Day 13—The Christmas Rainbow

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 13

Rainbow watchers.

I had a lot of them at the little white church I served—men and women who after a storm would search the sky for the brilliant rays of red, orange, green, yellow and blue.images

And once the rays were found, I would get text messages with pictures and comments such as, “God’s promises arching over us” or “God smiling down upon us.”

I’ll admit it. I became one of those “rainbow watchers.” I just couldn’t help it because the rainbows in that part of the country were some of the best ever.

Perhaps it was the vast expanse of hills and valleys all around us that made the rainbows seem closer to us than they really were. Or maybe the air was a bit cleaner as there was not that many cars giving off fumes or factories poisoning the air and so we could see God’s palette of colors even better.

Whatever it was, every time it stormed I, too, searched the skies for God’s message of hope to come after the storm was over.

One memorable rainbow came one summer evening. A vacation bible school meeting had just ended with more time taken than usual to pray for the children God would send to us. This time of prayer continued in the parking lot when a few of us, still lingering about, felt the Spirit move and so we prayed some more. (I believe we can never have enough prayer and, boy, was it a blessing to serve a community where impromptu church parking lot prayers happened more than the usual church parking lot squabbles in which churches are notoriously known for.)

So we prayed some more for God’s Spirit to pour out upon us so that we could be used as instruments for reaching the children in our midst.

On my drive home a storm had rolled in quickly and before I could even search the sky for a rainbow, the message alert on my phone dinged. There on my screen was a picture of not just one rainbow, but two rainbows, side-by-side, arching over what looked to be directly above our little white church.

The rainbow was also rare in the way that it was a complete bow, not just part of a bow. It was a leprechaun’s dream rainbow as it clearly had a beginning and an end that one could imagine led to that fabled pot of gold.

The message underneath the picture read, “Look at this, Pastor Donna! God’s reassurance that He has heard our prayers!” It certainly was a blessed reassurance that God was hearing us. And vacation bible school saw many kids attend and learn about Jesus.

Summer turned to fall and fall turned to winter and the rainbow sightings grew fewer and fewer as the season changed.

By the time Christmas approached I wasn’t gazing too much up at the sky searching for rainbows. After all, who finds them in the winter? I never did. No, there would no more rainbow reassurances from God in these wintery skies.

“But, God,” I whispered, “I could REALLY use some reassurance that you are here.”

It was December 21, 2012 and I had a huge weight on my shoulders. In three days I would be preaching about the gift of a Savior born to us and yet I just couldn’t get my mind off of the children who were killed just a week before in a school shooting in Connecticut.

What would I say about the holy night in which God came to us in flesh when lately it seemed as if God incarnate was as fabled as the leprechaun’s pot of gold at the end of a rainbow? In just three days I had to preach about hope born again in our lives.

And so on December 21 I was driving to the grocery store to pick up some items for the caroling dinner the little white church was hosting that night. I was feeling a bit stressed as I wasn’t able to wash my hair or have a hot cup of coffee or enjoy the lights on my Christmas tree because an early morning rainstorm blew through the area. In its path it left behind broken tree limbs and no electricity.

My attitude was not great at all. Not only could I not have a shower and a cup of coffee, I had wanted to write my Christmas Eve sermon, but I had, yet again, forgotten to charge my laptop and so I was even without that.

As I drove the winding road I noticed something beyond the valley arching over a quintessential New England red barn.

A rainbow? This time of year? So close to Christmas?

It was indeed. Its beautiful arches hovered over the land and the colors rivaled even the most precious of stones that I have held in my hands as a young jewelry editor in Manhattan.

I pulled the car over so that I could call my mom. I just had to share the news about this incredible rainbow!

My mom answered the phone but before I could even tell her the reason I was calling she rushed me off the phone with the quickest of explanations. At that very moment the rainbow appeared, my mom was watching on the TV the moment of silence and the ringing of the bells for the children and teachers killed a week before in Connecticut.

I hung up the phone and stared at the rainbow. I looked at the clock in the car. It was exactly the time in which the shooting took the lives of these innocent people, and now here before me was a sign of God’s reassurance that hope does come after the storms are over.

I had my Christmas Eve message:

Years ago God’s announcement of hope breaking into our lives came with the appearance of a brilliant star in the East. The star of Bethlehem, pointing brilliantly to the one who would bring light to our darkened world—pointing to the Christ Child.

I’ve always stared up at the sky on this holy night, wishing that I could somehow be granted a glimpse of such a sign of reassurance that God is still at work in our lives. And I know many of you are looking this day for such a sign. If only we could see that star or see something to know that all will be well.

But, my friends, God is still reassuring us that He has not become to deaf to our cries. Some of you saw that incredible rainbow three days ago. I saw it, too. But what you might not have realized is that rainbow appeared in the sky at the very moment our nation paused in silence to pray for and remember those lost in the evil that struck the school in Connecticut. For those who say God has forgotten us, I say, open your eyes and open your heart. Believe. For a rare Christmas rainbow appeared right before us—God’s reassurance that hope will always break through as it did this night so long ago. God is still speaking in the brilliance of a star, a cry of a newborn baby in a manger, in the songs of the angels, and, in a rare Christmas rainbow.

