Wait and See

Based on Matthew 24:36-44
Can one truly be human and not be impatient?



We human beings have the gift of imagination which means we also have the ability to live in the future. Some of my happiest times have been those when I imagine what a party is going to be like, or what I’ll see when I open a package, or what I’ll feel when I hold my grandchild in my arms. The bliss of imagining future joys has always been one of my favorite pastimes.



Of course, it also has a dark cousin: anxiety and fear are products of the imagination that can cripple the strongest person. The one who dwells in the halls of perpetual dread knows the tortures of hell. For them, there is scarcely a sillier word of advice than the assurance, “Don’t worry.” “Don’t worry? “Who wants to worry, for heaven’s sake. But I can’t help it. I was born worrying.”



Daydreamers and doomsayers both reside in a future that rarely ever turns out the way they thought it would. But they share something in common: the dread of waiting.



Down through history, Christians have had to make peace with what appears to be an endless waiting. Many speculations have been spread abroad about the “end time”, or the return of Jesus. Although the scripture clearly states “No one knows when it will come,” such advice rarely puts an end to the speculations. So many dates have been set, and then broken, that fewer and fewer people put much stock in these announcements. Still, we are as curious as we ever were wondering, “Could this be it?” The fact that the world has not come to an end would seem proof that we could better spend our time reading “War and Peace” or painting a new “Mona Lisa”.



I have noticed two main schools of thinking about this puzzling question - “How long, O Lord, how long?” One school is eager for the world to come to an end so they can live in heaven, a paradise where death and disease and tears will be no more. The other school sees the second coming of Christ as a continuing occurrence. This latter view is a little harder to describe, but in essence, it has to do with striving to bring the Kingdom of God into being here on earth where we live and work now.



How would this work? Well, the first group basically sees human life as a temporary phenomenon. We put up with this world until we can be released and live in the “real” world of God’s house. Although we don’t want to rain on anybody’s parade, we simply can’t get too excited about issues in this world. Global warming, AIDS, over-population, economic hardships, war, poverty, drugs - those are the givens in this far from perfect world. Thus it has always been since the sin of Adam and Eve, and such it will always be. Have as little to do with it as possible. None of it really counts anyway. Given that perspective, Christ’s second coming will be the release from this far from perfect world. Be attached to nothing here since glory is only in the yet to come.



The second group sees God coming to us continuously. This world is God’s obsession. His love for his creation is limitless and he is eager for us to love it too. The poet and the artist are but extensions of the creator God. Their talents are on loan that God may bring into being that which has not been seen before. When we despise this world, we despise the handiwork of God. This includes God’s mightiest creation by the way - self-hatred spits upon the goodness of the God who gave us form and life in the first place.



When we listen to the scriptures speak of no one knowing the day or the hour when Christ will come, we may either hear this as an announcement of the possibility of a cataclysmic end of the world, a dreadful conflagration that snuffs out all of the world and its inhabitants with a few hopeful ones enjoying eternity in paradise because they’ve lived pious lives. Or, we may think of it as those serendipitous moments when Christ confronts us unexpectedly in our daily lives, bringing about a transformation of how we view ourselves or the world in which we live. This second view, paradoxically enough, is the true hopeful one, for it sees more chances for all. It sees hope for improvement. It sees doorways that invite us to new realms of possibility. It rejoices in the dawning of new ways of seeing that which we hadn’t seen, or thought of before.



The first view remembers the parable of the bridegroom barring the door of his banquet to those who arrived too late and tremble at the horror of being left out of heavenly bliss with God. The second takes seriously the caution to stay awake, stay attentive, be ready to have your eyes opened, your souls fed, even when you thought you were too late. Perhaps the doors are closed at this banquet, but who’s to say what other banquet awaits you still unannounced or undreamed of?



I remember many a feast that I missed, and was glad of it later. I remember many doors that were useless to me until I was ready to appreciate what I could find on the other side. Remember the broken heart you thought would never mend, which left you still available for a new relationship that would prove far more suitable and enduring? Remember the job you thought an ideal opportunity which can’t compare with the one you were yet to discover?



