with the traditional candles. Power had been out for a while, but we knew that it would return in time.

The four corners church buildings showed varying amounts of feeble light through their glass, stained and otherwise, as did a few more on beyond the downtown core. The plows and shovelers had piled high along sidewalks and street sides the former obstacles in the roadways, and what light there was glittered off of ice and snow in equal measure coating trees and buildings and vehicles.

Twenty years before "O Little Town" was written as a poem, so too was "O Holy Night" drafted in France, by Placide Cappeau. Adolphe Adam wrote the music for it later, and John Sullivan Dwight translated the French words into English. There's a phrase in it I see alternatively "the weary world rejoices" or "the weary soul rejoices."

That's what I felt, for myself and for others, as I maneuvered around Christmas Eve that night. Power was far from restored in most homes, but the roads were cleared, and generators were out and operating, plus a night always beloved for candlelight now came into its own.

Granville was quiet and mostly still, but I could feel our weary souls rejoice. Above the deep snow-walled streets the silent stars twinkled brightly, and between them the glow of fellowship was streaming out of windows, giving hope to the wanderer.

May this Christmas Eve do the same for you in our little town.

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's happy to skip the ice part of the story repeating itself. Tell him how you've found hope in the holiday season at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.