May you leave here tonight reassured you do not leave alone. God is with you, as promised.

I still find myself every now and then watching for rainbows after a storm. But what I look for even more are signs of God’s reassurances that I have learned come in the most unexpected ways—just like that rainbow days before Christmas.

 

Day 12—The Broken Ornament

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 12

There I was in my office at the little white church just sitting at my desk, not being very productive. My mind was preoccupied with something silly really—something that happened earlier in my day that I just couldn’t let go of.Unknown

I was once again rushing out the door, something that never happened when I was an editor living in New York City. Back in my secular days, I was always organized and early for appointments, often leaving at least 30 minutes leeway in my schedule so I would not experience this frenzy of rushing about. With extra time to spare I would be able to enjoy some window-shopping or people watching on the busy sidewalks of Manhattan dressed in holiday cheer.

Now as an ordained minster of word and sacrament, it seemed as if I was always running late for something. I guess I was letting the old joke, “They can’t start without you pastor” go to my head.

“Someday they probably will start without me,” I mused.

Anyway, there I was rushing around to throw my laptop in my bag, an apple and a yogurt for lunch (I was trying to offset the abundance of Christmas sweets that were coming my way from all the wonderful cooks the little white church was blessed with), my large thermos of coffee and other papers to read and catch up on.

I had yet to put on my snow boots and so I ran about the house in my socks, which was not a good idea when your floors are 18th century pine boards with a downhill incline perfect if you wanted to do some indoor skiing.   My foot slid on one particularly slick old plank that slanted in the direction the Christmas tree. Before I knew it I was sliding straight into it. Crash! On the floor it went, along with the ornaments.

I just didn’t have time for this catastrophe. I calmed my nerves and picked myself up off of the floor to assess the damage done. Not too bad, so I thought. Upon picking up the tree and setting it upright again, I noticed underneath it was a broken ornament that broke my heart.

It was the porcelain heart my boyfriend, John, gave to me the last Christmas we had together. Little did I know just two months into the New Year, he would be killed in a freak jeep accident in Africa.

“Nooooo,” my heart silently wailed. “Not this ornament.”

I didn’t have time to cry over a broken ornament so I just wrapped it up in a paper towel and threw it in my bag along with everything else, hoping to take a closer look at it later on to see if it was able to be repaired.

As I drove to church I kept saying to myself, “Don’t cry over an ornament. It’s just an ornament. It’s just a material thing. It’s not worth the tears. I don’t need an ornament to remember John.”

But now here I was at my desk feeling sad about the ornament I now held in my hand, which, upon closer look was broken beyond broken. The sharp shards of glass pricked my skin as I lovingly touch the pieces. I tried fighting back the tears but it was no use. They came.

“Why this ornament of all ornaments?” I wondered.

Just then a soft knock came at my door. I looked at the clock on my desk and noticed school was just let out and so I had an inkling who it was at my door.

The kids in the village I served often swung by on their way home from school to hang out with the pastor. They especially loved writing messages and drawing pictures on the dry erase board hanging on my wall. There was many a Sunday morning I would walk into my office to find the most beautiful message from the kids.

“Come in,” I said, quickly wiping away my tears.

Sure enough the “girls”—as I called them—came barreling in, talking a mile a minute and going straight for the markers to the dry erase board. Still holding on to the ornament, I joined in on the tween talk of the day about the latest song downloaded on their phones, what was served for lunch in the cafeteria and, can you believe who’s dating who? No way!

I noticed, though, one of the girls was uncharacteristically quiet. Typically bubbly, she sat in a chair not taking part in the dry erase board party going on. Before I could ask what was bothering her, she spoke.

“Pastor Donna, do you believe God can put together broken hearts?” she asked.

What a question to get as I literally held the pieces of a broken heart in my hand.

“Yes, I believe God can put together broke hearts,” I said, hoping to sound convincing in which, judging by the look she gave me, wasn’t convincing at all.

“The Bible tells us God binds up the brokenhearted,” I continued. “And Jesus himself said ‘blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.’” I was drawing upon all the scripture I could think of right then and there.

Still this typically bubbly girl didn’t look convinced. I then asked why she asked such a question. All my years in seminary and my clinical pastoral education did not prepare me for what came next. A young cousin of hers was killed and she had recently gone to the funeral and she was struggling with that dreaded “why?” question adults can’t even make sense of, let alone a young girl.

With pieces of the ornament in my hand, I remembered something John once said about how it’s only when our hearts are broken can Christ enter in and do something beautiful in our lives. I had my answer for this girl with her own broken heart.

“Not only do I believe God can put together the pieces of our broken hearts, I know for a fact God WILL and, in the process, God will do amazing things. For the brokenness leaves room for Christ to enter in and make something beautiful,” I said.

