My "Take" on the Current Rapture-of-the-Church Craze

Is there really a pre-tribulation rapture of Christians, as Hollywood movies and many of our religious leaders are currently claiming, or does the rapture occur after the tribulation?

The secular bookstores carry bestsellers sporting it. The secular theaters are showing movies sporting. TV talk shows interview religious figures sporting it. It's out of the churches and into the marketplace.

It's the Rapture Craze. Armageddon's there. AntiChrist is, too. So the secret scoop-up of the church is right there--before all global hell breaks loose. The righteous will miss the awful stuff, for sure. Jesus will take them off the planet's surface into heaven before bad times hit the Earth big time.

A recent Sunday morning's religious broadcasting showed a group of believers jumping up and down, rejoicing as they were getting in practice for the rapture! The "rapture jump" is now "in"?

If so, this is horrifying foolishness! Mark it down as biblical truth: There is no pre-tribulation rapture.

However, untold thousands believe in the "secret rapture of the church" prior to the tribulation period. This is because untold thousands don't want to have to think of suffering through a tribulation time frame. The late Corrie ten Boom called this pre-trib rapture teaching the "American doctrine." Go figure.

The belief in a secret rapture of believers before the tribulation is also because of a best-seller, "The Late, Great Planet Earth," by Hal Lindsey which was set loose in the l960s. It has been a paperback aggressively pushed by practically every evangelical / fundamentalist engine going.

Theologians, videos, films and preachers bolster up this myth with their earnest preachings and teachings.

Yet this is nothing but a myth, accented as much by certain theologically conservative Protestant segments similar unto the Roman Catholic underlining of the immaculate conception of Mary. Nevertheless, if there is no biblical support for such a Mariology teaching, it is bogus. Likewise, the pre-tribulation rapture teaching is bogus.

The pre-trib rapture concept was manufactured in the 1800s in an 18 year old Plymouth Brethren girl's dream, told to her Pastor, John Darby, and then relayed to C. I. Scofield who bought into the dream as revealed truth. Scofield placed this pre-tribulation rapture notion as a footnote in his popular Bible, hence the spread of the myth.

However, just the opposite is biblical truth. In Matthew 24:29-3l, for instance, the rapture ("gathering together") is placed in the same time frame as the open second coming of Jesus Christ. And all of this is "after the tribulation" (verse 29). That is it in a nutshell!

Yet pre-tribulation rapturists sidestep this clear passage for more oblique passages. The latter are twisted and turned in order to fit into the "American doctrine." Yet such twisting is not sound exegesis. And for biblically-riveted evangelicals and fundamentalists to commit this drastic error is bordering on the horrific.

All other passages in Scripture relating to the "gathering together unto Him" must refer back to the literal time line provided by Jesus in Matthew 24.

One must not use a symbolic passage in the Book of Revelation or any other symbolically- based section of the Bible by which to draw a pre-tribulation rapture doctrine.

Further, one must not take words of the apostle Paul so as to insert them opportunistically into a conjured pre-tribulation string of Scripture references. Yet this has been done ad infinitum.

Instead, Jesus' literalism of Matthew 24 must be used as the benchmark for all other "gathering together" themes of Scripture.

One starts with literalism and moves into symbolism when seeking to understand Scripture; it is not the other way around.

During the 1970s and 1980s there was much written and preached about a pre-tribulation rapture. This has wound down some in the last decade or so. Why?

Today, with the world situation being what it is, there is not that much risk-taking in preaching dogmatically the pre-tribulation rapture. Why?

Is it because there are many who are beginning to question its validity? Is it because the world state is so uncertain that to go out on a limb with a false hope may ricochet?

One wonders, with world events progressively becoming more and more anti-Christian, why the pre-tribulation rapture persons are not celebrating each dawn as the day when Jesus may return to earth.

Such is not the phenomenon on a large scale. Furthermore, it may be because the next generation has not bought into this notion.

In any case, it is a myth, a legend of conservative Protestantism's own conjuring and has no base in the Holy Scriptures.