Luke speaks of Jesus meeting discouraged disciples on the Road to Emmaus. They do not recognize him. Only later are their eyes opened. How joyous they were! How their hearts burned within them. But when they do recognize him, instead of having a permanent relationship now in place, to their amazement, he disappears. They find glimpsing Jesus is a short-term affair. He will not stay confined in one particular moment or one specific place.



This realization could lead us to despair. Yet think again. It is the Jesus who goes ahead of us that beckons to us to come see what else may yet be. This Jesus, rather than seated sedately on his throne in heaven, strives in the trenches of our war fronts, labors beside our scientists in their laboratories, guides the sensitive fingers of our surgeons, grants glimpses of new color and form for our artists and fine-tunes the ears of our singers and musicians who live and move and have their being in the enveloping presence of the Holy Spirit of God.



I worship a God who has come to us, not once, but many times. And I worship a God who still comes. Our Christmas Carols celebrate one of those comings. We have yet to hear the rest of the angels’ songs. Amen.

In Whose Image

We have been pummeled in recent days with campaign rhetoric, media spin, half-truths and other examples of tortured logic, all in the good cause of seeking the victory of one candidate and the defeat of another. What wins that have occurred seem to have come too often at the defeat of solid reasoning and glimpses of truth. But all’s fair in love and war, and politics seems to fit into both categories. Lest we think this is proof of the deterioration of Western culture, we might notice the Pharisees were employing the same tricks in the time of Jesus. It’s a proven strategy: if you wish to embarrass your opponent, ask him a question that cannot be answered without displeasing somebody. This juxtaposition of taxes to Caesar and reverence for God seemed ideal for their purpose. If Jesus sides with the orthodox Jew, as he is expected to do, he will be in trouble with the Roman governors. On the other hand, if he sides with the Roman authorities, which is the expedient and politic thing to do, the Jews will be offended. Either way, Jesus will be discredited.

His reply, coupled with a bit of showmanship, seems like a simple trick of slipping through the thicket of opposing opinion. It is not really an answer. Today’s politician uses that tactic all the time. Don’t like the question asked you? Answer one you do like. “Render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar and unto God what belongs to God.” Very well: Jesus has demonstrated he is an obedient citizen as well as a legitimate son of Abraham. Put down your spears and your stones, folks: this man out-foxed you.

Unfortunately, for too many of us, this easy answer isn’t as easy as it looks. On first reading, it merely proposes we live in a society of divided loyalties and it is appropriate that we support both. Yes, we can have our cake and eat it too, if you will. However, if you push that logic very far, you find yourself in a divided world where God gets his divine due and Caesar gets his. So who gets the 54 inch flat screen TV and who gets the BMW? Well, that’s not too hard to answer. What would God do with either of them? Caesar can have the sales tax, we’ll keep the BMW.

But there’s a deeper issue here, and both Jesus and the Pharisees knew it. The question isn’t just about taxes, it’s about loyalty. Who comes first: Caesar of God? I enjoyed the days when Ken Jennings racked up a $2,500.000 prize winnings at Jeopardy. I really hated to see his winning streak come to an end. And part of the fun was to hear him freely acknowledge that 10% of his winnings were already ear-marked for his church. He didn’t question it; he didn’t seem to be trying to find loopholes that would allow him to keep a little more of his gains. His church was, no doubt, watching each day’s performance and tallying its share by the time the last commercial came on the air. Some might point out that, at two and a half million, he could well afford to give his ten percent to his church. It may have been a handy write off. That’s beside the point. I enjoyed the smile and the sparkle in his eye that suggested he had no problem paying God his dues.

There are others, however, who find such decisions foolish. Come on! That’s a lot of money. Let’s be practical here. God’s kingdom is not of this world. God does not need our shekels. Have we not already been told “The love of money is the root of all evil?” The church should have no accumulated wealth. It’s not good for it. God wants cheerful hearts, not soiled money bags. Others counter, “That may well be, but there are light bills to pay, repairs on the roof, salaries for the employees, and that takes money. Trying to decide what belongs to this world and what to the next isn’t as easy as it sounds.

