An Echo from the Rooftop

The request comes frequently on my days with our granddaughter. “Sing Christmas song, Nana.” The whole idea of Christmas is absolutely fascinating to the lovely Madelyn Simone, now celebrating her third Christmas with us, and the tree, the cookies, the lights, and the songs all bring a sparkle to her eyes and a sense of amazement to my heart. One of her favorite songs is “Up on the Housetop,” possibly because of the motions that accompany it, especially the part where she says, “ho, ho, ho” and pats her belly like Santa. (Note: I have spared her from the family favorite, Twelve Days of Christmas with motions – small children need to be protected from some long-standing traditions).

I must admit that the Santa story does sound a bit far-fetched, especially the part where Santa enters the house by way of the chimney. Reindeers pawing on housetops around the world also stretch the imagination quite a bit, but I do have an actual Christmas Eve roof experience that holds a cherished place in my memory.  As a young teen-ager, I had the privilege of being part of a quasi-angelic choir on the roof of the First Presbyterian Church on Broad Street in Tonawanda, NY. A flat-roofed connector building joined the solid church house with the brand-new sanctuary, and the choir director decided to greet the late-night worshippers with carols from above as they arrived.  

I was new to this ensemble, finally old enough to advance to the ranks of the senior choir, and what a thrill it was to lift our voices in song to the heavens. It – the wonder of Christmas – truly did come upon a midnight clear that night. The air was crisp and cold with a few snowflakes drifting onto our shoulders – no Buffalo blizzard for once, only the gentle kiss of winter.

From a distance of more than forty years, I still remember the look of awe on the faces of our brothers and sisters as they lifted their eyes to the roof that evening. Sing, choirs of angels, sing in exultation – surely those words took on new meaning on that wintery night.

Unfortunately, our roof-top recital was never repeated – more prudent voices whispered about the weight load on the roof amidst worries of voided contractor warranties. But for one brief shining moment, we stood amidst the heavens and proclaimed the glorious message: Joy to the world, the Lord has come. Let earth receive her King! Let every heart prepare Him room. Surely, heaven, nature and the First Presbyterian Church choir sang out the good news on that long-ago starry night.

That Christmas Eve stands out in my spiritual memory as being what the Celts call liminal space or “thin space,” that time/place where God seems especially present, where earth nearly touches heaven.  We stumble upon these thin spaces, sometimes in church, sometimes in nature, and sometimes in the rocking chair as we whisper a lullaby to a “precious wee bairn.” In our overly planned world, we discover that such “thin space” can’t be orchestrated – they can only be received. Ready or not, they come, and only ask that we be present to the mystery.

I come to Christmas Eve 2012 longing for such a thin space, for myself, for our community, and for our country. We’ve lived through tragic moments, a contentious election, an ancient end-of-the-world prediction, and the losses that come with being human. In the shadow of the Newtown massacre, it feels like it has been a very long year. I long for the silence of the night, for a glimpse of the wondrous gift that’s been given, and even for a rustle of angel wings.

 

While we can’t force “thin space” to appear, we can invite its presence, as we pause by the Tree of Memory that’s been created at Corner Park, as we share in the gathering together of our faith traditions, and as we light a candle in the darkness. And as I enter the sanctuary for Christmas Eve worship, I’m going to look upward and listen for an echo from the rooftop.

 May your Christmas be blessed with grace and thin spaces.