I then opened my hand and showed her the ornament John gave me on what was our last Christmas together. I told her about John and my own loss. I told her about the ornament and how it broke that morning and how I knew it was silly of me to cry for our loved ones are always held safely in our hearts. I then reminded her that Christ, whose birth we celebrate, was born exactly for this—to give us hope in the midst of our sadness.

With her eyes still wet with tears for her cousin, she leaned forward to take a closer look at the ornament and its many broken pieces.

“Pastor Donna, that sure is a lot brokenness in your hand. Jesus is really going to enter into your life and do something amazing,” she said with what might have been the first smile she smiled that day.

She didn’t know how true her words were. Amazing things were to come. Amazing things will always come when there is room for Christ to work in our lives.

The girls soon left and as I went to leave as well I noticed the dry erase board message the other girls were working on. It read:

Jesus heals our broken hearts.

And now insert one huge smiley face, one very large heart and a few “xoxo’s” that went along with that message.

 

Day 11—The Prayer Tree

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 11

A silence fell upon the room. A request was made that no one really wanted to step up to and see through. A woman at my table waved to the waitress to order another glass of wine. A good diversion on her part, I thought, pondering whether I, as pastor, could order a glass of merlot with her. Hmm…better stick to my diet Coke. Others around me glanced down at the meeting agenda before them feigning interest in what was to be discussed next.

It was the first Wednesday of the month Chamber of Commerce meeting held in the village tavern, where one could get a really juicy mushroom and Swiss cheese burger with a side of some of the best onion rings I have ever tasted. Perhaps the promise of hamburgers and onion rings was the reason I became active in the Chamber of Commerce, as it was a great way of killing two birds with one stone. I was fulfilling the “being part of the community” part of being a pastor while satisfying my love for greasy pub food.

The room was still silent and for a second I found it amusing how the local business owners gathered for the meeting tried not to make eye contact with the Chamber president. The question he asked lingered like a low hanging cloud.

Who will take responsibility for decorating the gazebo on Main Street? Any takers? Any one?

More glasses of wine were ordered and eyes continued to divert eye contact with the one asking the question.

Before I knew it, my hand went up and I could hear my voice saying something my head really didn’t have time to think through carefully, “The little white church would love to decorate the gazebo.”

Smiles from the Chamber president came and sighs of relief were let out from others.

Did I really just volunteer the church to decorate the village gazebo?

We were already very busy with Advent Bible studies, after school programs for kids, a Christmas cookie sale, packing shoeboxes of toys for a mission project, a caroling dinner scheduled and, for the first time in the little white church’s history, two Christmas Eve services were being planned along with a new Christmas Day service. Of course, there were the Christmas Eve luminaries to also coordinate and put together. Now who was in charge of getting the kitty litter to fill the paper bags?

What in heaven’s name did I do?

God’s answer was to come.

For while having one more thing on the church calendar was not ideal, it turned out decorating the village gazebo was a blessing for both the church and the community it served, as it got us out of the confines of the sanctuary and into the heart of where people were—on Main Street, going about their day, making a trip to the bank, the hardware store, the wonderful little café with the best homemade chocolates and the consignment shop, etc.

In the midst of daily life in the village, the folks from the little white church were doing more than just stringing lights on a gazebo. They were shining their lights out to the community, showing they cared just as much as to what was happening on Main Street as what was happening within the four-walls of the church.

As we strung greenery and lights around the gazebo, villagers would stop to say hello and chat and, as I precariously balanced on a ladder to hang a red bow high up on one of the lampposts, I noticed something.

I noticed the beautiful steeple of the white church peeking over at me and realized how much of a beacon of hope the church has been for centuries to those who called this village home. It was then I knew we had to do more than just hang greenery and lights around the gazebo. And so with a fir tree stuck in a pot at the entrance of the gazebo in which the town dropped off earlier that morning, I came up with an idea. Or more like it, God’s Spirit spoke to my heart as to what to do.

The little white church would decorate the village tree with prayers, many prayers and blessings for neighbors and friends who loved their village dearly.  808_10151275465554650_1226466341_n

So one night we gathered the youth and the children of the church and with permanent markers in a variety of colors and weather resistant foam sheets, Christmas ornaments were created in the shapes of stars and crosses and hearts. Written upon them were our prayers for all in the village. When we were done, we put on our coats and made our way just up the street to the gazebo where we finished decorating.

Yes, the little white would love to decorate the gazebo, I volunteered, not knowing what I was getting our church into. But God knew exactly what we were to do.

We decorated the public tree with the promises of God for all to read and for all to remember that God had not forgotten the once thriving village that now struggled as so many little communities now struggle all throughout our country. God had not forgotten those who called the village home, sweet, home.

A few days before Christmas I was having the desire to have my mushroom and Swiss cheese burger complete with the best onion rings I have ever tasted. I just couldn’t wait till the January Chamber of Commerce meeting.