Besides, dividing the world into two realities tends to marginalize God and make the religious life totally separate from this world. We are strangers on this earth. We belong to the eternal city of God. We don’t have to worry about this world and its needs. I still remember calling on the pastor of another church in the town where I lived to ask him about a possible donation to the community United Fund. His look of shock was a revelation. He quickly corrected me by telling me he and his church did not participate in such endeavors. In other words, their loyalty was to another world and not this.

I have trouble with this “two world” notion. In the very first chapter of Genesis, we are told God created this world and pronounced it good. Whatever else we may think of the manner in which this creation took place, I think we are on respectably solid ground when we affirm God made us and blessed what he made. I see nothing here suggesting we are now to despise and neglect it, use it up, and throw away the heritage of future generations because “This world doesn’t really count. We should only be concerned about escaping this earthly realm and do our best to deserve a blessed eternity in the life that is to come.” If that were really true, why on earth did God create this world in the first place?

No, this two-world concept is too divisive, it puts God too far out of our world, especially as we learn more and more about the vast reaches of the universe. I want to look again at this vignette of Jesus. We see him take a coin and ponder it for a moment and then ask “whose image is this?” The answer is clear: “Caesar”. The image of Caesar is etched on a coin. Have you stopped to think where God’s image is etched? Ah, intriguing question. The answer was read in our scripture this morning. The first chapter of Genesis, the creation story, says plainly “Let us make human beings in our own image.” The image of God resides in you and me.

Granted, theologians will quickly point out that we have fallen from that original image. We have not kept the image polished. The only one who clearly reflects the Image of God is Jesus Christ. And that point is well taken. However, the faith of the Christian adds, “Christ restored that image in us.” However we look at Jesus’ life and death, this much is clear, we have been cleansed, we have been redeemed, and we have been given the status of children of God. This may be adoption, we may not have deserved such a name originally (although I have long believed there was more of that original image in us than we’re usually given credit for), there’s no question the prodigal child has been welcomed home, the broken relationship has been mended, we now live free men and women, beloved by God and now channels of God’s love that reaches out to all the world.

The Image of God is stamped on us. We don’t “look” like God: heavens, who dares claim what God really looks like? We wear the image of God in our capacity to be like God – that is, we can reason, we can enter into relationships with one another, we can empathize, we show compassion, in a word, we LOVE. That is the important sign of the Image of God. The First Epistle of John declares this truth most clearly. “God is love, and when we love we show God”. It’s that simple and that clear.

Now hear Jesus’ answer: “Whose image is this?” Ah, render Caesar the respect and support to which he is entitled, but render to God what belongs to God. And that something is far bigger, far more important, far more powerful than mere coins. We render to God what belongs to God when we give yourselves to God.

When you approach the Joash chest this morning, you will be performing a symbolic act. You will be giving as the widow gave. Your promise to support God’s ministry through the ministry of this church is sealed with this visible token of your giving. But I hope it will be a moment for you to consider the greater gift: your life, your being, the essence of all your hopes and dreams, of your creativity, your unique view of the world, your imagination, your passion, all that makes you completely and entirely you.

Because, finally, ultimately, completely we do belong to God. Amen

 

A Fruitful Faith

based on Mark 11:12-14, 20-22



This is a puzzling story. It only occurs in Mark and Matthew. Luke and John don’t mention it at all. Mark slips it in with only three verses and then adds two more verses later. He makes no comment other than to record the disciples heard Jesus say this. Matthew, when he recounts the story, embellishes it slightly, telling us that the fig tree immediately withered and presumably died. (In Mark, the tree is found dead the next day) It seems to suit Matthew’s purpose. He likes to see God work wonders. Again, no moral is drawn from this; we must find whatever sense we can out of it ourselves.



