One of my favorite Christmas memories is of 1990. I was all of 22, working full time at Bennigan’s Steak House in Hampton, Virginia, and I was broke. It was Sunday, December 23 and I had bronchitis, but I was at work anyway. I had promised my boss that I’d work Christmas Eve, but had to leave tonight by 7:00 to get to church at 7:30 because there was a special Christmas concert that I just couldn’t miss. Doug Eltzroth had written the music and would be narrating, and the music minister had arranged the music for the choir, which would be singing. There would be candlelight and carols, as well. It promised to be a special evening.
I slid into a seat just a few minutes before the concert began and suddenly all the lights went out. You could hear doors open and close and footsteps. Then, in total darkness, a single voice began, other voices that now surrounded the congregation joined in and the sanctuary was filled with music. After the first song, the lights came on and the choir processed to the choir loft and the narration began. There were wonderful stories and glorious music.
About two-thirds of the way through the concert, Doug told a story that has stuck with me for all these years. It has become one of my most favorite Christmas stories and I want to share it with you. Here is what Doug read that night:
Young pastor Torgenson, resplendent in the new three-piece, charcoal gray suit his wife had given him especially for this Christmas Eve service, mounted the platform. An ocean of faces looked back at him, the faces of the Red Ridge Community Church, holiday excited and ruddy from the cold outside.
The pastor smiled for a second at his wife who beamed from the first row, then began….”Before the choir sings our first anthem, ‘Angels We Have Heard on High,’ he said, “let me remind you of a Scripture passage about angels. Turn with me to Hebrews 13:2, if you will…”
A tissue-thin shuffle of Bible pages went through the sanctuary like a rushing wind. Then it stopped, and as the pastor was about to read Hebrews 13:2, a murmur rose in the rear pews, near the door.
To the consternation of several older members, a shocking pair of visitors had entered. The man was tall, blond, bushy-bearded – a near skeleton in a grimy navy coat; the girl was very, very pregnant, swathed in a shapeless beige peasant dress and tattered sweater. A kerchief failed to conceal her stringy black hair.
“Wonder if they’re married?” whispered a woman in the back row.
“I never saw the like, not in this church,” grumbled aman. From her usual seat, old Mizzie Everett just squinted at the strangers, apparently as confused as ever.
Pastor Torgenson paused, smelling trouble. Another battle of the old and the new, he sighed to himself. Some of those older folks in the back look ready to throw their hymn books at the young couple. And there are some high schoolers on the others side, probably waiting to bean their elders back. Will it ever end?
“Welcome,” he finally called out to the bedraggled strangers. “We’re glad you’re here. Sit right down.”
But it was easier said than done. The young couple had to wind their way to the front to find the only vacant seats. A few hundred curious eyes watched.
“Now, as I was saying,” the young preacher continues, “Hebrews 13:2.” He cleared his throat, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”
He gulped, surprised at the verse’s sudden aptness. “Well. Uh, perhaps you’ve read stories about Christmas visitations by angels. Many have been written, most of them pure fiction. But let’s remember tonight that our Lord Himself was not recognized for who He was. And let’s make sure there’s room at our inn tonight.” A nod to the choir, and he sat down by the pulpit.
The music billowed behind him. He tried not to stare at the young couple, but couldn’t help it. Who were they? Why were they here?
All at once it hit him. On Christmas Eve, a bearded young man and a pregnant woman seeking shelter? Did they have a donkey parked outside, too?
He smiled to himself. Angels unawares? Well, one never knew….
The choir’s last Gloria in excelsis Deo faded, and the pastor jumped to his feet. He had an idea.
“In our bulletin, the order of service calls next for apastoral prayer. But before I lead us, let’s find out what we have to pray about on this Christmas Eve. Jack – he motioned to an usher. “If you’ll get the moveable microphone, we can have a brief time of sharing our needs.”
Again the pastor tried not to gaze at the young strangers, but hoped they’d share their obvious needs. After all, this was a unique chance for the church to show hospitality, he thought.
“Just a brief time,” he repeated, unconsciously nodding at old Mizzie Everett in the back. Poor old Mizzie, they called her. She loved sharing times. At the first click of the microphone, she’d jump up as quickly as her arthritis allowed, only to ramble on and on about some long-forgotten event or person. The whole congregation would look at the floor, embarrassed, as Mizzie tried to remember a Bible verse or sing a song in her rusty squeal of a voice. It was starting to put a damper on services, some people said.
The pastor’s hopes rose as the bearede young man started to get to his feet. But Mizzie was up first, and she took the microphone from the reluctant usher. An almost audible groan went up from the congregation.
“Uh, thank you, Mizzie,” the pastor said after a minute of the old woman’s rambling. But she droned on.
I wish she’d take the hint, the pastor thought. Poor old Mizzie – her mind’s starting to go and she still pedals that three-wheeled bicycle all over town, making aspectacle of herself. Even the older members shook their heads about it.
Finally, she surrendered the microphones. “We’ll be sure to pray about that, Mizzie,” the pastor said, and then looked to the young couple. This time the skinny fellow made it all the way to his feet.