As I walked from the church to the tavern to pick up my order, I passed the gazebo and the prayer tree. There standing in front of the tree was an elderly lady with a little child. She was leaning down gently speaking to the child who I could hear, as I came closer, was asking about what the ornaments said. Each ornament the child pointed to, the woman read the prayer out loud.

It is an image I will forever hold in my heart for it was a moment when I experienced Christ’s church becoming once again a vibrant and vital witness out into the public, where our witness to God should be.

The woman noticed me staring at the beautiful scene she unknowingly gifted me with and she smiled and said, “This tree is such a blessing. God is indeed with us. God is good.”

I smiled in agreement and went on my way. I had a mushroom and Swiss cheese burger with the best onion rings I have ever tasted waiting for me at the tavern.

God is good. All the time.

Day 10—A Christmas Prayer For the Children

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 10

The other day while scrounging around a beat up cardboard box filled with Christmas ornaments and other miscellaneous seasonal trinkets, I stumbled upon something I had long forgotten.

In the bottom corner, wrinkled up and wedged between a musical snow globe and an iron Advent wreath candleholder, was a piece of paper with my very own scribbles on it. Was it the missing Christmas list I had searched for years ago? Was it a grocery list for the Christmas cookies that never did get baked one year? Or was it simply my random thoughts for a future Christmas Eve sermon?

It was none of the above.

On the tattered paper was my prayer for the children at the little white church that I had written many years ago on what was one lonely Christmas night.

My parents and brother had just left to return to New Jersey and so it was just Sully, my big fat cat, and myself. (This was early in my ministry when I was still living in my 1700’s Saltbox as a single girl who was just getting used to her new role as country pastor.)

The snow was gently falling and I had lit all the candles on the colonial sconces that graced the walls of the old house. I pulled the rickety rocker left behind in the house when I bought it up to the window and sat down and gazed at the sun setting quickly over the rolling hills that once used to see buffalo grazing on them. Yes, locals, upon hearing where I lived would say, “Oh, you’re right where the buffalo farm was!” Soon that vacant farm next to me would have new tenants in the coming year—alpacas.

As I stared out the window I reached for a pen and a piece of scrap paper that was sitting on top of the just-as-rickety-as-the-rocker pedestal table also left behind in the house when I bought it. It was then I began to write this Christmas prayer:

Kids at the White Church,

We have only begun our journey together but I want you to know that I already love each one of you dearly and I pray that you will come to know what I have come to know.

Jesus, the gift we celebrate at Christmas, is a gift not to be packed away with the rest of the Christmas ornaments. Jesus is a gift of love sent by God to you, who God loves so much.

I pray you come to know Jesus as your best friend as I have come to know him as. The friend who will be there for you always to celebrate the accomplishments to come in your lives, to ease the heartache that will come, to wipe away the tears that will also come and to keep lifting you up higher and higher whenever you fall—because that’s the kind of friend Jesus is.

And so my Christmas prayer is you will be best friends with Jesus. I will be praying hard for that to happen. But know this, the friendship is up to you to receive and to nurture.

So be open to all that God will do in your life and most of all trust with all your heart that God knows what God is doing, because I speak from experience, life can get pretty confusing at times.

Keep your hearts opened and most of all never doubt for one moment that you are loved beyond love and accepted for just as you are—because that’s the kind of friend Jesus is. He accepts us and forgives us, but he also wants to see us strive to do our best to glorify him. Doing our best doesn’t mean being better than others or excelling at some talent we have or being perfect. Doing our best means simply offering our best in whatever we do for him.

One of my favorite songs is “Little Drummer Boy,” the story of a poor boy who realized he didn’t have any special gift to give Jesus. All he had was his love for playing his drum. And so he began to play for God’s son. As the song goes, he played his best for him. When the drummer boy was done playing, something wonderful happened that we should all want to happen in our lives.

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Jesus smiled at the drummer boy.

And so as I sit here Christmas night I lift a prayer for you, the children who have come into my life at the little white church. I pray that you will someday experience the beauty of Jesus smiling at you just because you simply offered your best to him.

Blessings,

Pastor Donna

I am glad I found that long-forgotten Christmas prayer for the children, for it is a prayer that needs to be prayed for all our children—of all ages—this Christmastime.

Then he smiled at me.  Pa rum pum pum pum. 

May we give Christ our best for who doesn’t want to see a friend smiling back at us?

 

 

 

Day 9—Making Room for Christ

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 9

On one blustery afternoon as the sun began setting in the sky casting a dusky pink across the fields where the corn stalks had been cut down, I came home to grab a quick bite to eat before heading back to the little white church for our evening Advent Bible study.

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Pastor Donna discovers the beauty of a tree with no decorations and, in the process, realizes what it means to make room for Christ during Christmas.

I decided to have a supper of crackers and peanut butter so that I could use my limited time at home to set up the Christmas tree that had been waiting for far too long outside, propped patiently against the old stone well of the antique Vermont house my husband and I were now making our home in as newlyweds.