Either way, the story remains troubling. What can we make of a Jesus who curses a tree and makes it promptly die? This is not the gentle Jesus, meek and mild we are accustomed to. This is more like the mischievous boy who appears in what we call the apocryphal gospels which is pretty much discredited by later Biblical scholars. These stories, thought to have been written centuries after Jesus, presumably by some pious monks somewhere, show Jesus getting angry with other children for not letting him play with them and telling one of them, “You won’t make it home alive.” The boy promptly drops dead. Hardly good PR for the Messiah who came to show us the mercy and love of God, is it?



Still, the cursing of the fig tree remains for us to ponder, and perhaps it will yield up a useful lesson. We might notice, for instance, that the gospels tell us Jesus was hungry. This tidbit is useful for it makes clear that Jesus was flesh and blood. He was not a heavenly being just parading around as a human being. We could forget this in our worship of the Son of God. For many, Jesus is held so high he is unapproachable. We forget he depended on his disciples. He spoke of loving one another, which implies we all have a need to be in relationship with one another. Including Jesus! After all, why would God send his son to us if he didn’t love us and ask for us to love him in return? Yes, a hungry Jesus is a metaphor of a God who wants as well as a God who gives. And by implication, a God who wants something from us must believe that we have that something, or he wouldn’t be asking us for it, now would he.



So we stand before a fig tree. Jesus is hungry. He wants fruit. The tree is not providing it. And the curse is uttered.



Is this kind of Jesus? Mark tells us the tree was not at fault. It was not the time for it be bearing fruit. Surely Jesus knew that. Then cursing an innocent tree is unkind. Are we to expect Jesus to do the same thing with us? We have our seasons too, don’t we? We have our times when we can be cheerful, generous, loving, compassionate, understanding - all the things we think of as our “better nature”. But we have other times as well. Other seasons when our faith is shaky, when our brains aren’t functioning too well, when we are frightened, or angry, or stubborn or just plain thoughtless and unable to make sense out of our lives or the world around us. Who among us escapes these very human frailties? Are we to be cursed for our very human weaknesses? We’ve heard of Jesus throwing a temper tantrum in the Temple because of the godless attitude of the money changers. We know he can be angry. And there is another intriguing episode in the gospel of John, when Jesus “flies off the handle” at the lack of faith he sees in Mary and Martha outside the tomb of their brother Lazarus. (For that’s a pretty close approximation of what the original Greek means. Our English translations tone it down quite a bit!)



What I’m beginning to see is a Jesus who has high hopes for us, has great expectations, and he is frustrated when we consistently fail to live up to those hopes. In other words, the lesson of the fig tree is not so much how Jesus has to go hungry and is mad about it. No, he’s used to that kind of spiritual hunger. He will soon hang on a cross and implore God not to be angry with we human beings who have committed this terrible deed. Why? “They don’t know what they’re doing!” Even in his dying Jesus can see and understand this. He is not a vengeful vindictive Jesus - even though the Jews had long seen God as just that. From the time of Moses their view of God was one of a supreme being poised ready to hurl destruction down on his enemies. With Jesus, that vision is erased forever.



But Jesus is clearly angry in this story. There’s no getting around it. All the disciples know it. So what is touching off this anger? Could it be frustration at a fruitless people who could do so much more if they dared to believe more? Could it be an impatient Jesus who has waited so long and is weary of how slowly we progress? Could it be that Jesus is tiring from the effort to inspire faith and hope and love in us who have no clue about the potential inside us? Thomas Merton captures this truth so vividly in his journals when he writes:



Thank God! Thank God! I am only another member of the human race, like all the rest of them. I have the immense joy of being a man, a member of a race in which God Himself became incarnate. As if the sorrows and stupidities of the human condition could overwhelm me, now that I realize what we all are. And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.



Think of it! Being the Son of God and seeing this kind of potential, this kind of glory, this kind of hope for the future in every person you meet. And then think of the repeated disappointment heaped upon your heart as you watch we human beings as the poet once put it:



The world is too much with us, late and soon.

Getting and spending we lay waste our powers.



Our scramble to make another dollar, climb another rung of success, find more ways to secure our future - oblivious to the glory that already resides in us. I can hear God crying out, “Oh my children, if only you could see. If only you could realize the harvest that lies sleeping in your souls!”