Yet these very Protestants are the ones who ardently point out the myths of Catholicism while holding to some of their own myths. Both segments of Christendom need to do some serious housecleaning of manufactured legends in order to return to the simple Bible truths; otherwise, the church suffers from severe lack of knowledge.

What is so frightening about holding to a pre-tribulation rapture? It is more than mere academic quibbling. Holding to such a notion is drastically weakening the church worldwide.

The church should be preparing for spiritual battle against the most evil forces arrayed by hell.

Instead, the church is languishing with a false hope. This is all orchestrated by the demonic powers in order to eventuate in a limp army of believers. And to see that through in this age of laxity in religion does not take much on the part of the dark powers. In addition, the apostate segment of religion is doing its fair share of blackening truth.

Does it take much intelligence to realize that there are awesomely wretched days yet ahead for the righteous remnant?

Those who are not strong will drop--fall away, as biblically predicted. They will be too numerous to contemplate.

But for those who are truly into carrying the daily cross there will be nothing able to thwart their zeal for Christ.

Already the remnant is being strengthened by the Spirit of light. He is gathering His own together in the power of the resurrection and the might of the revealed Word. There numbers are few; but their ardor before the Father is lovingly honored.

Set your vision upon the difficulties yet to be. They are but the trials permitted by the coming Christ.

At the close of the tribulation period, then there will be the gathering together of the believers from the four corners of the earth. They will greet Jesus in the clouds as He descends through space, having left the right hand of the Father in heaven.

The gathering together ("rapture") and the second advent then will be realized as one and the same event occurring at the end of the tribulation time frame. Jesus' declaration in Matthew 24:29-3l states it clearly.

ONE CHRISTMAS I MET AN ANGEL

IT WAS THE MOST DEPRESSING CHRISTMAS OF
MY LIFE.

My wife and I had been married for nine years.

Since our second year together, she had been ill. Now
she was facing brain surgery.

Her illness forced me to leave my Midwest pas-
torate. We moved to my in-laws’ home in New Eng-
land. Medical tests followed. Then the day of surgery.

It was Christmas, but it didn’t seem like Christmas
to me. Traditional lights were glistening everywhere,
and churches were abuzz with excitement, but I felt a
coldness in my heart akin to the freezing rains that hit
me as I trudged uphill to the hospital.

A world-respected physician, James L. Poppen of
New England Baptist Hospital in Boston, believed the
operation would relieve my wife's constant head pain.
He would place a shunt in her head, connecting the
brain to the heart for the release of pressure under her
skull.

I spent many hours in the hospital’s chapel. I
basked in the quietness there as I sought God's peace
for my troubled soul.

Our only daughter was in Connecticut with her
Grandparents while my wife and I endured that
somber holiday. I could hardly believe this usually
cheerful season of the year could turn so dismal.

The hospital is located atop a city hill. To get there
one must climb a narrow street often treacherous with
December's ice. I drove up that tiny passage each day
to be near my wife. Our Christmas Day would be spent
in an old section of the hospital, with its barren walls
and eerie alcoves.

I had no place to stay at night and couldn’t afford
a hotel. An older, unmarried friend of ours lived in a
suburb nearby. Knowing that Priscilla, my wife, would
be undergoing surgery and that I would be stranded in
a strange city, Marian offered her home as a refuge for
me during this difficult time.

During the day, Marian worked as secretary to the
Dean of Students at a college in the area. After arriving
home in the evenings, she would wait up for me like a
mother hen. Upon my return from a draining day of be-
ing with my wife at the hospital, Marian would share her
genuine laughter and a cup of hot tea. I needed both.

One night as I left the hospital, I discovered one of
my tires was flat. My car was parked on the top of the
lonely hill. My feet and hands were freezing in the aw-
ful winds.

After changing the tire, I was in no mood for cele-
brating any holiday, let alone the most meaningful
one of the year. I was anxious to ditch it all and get on
with a new year, praying that it would be a lot better
than the one we had just staggered through.