On went my Mucks and out into the snow I trekked to bring in the tree. Once in, off came the Mucks and on went my sneakers as I gingerly made my way down the steep ladder that served as the “stairs” leading into the old root cellar. Down in the cellar, in the dark corners only illuminated by my flashlight, I searched for the tree stand, praying I would not find a critter—fuzzy or slithering—instead.

Once I had everything I needed, I went to work, carefully balancing the tree with one hand as I tightened the screws that would hold the trunk of the tree securely in its place in the tree stand. This would have been a lot easier if I had waited for my husband, but patience admittedly is not one of my virtues. And time was ticking by. I had a lot of other things to get done. In the darkening living room I worked quickly to put the white lights on the tree. Quickly is an understatement as really I threw the lights on with many tangles and knots still tangled and knotted. Then I plugged them in hoping the lights worked as I had forgotten to test them before stringing them on the tree. Never a good idea, but luckily, all the lights shone.

I stepped back and I looked at the tree. It was absolutely beautiful. The lights cast a warm glow against the rustic barn wood of the living room walls and the simplicity of evergreen and white lights, without any ornaments, was dazzling.

Next to the tree was an old wood storage box a woman from the congregation gave me that summer, along with a dry sink she had in her family that she thought would be perfect for our little Vermont home. She was right. It was perfect. The dry sink was now home in our kitchen while the wood storage box now served as a coffee table in our living room. On top of it I placed the wooden stable my father made for me years ago when I was still living in Manhattan.

The stable was a smaller replica of the one he made that I remembered from my childhood. Both the original and my replica were made from the wood of orange crates, which were then stained a deep rich brown. The stable was still empty, as the nativity figures were not placed in it yet. Next to the stable was an angel standing with arms stretched out. I couldn’t decide if the angel’s arms were stretched out to receive the Christ Child or to proclaim the great news of the Christ Child. Perhaps it was both, I mused.

The lights of the tree shone through the clapboards of the stable, casting much needed light into its darkened corners that awaited the gift of hope—the babe, God’s son. All of a sudden, as I stared into that empty manger aglow with light, the busyness of my day was calmed and my racing thoughts of what I had to do next faded away.

There I stood with the smell of evergreen, the white lights shining and a stable waiting to be filled with the joy of little baby. No tinsel. No ornaments. Not even a star on top of the tree. I stood in the midst of the simplicity of the season experiencing something I very rarely experience this busy time of year. I was experiencing peace.

It was then I realized the peace of Christmas is something we must not wait to come to us. It is something we have to actively seek out and create. It is something we have to choose to bring into our lives by slowing down, saying “no” to too many commitments, and even allowing ourselves the permission, if we want, to simply leave white lights on a tree without the decorations.

For when we embrace the beauty found in the simplicity of undecorated tree, when we pare down all the busyness that we think heralds in the holidays, we discover what “doing” Christmas is really all about: It’s about keeping things simple in our complicated lives so that finally there is room for Christ in our hearts.

Just then my thoughts were interrupted as I heard the dog barking at the back door, greeting my husband home from work. My husband peeked his head in from the kitchen and smiled.

“The tree looks wonderful,” he said, not even noticing there were no decorations on it.

“It does look wonderful. I don’t think we need to do anything else to it, do you?” I said.

“Nope,” he said, not even giving the tree a second look.

I looked at my watch. It was time for me to go. On went my snow boots and off I went to our Advent Bible study at the little white church. I couldn’t wait to get there because I just couldn’t wait to share with those gathered there that night the powerful gift I had received—the gift of peace that came wrapped in simplicity.

In our little Vermont home, Christmas was indeed happening. Room was being made in our lives for Christ.

 

 

Day 8—Who’s Lighting the Advent Wreath?

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

imagesDecember 8

Perhaps the lighting of the Advent wreath is a sensitive subject for me or maybe, just maybe, life’s circumstances have made me ultra aware of the “others” in our midst who we often overlook for one reason or another, especially in the season in which we prepare for Christ’s birth.

As a child sitting in the pew of the Congregational church my mom and dad took us kids to, I had to watch my church school nemesis be the star of the candle lighting liturgy every year, all the time wondering why I wasn’t up there doing it with my family? I never really did get an acceptable answer from my mom as to why and so I continued to wonder? Was it me? Was I not to be trusted with fire? Was it because my older brother had a disability and didn’t fit the picture of a family who should light the Advent wreath? Why weren’t we up there?

So when the time came for me as a pastor to help line up families to light the candles on the wreath I made sure I wasn’t going to fall into the trap many of our churches fall into. I wasn’t going to go for the ooh and ah factor of having the family with the cute little tots up there around the wreath. I wasn’t going to reinforce what the church thinks is hope in the future—young families with adorable token children in tow.

Christmas is a wonderful season for children. And, of course, it is a blessing to see families bringing up their children in the faith. But the message of Christmas is one that should remind us why God had to send His Son Jesus to us—because we are far from perfect.

We are broken. Families are fractured. Divisions are the norm and heartache seems to come more so than joy at times. Jesus had his own Christmas list of what to bless us with. That was to bring hope to the hopeless; to feed the hungry; clothe the naked; visit the lonely; comfort the grieving; welcome the stranger; etc.