Then I understand the fig tree. It could have been so much more. That, I believe, helps me make sense out of this puzzling story. Jesus expects so much more of us because he - unlike we - can see the possibilities, can trust what we don’t trust, needs what we so reluctantly and so unthinkingly refuse to give.



This is stewardship season. We could make this about giving money. Personally, I hate money. It has a nasty way of shifting my attention away from what is really important in life – the business of recognizing and utilizing the resources that already reside inside us. But as we are often reminded in this “giving” season, true stewardship is about bearing fruit. It is about letting the riches of our intelligence, our time, our talents, our sensitivity, our skills as giving back to the world beauty and strength and hope and wholeness. We are harvesting an inexhaustible supply of goodness within, and seeking ways to bless the world with those fruits.



I have a crab apple tree in my front yard. It bears a fruit I’ve never tasted. When I planted that tree I was assured it was a non-fruit bearing tree. Why it defied its name and bears that fruit anyway, I have no idea. But I think of that tree - faithful to its nature, giving what I did not ask for, continuing to be fruitful even when I blindly ignore its gifts. It is a far better steward than I. I think Jesus would have loved my tree.



What about yours? Amen.

ATTENTION: Jesus Calling

based on Luke 19:1-10


I want you to use your imagination. Word has come that God is going to be coming to town. You can’t really believe it. There is no precedent for such an event. Angels maybe, but very unlikely. Even prophets are in short supply, and too often unreliable. What would you do?



As skeptical as you might be, let’s say you are still curious. Maybe not expecting to see anything that special, but at least to take a look at the stranger. More likely, your eyes focus on the crowds that clog the village street. That gives you some idea what to expect. If it’s the unwashed rabble, you can ignore the whole thing as unworthy of your attention. If the local rabbi is there, maybe you need to pay it more heed. Considering your wealth and your position in the community, you might be interested to see if any of your social circle shows up. Whatever you do, you may well prefer keeping a low profile until you have tested the waters to be sure you aren’t making a fool of yourself by being there. You may even be wondering why you’d show up in the first place. This is not your usual kind of event. Being a tax collector, you aren’t exactly welcome amongst your neighbors. Normally, that doesn’t bother you. You have a business to conduct, just like any other businessman. You’d be pretty bad at it if you let your feelings get involved. Widows with no resources, men down on their luck, fathers who have sick children or sons off in that secret militia of theirs - there’s always some excuse why they can’t pay their taxes. If you listened to them all ... well, you can’t collect taxes like that. And Rome is not going to excuse you from meeting your quota. If Pilate throws commoners into jail without blinking an eye, why would he hesitate throwing his tax-collector into the jail too? Everyone knows the tax-collector is the wealthiest man in the town. You pay up, and you pay up first.



So you go. You keep your eyes peeled. You try to figure the odds, even while you are asking yourself “Why should I care?” Well, why shouldn’t I care? I’m a human being, aren’t I? I’m as curious as the next guy. Only there are a lot of people who aren’t curious and could care less. They are standing out here in this dusty street craning their necks to look at a stranger, that’s all. This is Jericho. Strangers come through here all the time. Granted, they don’t usually claim to be the Messiah. On the other hand, neither has this man. It’s those disciples of his that make him look suspiciously like a holy man. It’s true, he’s done some strange things that look like miracles. Still, most of Jericho would usually ignore such a man.



In this case, there’s a big enough crowd here that you can’t see around them very well. Ah, the curse of being small. It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? That promised growth your parents said would come some day, long after you and they knew it wasn’t going to happen? It didn’t come. You knew it wouldn’t. You are old enough now not to pay attention to the teasing. You’ve heard it all before. And you’ve gotten your own back for it. Ah yes, you’ve made them pay, and pay handsomely. You’ve learned to make an asset out of your lack of height Only being in a crowd like this, it can still be a nuisance. A nearby tree looks handy. And it will cover you from public scrutiny. It might be inconvenient if people saw you staring like a wide-eyed child at a traveling magician in hopes of seeing some marvel or other. Best be inconspicuous After all, you owe it to your reputation to be above that sort of thing. You can’t be too careful.