When I arrived at Marian’s home, I discovered
that she was in a festive mood. The tiny apartment
was lighted throughout. Simple refreshments were
waiting on the small table, and her heart was merry.

I thanked God for the pullout couch that was
awaiting me in the den. And I was particularly grateful
for this warm abode where I could dry out my damp-
ened spirit.

"Marian, you need some practical additions to
this place," I said one evening while taking stock of her
living quarters. I noticed that there were a number of
items missing from her kitchen--tools, baskets, racks
for this and that.

"Oh, I know--and I could have bought them a
long time ago, but I guess I never got around to it," she
replied.

I knew Marian gave a lot of her money to college
students in need. One by one she would invite them
over to feed them, listen to them, and pray with them.

Over the years she became so popular with the stu-
dents that they set aside a special day one year and
named it after her. They made her the guest of honor
in that day's chapel service, presenting her with a gift
from the whole student body.

Considering the typical needs of college students,
I could figure out why Marian was missing one conven-
ient device after another. So when returning one
night from the hospital, I decided the Lord was nudg-
ing me to pack a collection of household gadgets into
a large plastic clothes carrier.

I must have looked strange walking into that
apartment building with this array of items. Neverthe-
less, I had more of a Christmas feeling as I climbed the
several flights of stairs to her door on the top floor.

I knocked. She opened the door, and I rushed in
with my assortment of gifts. One by one I lifted them
into the air for her to see.

She smiled as she handled each present with de-
light. I darted into one space after another, suggesting
just where she could use each present. Soon the
kitchen and living room were adorned with new ob-
jects that spelled my thanksgiving at Christmastime.

My wife's surgery was over. There was a long recu-
peration period to go through. It would be well into
January before she could be released from the hospital
for a return trip to Connecticut.

Yet in the midst of it all, I felt that the awful loneli-
ness of the city was beginning to ebb for both of us.

We were being buoyed with new hope for the future.

"But why did you buy all these things?" Marian
asked. "You can't afford these."

She was right, of course. But I could not afford to
have done otherwise. I knew that without her hospi-
tality to me at Christmas, I wouldn't have made it.

"Marian, it's the least I can do for you. You've
been so kind to me that I just felt I had to do some-
thing to say thanks. So this is it."

She broke into laughter and walked toward the
teapot again, ready to pour me a cup. I saw tears in
her eyes as she moved into the kitchen. I knew she un-
derstood my feelings better than I could express them
in words. After all, I was one of those young persons
she had helped through the years.

As I sipped the steaming tea, I looked at her,
framed against the Christmas lights shining from the
living room window. The glow was unmistakable. It
was then that I knew it to be true--in the midst of my
confusion and heartache, God had sent me an angel at
Christmastime.

No Christmas can ever be too bleak for Him. His
messengers are still at work, no matter how dark the
times.

CHRISTMAS: FAITH TRAVELING

The magi asked, "Where is the king of the Jews?" They were traveling--by faith. Persian astrologers, they were. And Gentiles at that. Somewhere along the way they had come to study the Jewish scripture scrolls, then acknowledge the Hebrew deity as the true God.

In their studies, they converged their astrological vocation with scriptural research--studying the heavens for the throne of God. In that, God spoke to them of the approaching birth of the Hebrew Messiah Christ. God informed them that if they as Gentiles followed the unique star, they would see for themselves the Jewish Anointed One.

Therefore, these fellows acted out their faith. They traveled with their faith in hand and heart. Over the hot sands, to the west, in search of a baby they had never laid eyes on. It was by simple faith that they made their trek.

So it is in your life and mine. We have never laid eyes on Jesus Christ nor seen His resurrected body nor gone to heaven to witness Him as intercessor at the right hand of the Father. But we have researched the scriptures and believe their account to be true. Therefore, from time to time this invisible deity displays Himself in our visible experiences. We, by faith, then come upon the marvelous sight.

Yet in this faith traveling, there are numerous Herods who would stand in the way, attempting to wreck the faith project. They are bloodthirsty, agents of hell, mean to the pits. Such should never surprise the faith child. Jesus promised as much. That is why He told His own to be as wise as snakes and harmless as doves. Wise as snakes!