So what better way to tell the beautiful story of Christmas than by inviting those who Jesus came to save and comfort to light the candles around the wreath?

And so as Advent approached I decided to present to the congregation what God’s picture perfect family of faith really looked like.

One year I asked those who are often forgotten at Christmastime to light the candles—men and women who were single and trying their best to smile even though the holidays accentuated the ache in their lonely hearts all the more.

I made sure the woman who was in her 40s and aching for a child of her own lit the candle of hope. I knew her struggle and so when the light of one flame shone on her face, I could swear it was God’s light kissing her tears away.

I made sure the one who was recently divorced had the chance to light the candle of peace, letting that promise of Advent enter into her heart and ease the discourse that had been in her life.

For the matriarch of the church whose feeble body made her feel as if she was no longer of use to anyone, she was the one who slowly walked up to light the candle of joy, a reminder to her and to all who watched that God was not yet done with any of us. And so the Advent line up of less than picture perfect families made their way to the Advent wreath each week to light the candles.

But perhaps the most powerful of all Advents was the year those who had recently lost loved ones were invited to the Advent wreath. Candle after candle was lit and the light of Christ’s Advent promises mingled with another promise—we are never alone. We have God and we have one another, a mish mosh of folks called together to be “family” to one another and who, in the sharing of our weaknesses, our struggles, our doubts and our insecurities, we find strength.

Who’s lighting the Advent wreath? The children of God who are telling the story beautifully as to why God sent his Son to us, that’s who.

 

Day 7—Hanging the Greens

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 7

I was told to prepare to be wowed. I was told it was going to be like nothing I have ever seen. I was told it was one of the many things that made the little white church I was serving as pastor special.

Early in Advent the church had a tradition of hanging all the Christmas greenery as part of its worship service. Now I was a bit perplexed when I heard it was part of the actual service. How? When? Where? What? So many questions because I’ve never heard of such a thing before nor have I seen a church get “greened” right before my very eyes.

When I was a child the ivy and holly and poinsettias and Christmas tree always seemed to miraculously appear from one Sunday to the next. In my childlike awe, I just presumed it was Santa’s little elves at work making the church pretty for the season.

Those elves of my childhood seemed to be at work as well at the Fifth Avenue church I worshipped during my time living and working as an editor and reporter in Manhattan. One Sunday the doors were bare and the next, poof! Wreaths appeared from nowhere and greeted you with festive cheer.

Later on when I heeded God’s call to serve in the church, I realized the greening of a church did not involve the magic of Santa’s elves. Rather the decorating was more an adventure of getting volunteers to spare just a few minutes either on an weekday evening or a Sunday after worship to help get the church ready for Christmas. This feeble call for decorators was often helped by the promise of pizza afterwards. Food has a way of bringing out the volunteers.

“No, pastor, we really do decorate the entire church during the first hymn,” was the reply I got back from members of the worship committee when I asked for what might have been the twentieth time as to how this was all going to happen?

I guess my lack of comprehension was amusing for eventually the members of the little white church decided not explain to me anymore about how it would be done. Instead, they gave a knowing smile to one another and then a reassuring smile to me, their pastor, and said, “Don’t worry about a thing. Just wait and see.”

The Sunday came and the hymn to hang the greens by began to play. The tune was the familiar “Angels We Have Heard on High” but the words were completely foreign to me. The words, written many years ago by a member of the church, sang of the meaning behind the greens, talking of God’s love as everlasting—and as evergreen—as the swags being strung from the balconies that wrapped all around the early Colonial sanctuary.

The new verses to the familiar tune continued to be sung. I eventually stopped trying to sing for I just wanted to take in all the magic going on right before my very eyes.

On one side of the balcony there stood the testimony of time as father, son and now grandson stood together to be part of this beloved Christmas tradition. I stared at the three generations working together and realized there before me was a powerful illustration of what handing down the faith was all about—sharing the traditions, the stories and working to glorify God together, side by side. I looked at men and women who all of sudden stood up from their pew with evergreen in their hands ready to wrap the ancient pillars of the church. Even more people came up to where I was standing on the chancel and from behind the ornate wooden pulpit chairs, large wreaths appeared and were hung on either side of the chancel.

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My husband, PJ, helps hang the greens from the balcony in the little white church the first Christmas we were married.

By the time the last verse was sung—or the first verse repeated if more time was needed to finish the greening—there was not a dry eye or the lack of a beaming smile coming from all in the sanctuary. Everyone looked at one another and at the beauty that surrounded them. Joy filled the air.

There before us, in the greening of the church, was the great Christmas message of how God breaks into our hearts with hope. There before us was the reminder that if God can transform a barren sanctuary into something glorious in just the singing of a song, imagine what God wants to do in our own lives? For one second we might be crying, we might be complaining, we might be walking in what seems to be a never-ending road of darkness, but then in a blink of an eye the promise of God’s everlasting love can—and will—appear. And here was the most important reminder seen in the hanging of the greens that took place as part of the worship service. God often breaks into our lives through the hearts and hands of others. God uses his beloved community to bring about miracles as small as making a little white church ready for Christmas to as big as making those in the world ready for Christ.