You would never admit you had any other reason for being here, some hidden thought, some childish wish that at last you had seen - with your own eyes - a true visitor from God. You had looked for that God once, and the search was fruitless and painful. How can one go on believing in God when God so clearly doesn’t want to be seen by you? You and God aren’t friends. Can’t be. But still you wish you could be. Isn’t that ridiculous? Puzzle that one out if you can. You’ll never understand it. You do all the religious observances. You know the law of Moses in and out. You pretend to scoff at them, to act as if you’re too sophisticated and grown up to believe in those childish ideas. Yet, inside you there’s still that hurting soul that wishes it could believe. How comforting it would be.



Of course, it would be a problem too. Given the life you lead, the people you’ve cheated, the contempt you’ve had for your pious neighbors - no, you’re better off in a world where gods are just superstitious fancies. Leave your offerings at their temples if you like, but make them small so you won’t miss them. No one need ever know of that one offering you would gladly make if you could be sure that the God they all speak about was truly real.



So the crowds are thicker now, the furor more intense, and you’ve found a perch on a limb of a tree where the leaves are thick enough to keep you out of sight but also thin enough you can see what’s going on down below. When Jesus arrives, no one is more surprised than you when he stops, speaks to you directly and insists you come down out of the tree and hurry home to prepare a meal for him. This is the one thing you could never have imagined happening, and it is very embarrassing. Now everyone knows you were not only in this crowd, Jesus has chosen you to be his host for his stay in Jericho. Normally hosting dignitaries was a political function reserved for the Roman authorities. While you are wealthy and can afford the duties of a host, still you do not have the social standing such a person is entitled to. This is especially unsettling for your Jewish acquaintances because your general attitude toward things religious is well-known. No good Jew would do the things you have done and continue to do. Eating with a woman of the town would be easier to imagine than eating with you.



Then why on earth didn’t you laugh, sneer, mock this ridiculous idea? “You’ve got to mean somebody else, not me. Let your pious Jewish friends prepare your meal for you, the way Moses would insist it be prepared.” How did this total stranger convince you and make you climb down out of your tree? You didn’t have to. It’s true, you dislike scenes. It makes you uncomfortable having people scrutinizing you. Knowing all the acts you’ve committed that could blacken your name even more should they ever become public knowledge, you are always nervous when people start looking at you. So be inconspicuous, stay anonymous, shun the public eye. Perhaps it was just easier to go along with this unexpected command from Jesus than cause an even more embarrassing scene. At least it gave you an excuse to scurry home and hide your face.



You still could have turned Jesus away when he got to your door. “You were mistaken Jesus. I’m not your host. You would never be comfortable here.” Even as you survey the sumptuous surroundings of your home, the fine carpets, the silver and gold dishes, the silk hangings, you could still see they do not measure up to what the Roman palace could offer. Your staff of house slaves is far too small to accommodate Jesus and his entourage. No one could fault you for turning down this request. It was so unexpected, and so untimely. Such a feast would normally take months to prepare. The house is a mess.



Yet you work miracles with your slaves. When Jesus arrives at your door, the floors are swept, the carpets turned, the furniture ready. The cooks are well on the way to producing a fine feast, and even the best wines from your stock have been decanted and are ready to be poured. You scarcely know yourself. The last thing in the world you ever wanted to do - host a banquet for a visiting rabbi, a carpenter’s son from Galilee, along with his fishermen associates who have no manners at all - why are you so excited? What is there about this man that has made you forget Rome and taxes and jealous neighbors and stinging taunts and a whole life of never, never, never being able to measure up. You are so carried away by this impossible occurrence you find yourself volunteering to give away half your wealth to the poor and repaying four-fold any of the monies you have cheated out of your neighbors. This is not you.



And yet, this is you. To the marrow of your bones, to the core of your being, to the soul of your soul, this is the you you always knew was in you though you’d never once seen it, heard its cry, or felt its stirring. Something inside you always knew it existed. You almost danced with its leap of joy, shouted with its elation, stripped the walls of its finery and decked your guests with silks. All that stopped you was the certainty no one would understand. They would have been embarrassed, looked at each other with questioning eyes, made note of this man gone berserk and reported you to the authorities for at least deserving a reprimand if not severe punishment and demotion.