“I -- I don’t know anything about talkin’ in church,” he began shakily. “But my old lady—“ he indicated the girl at his side, “I mean, my, er, wife and I really need a place to stay tonight. We saw the lights and came in.”
The pastor watched the young man speak, touched by his need. “We’re glad you did,” the pastor said, “And I’m sure we can find you a place to stay. By the way, what’s your name?”
“I’m Joe,” he said, “and this is Mary.”
A startled murmur was heard, “Joseph and Mary?” the pastor asked incredulously.
“Yeah, I know how it sounds,” the young mand said, growing red-faced, “But it’s true, really.”
The pastor couldn’t hold back a chuckle of wonderment. “Indeed it is,” he said, and quoted Hebrews 13:2 again. Angels unawares! He thanks the young man and prayed fervently for the young couple’s needs, the families gathered there, and the war-weary world’s longing for peace on earth.
There was no doubt about it – the choir sounded sweeter than ever that night; the ancient story from Luke was never better read, or more poignant. Even the atmosphere seemed rarer, closer to heaven with the young couple sitting there in the front. When the time had come for the benediction, Pastor Torgenson looked out on the Christmas Eve faces and spoke from his heart.
“Let there be room in our inn tonight,” he said. “Let us reach out to the Lord of Christmas and to one another. We may be different from one another – but because He came we can be one.”
Downstairs, where the church ladies had prepared punch, coffee, and cookies, the congregation streamed in for a bit of fellowship. The pastor and his wife brought cups of coffee to the young man and woman, only to discover that several parishioners had already done the same.
“We’d be happy to have you stay at our house tonight, Joe and Mary,” volunteered a middle-aged couple.
“I was going to say the same thing,” said another. A group of high schoolers brought cookies and punch to the strangers. Pastor Torgenson, smiling broadly, hugged his wife.
Over in the corner by the coffee percolator, old Mizzie Everett sat alone with both hands around a cup of punch. She squinted at the sea of people, seeming confused by the noise. Then, suddenly, she put down her punch and looked at her watch.
As if on schedule, she picked up her purse and made her way to the door along the crowd’s edge. Nobody noticed her leave.
The night was cold. Setting her jaw determinedly, Mizzie struggled against her arthritis to mount her three-wheeled bicycle.
So frail, these mortal bodies, she thought, dumping her purse in the bike’s basket. Her legs strained, pumping the pedals. Iced puddles cracked under her wheels all the way out of town.
The city-limits sign flashed past. Wheezing, she knew she could go no further. Slowing, she parked by the side of the road.
The highway was deserted. Only the stars and heaven watched as she climbed the sloping field by the road, her breath coming in hoarse gasps. A dog barked in the distance.
Christmas Eve, she thought, looking at the sky. Just like that first Christmas Eve, when she had sung with the others. Oh, but that had been easy compared to this assignment. This time she’d had to take on a body for such a long time. Not like the Sodom and Gomorrah visit, or the rest.
She stretched and felt a pain. It was good to be going home.
Smiling, she closed her eyes and reached heavenward. Slowly, the creases in her face vanished, and the twisted hands unfurled. Going home, she thought.
Brighter and brighter her face glowed, her old coat transformed into a robe the color of the sun. It was an angel’s robe.
At last, she thought, at last. There was a silent flash in the night, and Mizzie Everett was gone.
As the story ended at that Christmas concert, the song “Who Will Guard the Angels” began to play and the message was crystal clear. We don’t know who the angels are. We don’t know when the one we are helping or ignoring might be amessenger of God. Abraham didn’t know and we don’t know either. We might be looking at regular folks, fussing over them and inviting them in while the real angels are off by themselves, alone in the cold night, heading home.
Trust is difficult in today’s world. It’s not easy to be brave enough to reach out to a stranger. It’s not always safe. But that was true when Abraham lived, as well. Yet he not only reached out, but went out to offer hospitality. He didn’t just give the strangers whatever was handy, he offered them the best he had – choice flour and a tender calf. And he was greatly rewarded in return, for he was blessed with a child in spite of his old age, and also his family in Sodom was spared. All because he entertained angels unawares.
I wish Icould tell you how to know who God’s angels might be. I wish I could tell you I now pick up every hitchhiker without fear and invite strangers to dinner on a regular basis. I wish I could tell you that God always rewards those who try to do good in the world. But I can’t honestly tell you any of those things. What I can tell you is that when you are open to the leading of God’s Holy Spirit, when you approach the world with an attitude of love rather than fear and skepticism, you are more likely to entertain angels. When you reach out to others, when you help those in need, when you listen to the long and winding stories, you may just be offering hospitality to a messenger of God.
God’s messengers come in all shapes and sizes, all ages and income levels, all colors and kinds. You can’t tell by looking. They don’t have great, feathered wings or glowing halos. They look like, well, the person sitting next to you, the checkout clerk at the grocery, the homeless person pushing a buggy full of bottles, the harried waitress or the face you see in the mirror. You never know who they are, so the best way you can make sure you offer hospitality to God’s messengers is to be kind to everyone, even the most annoying of folks. Offer hospitality to strangers. Go out of your way to do so. After all, thereby some have entertained angels unawares.
Who will guard the angels? Who are you entertaining? And amen.