I was told to prepare to be wowed. I was told it was going to be like nothing I have ever seen. I was told it was one of the many things that made the little white church I was serving as pastor special. And everything I was told exceeded this pastor’s expectations.

Thanks be to God.

 

Day 6—The Gift of a Silent Night

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

4_silentnight_jackdornothingDecember 6

Bible study had wrapped up for the night and as I walked out the church parking lot with the others I couldn’t help but to notice how beautiful the night was. The stars were bright and hung so low it seemed you could actually reach out and grab one. The wintery air, while brutally cold, was still refreshing and I made sure to take a few extra breaths before getting into the car.

Winter was always my favorite season and this, my first winter up north, was indeed one amazing blessing to me. Everything from the bright stars to the crisp air to the crunch of the snow beneath my feet just seemed to be special presents from above.

Once in the car, I turned on the heat and then the radio before pulling out of the church driveway to head home.

As I drove the desolate country roads home, the magic of the night continued when I noticed the sight of some stray cows making their way across the field to join the rest of their bovine family who were already in the barn settling in for the night.

Suddenly “silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright” which was now playing on the radio, took on a new and deeper meaning for me.

As a little girl the words to this Christmas hymn were just that: words. Words that told of some elusive night that one could really only sing about, but very rarely would be able to fully experience.

Silent night, holy night was a fantasy. I grew up in a less than silent suburb where the New York City skyline was in our backyard. Streetlights dimmed the starlight and traffic whizzing by made nights far from holy. And so this dear-to-my-heart Christmas hymn that my father used to sing in his native Swiss German while we lit our family Advent wreath, was right up there with my favorite fairytale—nice to hear, but don’t expect it to come true.

That is, until now. For on my drive home from Bible study I was the recipient of a silent and holy night. The realization was too great for me to comprehend, and an overwhelming sense of God’s grace filled me with awe.

When I finally pulled up to my 18th century Saltbox with only candles flickering in the windows to greet me, all I could do was turn off the car engine, the lights, the heat and the radio and sit in the driver’s seat. I couldn’t get out of the car. I didn’t want to. I wanted to hold on ever so tightly to the silence and holiness that had engulfed me. For all was a beautiful calm and all was brilliantly bright. God’s confirmation that I was right where I was supposed to be was filling my heart.

Earlier that night at Bible study we talked about the gifts God wants to give to us in this holy season. Gifts that are not store bought but rather gifts that come from a heavenly storehouse. The gifts from God to us, God’s beloved, that are meant to bless us and to fill our hearts with joy. Gifts of grace to the one who stands in need of a second chance. Gifts of forgiveness to the one who has crossed a line and who has hurt someone they love. Gifts of healing to the body riddled with disease. Gifts of hugs to the one who is lonely. Gifts of smiles to the one who can’t seem to find anything to smile about. Gifts of a silent and holy night to the one who needed to know God was indeed with her.

I knew I had to eventually get out of the car. But before doing so, I whispered my “thank you” to God and then I made a promise. I promised to always keep my heart opened to receiving the real gifts of Christmas.

And so may this Advent you promise to do the same. Be alert to the real gifts being given to you that are not from a store, but rather come from God’s divine storehouse. And may you find yourself discovering the beauty of a silent and holy night. For it does exist. It is not some fairytale. God is always with us.

Day 5—Speak From the Heart

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 5

… the word of God came to John, the son of Zachariah in the wilderness. And he came into all the district around the Jordan, preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. John 3:2,3

It was Friday night and the little white church’s after school program, Faith Filled Fridays, was coming to a close. Kids coming down from their sugar highs found their backpacks in the mountainous pile of packs thrown on to the floor in the corner of the chapel. Stray mittens were matched to their rightful owners and one by one, little voice after little voice said, “Bye Pastor Donna. See ya next week!”

It was Friday night, but I could not go home yet. I was still hanging out with two teens as they waited for their moms to come to the church and pick them up. I tried not to appear eager to leave, but I was feeling anxious to lock up and hit the road for home. I had a very full weekend planned and a sermon still to write for Sunday.

So when one of the teens asked me what fun plans I had for later that night I surprised her when I said, “I have a sermon to write.”

“That doesn’t seem like fun at all,” the teen sneered.

“Well, sometimes it’s fun. And sometimes it’s not. It all depends if the words flow freely or not,” I said.

Knowing this teen was a good writer, I joked with her that perhaps she could write the sermon for me. For a second I thought I had piqued her interest as she straightened up her slumped-over-in-the-chair-body and asked, “What are you preaching on?”

“John,” I said.

“John who?” she asked.

“John the Baptist,” I said. “You know. John. Elizabeth’s son. Jesus’ cousin. He wore camel hair. Ate locusts.”