But even that would not have mattered to you - not really. For something in the tone of his voice and the look in Jesus’ eye gave you assurance beyond any certainty that what you were feeling he understood and recognized. Though born a Jew, a true son of Abraham, you had never ever belonged to this family of God. Here, now, before a disbelieving and amazed crowd, one man recognized you for who you truly were and called you his brother. You would live on that the rest of your life.



No wonder St Luke felt compelled to record this story, as bewildering and unlikely as it seems, for it fit so well his wider gospel - a story of a God who comes into our midst, calling our name and relying on us to make a space for him in our lives. It should come as no surprise that the tax- collector who once knew only one God, the God of money, should so eagerly seek out ways to give it away. For on this hot, dusty day in Jericho, Zaccheus, a lost and hurting soul was found at last. Amen

Why the Chimes Rang

There was once in a far-away country where few people have ever traveled, a wonderful church. It stood on a high hill in the midst of a great city; and every Sunday, as well as on sacred days like Christmas, thousands of people climbed the hill to its great archways, looking like lines of ants all moving in the same direction.



When you came to the building itself, you found stone columns and dark passages, and a grand entrance leading to the main room of the church. This room was so long that one standing at the doorway could scarcely see to the other end, where the choir stood by the marble altar. In the farthest corner was the organ; and this organ was so loud that sometimes when it played, the people for miles around would close their shutters and prepare for a great thunderstorm. Altogether, no such church as this was ever seen before, especially when it was lighted up for some festival, and crowded with people, young and old.



But the strangest thing about the whole building was the wonderful chime of bells. At one corner of the church was a great gray tower, with ivy growing over it as far up as once could see. I say as far as one could see, because the tower was quite great enough to fit the great church, and it rose so far into the sky that it was only in very fair weather that any one claimed to be able to see the top. Even then one could not be certain that it was in sight. Up, and up and up climbed the stones and the ivy; and, as the men who built the church had been dead for hundreds of years, every one had forgotten how high the tower was supposed to be.



Now all the people knew that at the top of the tower was a chime of Christmas bells. They had hung there ever since the church had been build, and were the most beautiful bells in the world. Some thought it was because a great musician had cast them and arranged them in their place; others said it was because of the great height, which reached up where the air was clearest and purest: however that might be, no one who had ever heard the chimes denied that they were the sweetest in the world. Some described them as sounding like angels far up in the sky; others, as sounding like strange winds singing through the trees.



But the fact was that no one had heard them for years and years. There was an old man living not far from the church, who said that his mother had spoken of hearing them when she was a little girl, and he was the only one who was sure of as much as that. They were Christmas chimes, you see, and were not meant to be played by men or on common days. It was the custom on Christmas Eve for all the people to bring to the church their offerings to the Christ-child; and when the greatest and best offering was laid on the altar, there used to come sounding through the music of the choir the Christmas chimes far up in the tower. Some said that the wind rang them, and others that they were so high that the angels could set them swinging. But for many long years they had never been heard.



It was said that people had been growing less careful of their gifts for the Christ-child, and that no offering was brought, great enough to deserve the music of the chimes. Every Christmas Eve the rich people still crowded to the altar, each one trying to bring some better gift than any other, without giving anything that he wanted for himself, and the church was crowded with those who thought that perhaps the wonderful bells might be heard again. But although the service was splendid, and the offerings plenty, only the roar of the wind could be heard, far up in the stone tower.



Now, a number of miles from the city, in a little country village, where nothing could be seen of the great church but glimpses of the tower when the weather was fine, lived a boy named Pedro, and his little brother. They knew very little about the Christmas chimes, but they had heard of the service in the church on Christmas Eve, and had a secret plan, which they had often talked over when by themselves, to go to see the beautiful celebration.



“Nobody can guess, Little Brother,” Pedro would say, “all the fine things there are to see and hear; and I have even heard it said that the Christ-child sometimes comes down to bless the service. What if we could see Him?”



