Anamnesis

The long December weekend began with a call from a colleague requesting a courtesy. The request involved me looking in on a young man who had once been a congregant of his. A romantic relationship had collapsed, and the guy was distraught to the point, according to his former shepherd, of self-destruction.

"I don't think he will off himself," he told me from his study, "but I sure would sleep better tonight if you would look in on him."

I did so, and found far more than a rejected suitor. He seemed very close to making that decision beyond which there are no more decisions to make. What followed was a marathon intervention that last about 72 hours and involved a couple of clergy, a former therapist, the ex-girlfriend in question, some folks from law enforcement and a few others. It ended at an altar rail in the sanctuary of a Methodist church in south Arkansas.

After begging, threatening, showing love both tough and squishy, and a lot of what was called in olden days 'exhortation', he finally collapsed to his knees at the chancel and threw up a desperate prayer for help. I stood by exhausted and nearing the point of being as lost as he was - until I noticed something that helped me understand Christmas in a way I never had before.

Inches from his bowed head was a nativity arranged on the altar of the sanctuary. It was as cheesy and cheap-looking as any I had ever seen, but all the elements were there: virgin mother and child, attentive husband, drowsy barn animals, wise men, amazed shepherds, all positioned on the straw of the manger. The creche told The Story, and it is The Story that contained the power to change things that day ... or any day.

The nativity's absence of factual basis is obvious and flagrant, even if one adheres to strict biblical interpretation. But in countless manger scenes and Christmas pagents - in the reverence of the magi's bowed heads; in the beatific look on Mary's face; in the awed adoration of shepherds who were struggling to understand the thing that had happened; in the humility of the setting; in the sheer fact of the baby's arrival and existence - our questions may not be answered and our quests for justice and intellectual coherence may not be satisfied, but our deepest needs are met, I believe.

His birth brings balm to our wounds, and a fellow traveler to our lonely journey. It is light in the darkness. It is hope where little or none would exist without it. It is the small green shoot that struggles up out of barren soil. It is both promise and possibility. It is the only real antidote to the despair of human misery, striving, and history - it is 'joy to the world.'

The weekend had a good ending - not necessarily a happy one - but a good one. It did not have a glorious, Hallmark kind of resolution, but he came in time to accept that his present state of affairs was not his final destination. Last I heard he was doing very, very well.

And me? I came to a place that has me in tears every time I sing, "Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel."

A Merry Christmas to you all.