Crickets chirped and the teen stared blankly at me. It was then I realized how true it was that the word of God was not really known anymore. I went on to explain who John was. She looked at me and for a second I thought I was going to have a deep, engaging theological discussion with her when all of a sudden she jumped out of her chair and asked, “Can I play the piano?”

“Sure you can,” I said.

It was then I realized just how true it was that teens lacked focus. But a few minutes later, she sought me out in the kitchen where I was just straightening up a few odds and ends and she offered me some help with the sermon I had to write.

She said, “Just speak from the heart, Pastor Donna. If you do, I am sure it will be good.” As quickly as she came in, she left the kitchen and the sounds of the piano began again clanking out a tune that was no tune at all.

I stood there stunned. All my years at Princeton Theological learning (and slogging through) Greek and Hebrew to better understand the meaning of scripture to write a good sermon, all the focus on exegetical analysis in prepping for sermons…blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…and I get the best advice ever from a teen who didn’t even know who John the Baptist was.

Just speak from the heart.

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She was right. The most effective sermons I have preached have been the ones that came from the heart. But the thing is speaking from the heart is not easy. It is frightening because when you speak from the heart you make your heart vulnerable. And so it is often easier to hide behind academic discourses or lofty words or findings and studies, for then, if someone disagrees or takes offense you can easily say, “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Just speak from your heart,” this teen said. I wondered at what point in her young life she would stop saying that? I wondered when she would begin to guard her heart from hurts of others and begin learning to choose her words more carefully? I wondered when her beautiful truth telling innocence would end? For speaking from the heart is a frightening thing, but for those who speak from the heart it is also beautiful and powerful and, ultimately, healing. For when words come from the heart they often shed light on hurts that have been hidden for far too long.

Just then I wondered what would have happened if John the Baptist guarded his heart and chose his words more carefully?

What about Mary? She spoke from the heart when she sang her beautiful response to God’s will for her life—to bear the Christ child. And what would it have been like if Jesus didn’t speak from his heart? We would have a gospel that was empty and ineffective. Wait…isn’t that happening now?

The clanking of the piano stopped. I heard the voices of the mothers who had arrived to get their daughters.

Faith Filled Fridays was finally over, but my Friday night of faith was just beginning. I had a sermon to write. No. Let me correct myself. I had some speaking from the heart to do.

In this season of Advent when we hear from John, from Mary, from the angels, from the shepherds, may we remember just as they spoke from their hearts, we need to do likewise. May we all find ourselves in that place of beautiful vulnerability where we speak freely from our hearts what God has done, what God can do and what God is doing among us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 4—The Index Card

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 4

For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit. Matthew 25:35-37

On my desk sits an index card with the initial “R” written on it in blue marker. I have thrown this index card into the garbage at least three times so far and, so far, I have reached three times into the waste paper basket to retrieve it. I am struggling with this index card with the initial “R” on it. I don’t want to see it for I don’t like how it makes me feel for it reminds of something that I don’t want reminding of. And yet I can’t seem to free myself of it and just throw it out. How can an innocent white index card with “R” written on it cause such turmoil in my heart?

It was at the youth group breakfast at the little white church, where every Wednesday morning teens would gather before school in what was known as Mackenzie Chapel—a chapel/fellowship hall built in faith during the depression years, reminding the congregation that with God all things are indeed possible—that they were invited to write an initial of someone they knew who needed a friend to stand up for them, a confidant to confide in, a brother or sister in Christ to rely on, a fellow human to let them know they are loved and not journey alone in this world.

They were invited to write the initial of someone in which they can show the love of Christ to this Christmas.

As the teens scribbled the initials of those they had in mind, I sat there staring off into space not wanting to write out the initial I had in my heart for I didn’t want it to materialize onto the index card for me to see. The war waged inside of me. I fought back the tears that began to sneak up behind my eyes, forcing them away with every stinging blink I took. “I am not going to cry,” I kept saying. No, I am not going to cry. Hesitantly my hand began to write “R.”

The youth leaders finished up their lesson, closing prayers were said and the kids were invited to hang on to their cards as a reminder of the task they have before them as they went about their day: be Christ to the one in need, be a friend to the one who is friendless, be a light of hope to the one walking in darkness.

I threw “R” into my bag and went on with my day. When I got home and emptied out the contents within, out came “R.” And that is when the waste paper basket game of throwing out and retrieving began.  Unknown

I have decided to stop the game. I have decided to keep the index card. I have decided to let it remind me of what I really rather not remember. That is, there is someone in my life who needs my love. There is someone in my life who walks in darkness and needs the light of Christ. There is someone very close to me who needs to know he is worthy; he is special; he is cared about greatly. There is someone who needs more of my time that I have claimed I do not have.

There is someone I can be Christ to this Christmas. “R” is my older brother with special needs. “R” is my brother who has given me the greatest gift ever without even knowing he gave it. He gave me eyes to see the least in this world. Now I just need to find the strength and guidance to give the gift of my time to him.

What initial do you need to write down on an index card this Christmas?