The day before Christmas was bitterly cold, with a few lonely snowflakes flying in the air, and a hard white crust on the ground. Sure enough, Pedro and Little Brother were able to slip quietly away early in the afternoon; and although the walking was hard in the frosty air, before nightfall they had trudged so far, hand in hand, that they saw the light of the big city just ahead of them. Indeed, they were about to enter one of the great gates in the wall that surrounded it, when they saw something dark on the snow near their path, and stepped aside to look at it.



It was a poor woman, who had fallen just outside the city, too sick and tired to get in where she might have found shelter. The soft snow made of a drift a sort of pillow for her, and she would soon be so sound asleep, in the wintry air, that no one could ever waken her again. All this Pedro saw in a moment, and he knelt down beside her and tried to rouse her, even tugging at her arm a little, as though he would have tried to carry her away. He turned her face toward him, so that he could rub some of the snow on it, and when he had looked at her silently a moment he stood up again, and said:



“It’s no use little brother. You will have to go on alone.”



“Alone?” cried Little Brother. “And you not see the Christmas festival?”



“No,” said Pedro, and he could not keep back a bit of a choking sound in his throat. “See this poor woman. Her face looks like the Madonna in the chapel window, and she will freeze to death if nobody cares for her. Every one has gone to the church now, but when you come back you can bring some one to help her. I will rub her to keep her from freezing, and perhaps get her to eat the bun that is left in my pocket.”



“But I can not bear to leave you, and go on alone,” said Little Brother.



“Both of us need not miss the service,” said Pedro, “And it had better be I than you. You can easily find your way to the church; and you must see and hear everything twice, Little Brother–once for you and once for me. I am sure the Christ-child must know how I should love to come with you and worship Him; and oh! If you get a chance, Little Brother, to slip up to the altar without getting in any one’s way, take this little silver piece of mine, and lay it down for my offering, when no one is looking. Do not forget where you have left me, and forgive me for not going with you.”



In this way he hurried Little Brother off to the city, and winked hard to keep back the tears as he heard the crunching footsteps sounding farther and farther away in the twilight. It was pretty hard to lose the music and splendor of the Christmas celebration that he had been planing for so long, and spend the time instead in that lonely place in the snow.



The great church was a wonderful place that night. Every one said that it had never looked so bright and beautiful before. When the organ played and the thousands of people sang, the walls shook with the sound, and little Pedro, away outside the city wall, felt the earth tremble around him.



At the close of the service came the procession with the offerings to be laid on the altar. Rich men and great men marched proudly up to lay down their gifts to the Christ-child. Some brought wonderful jewels, some baskets of gold so heavy that they could scarcely carry them down the aisle. A great writer laid down a book that he had been making for years and years. And last of all walked the king of the country, hoping with all the rest to win for himself the chime of the Christmas bells. There went a great murmur through the church, as the people saw the king take from his head the royal crown, all set with precious stones, and lay it gleaming on the altar, as his offering to the holy Child. “Surely,” every one said, “we shall hear the bells now, for nothing like this has ever happened before.”



But still only the cold old wind was heard in the tower, and the people shook their heads; and some of them said, as they had before, that they never really believed the story of the chimes, and doubted if they ever rang at all.



The procession was over, and the choir began the closing hymn. Suddenly the organist stopped playing as though he had been shot, and every one looked at the old minister, who was standing by the altar, holding up his hand for silence. Not a sound could be heard from any one in the church, but as all the people strained their ears to listen, there came softly, but distinctly, swinging through the air, the sound of the chimes in the tower. So far away, and yet so clear the music seemed–so much sweeter were the notes than anything that had been heard before, rising and falling away up there in the sky, that the people in the church sat for a moment as still as though something held each of them by the shoulders. Then they all stood up together and stared straight at the altar, to see what great gift had awakened the long-silent bells.



But all that the nearest of them saw was the childish figure of Little Brother, who had crept softly down the aisle when no one was looking, and had laid Pedro’s little piece of silver on the altar.

Raymond MacDonald Alden, 1902