How interesting that every time heaven breaks through with some marvelous holy extravaganza of love and mercy, hell gets as angry as angry can be. So it is that while God implanted Himself into human history, Herod became furious with envy. He stalked. He balked. He strung out his nerves to dry.

Then Herod put on the religious face. What a mask he wore. It was with such religious enthusiasm that he approached the magi to inform them that he too wanted to worship the new Hebrew King. If they would only tell him of the infant's whereabouts, Herod himself would bow before this tiny item.

So it was that Herod continued his hypocritical dance of envy by contacting chief priests and teachers of law. He asked the details of their prophetic records. Where? When? How?

In our faith journeys we come upon the outrageous counterfeits. How they wear their masks tightly. They know the language, the imagery, and the posture. They know the concepts and doctrines. They put on the display of piety. But their hearts are far from God. Again, Jesus warns His genuine grace children to be wary of the snakes.

How sad that the chief priests and teachers of the law could inform Herod of the prophetic piece and yet be so utterly far from its personal truth. It would be these very religious play actors who would some day plot the murder of the infant-grown-adult. So near, so far. How often has that duo played itself out for the ruin of those on stage.

It is then with the gift of discernment that God provides the sincere grace child with the spiritual perception to see through the mask. This spiritual present enables the true believer to continue the faith journey without being detoured by those who would distract to destroy.

So it was that the magi made the trip--following the star. Yet how did they discern in the broad daylight? It was then that they simply trudged forward by faith alone. Yet in the dark of night, they would again catch the gleam.

So it is with our faith journeys. We come into night seasons of confusion and doubt, trouble and depression. Can we go another step? Who would care? Who will lead us? The nighttime clouds cover the star shine. We cannot see it. Have we lost it completely?

No. As we keep true to the journey, the star appears again in the darkest night. Then we know anew that God has not left us; He is still where He has always been--faithful to those children on the trek.

Eventually the magi reached Bethlehem. The Jewish shepherds had preceded them in the cave stall. But now the Gentile astrologers would come upon the Hebrew Christ in a house. No wonder Jesus later told His own that He came to the Jew first and then the Gentile. So it had been since Bethlehem's start. Yet it was for all mankind--"For God who loved the world"--that the Messiah Babe laid in the manger. It was for all that He would die upon the tree.

The Christmas account then happily relates that the magi's hearts were overjoyed with their sight discovery. Their faith had led them to the visible God in the cow's trough. There he was, for certain!

What if they had given up? What if they had doubted and turned back? What if they had counted the cost and concluded it was fool-hearty? Then they would not have seen. Their faith would have crumbled. They would have paid with the loss of their very destinies.

But they did not renege. They remained true to the close. Their faith yielded its own reward--sight!

And so it is with each of us--we make the journey to the close, then we see. We come upon heaven's own reward--sight!

It was then with such utter ecstasy that these grown men bent their knees before the child. They flung their gold, frankincense, and myrrh--gushing forth with praise and worship. They were beside themselves, no doubt tears streaming down their cheeks. The hot sands were behind them. The babe was before them. They had stayed true to the vision; God had remained true to His promise.

So it is with you and me. We find out that as we make the faith journey, there are days when we wonder what is going on. Can we make it to the close? Will it prove us the utter fools? Yet we proceed. And when we do, we realize one certainty. God never left the very spot where He promised to meet us. God has been there all along.

If the magi had turned back somewhere along the westward trail, Jesus would still have been waiting in the Bethlehem cow stall. But they would have missed Him--totally.

If we had turned back, God would still be very much there. If we had forsaken the promise, the journey, the prize, God would still be very much there. God remains, though others falter.

Thank heaven the magi remained constant and so came upon The Constant. No wonder their hearts were pounding for joy abounding! And so it is the same with us, as we remain loyal to the faith, to the close of the journey.

AN INN FOR CHRISTMAS

"I'll bring you another blanket," I said.

With that, I left the church and went to my
parsonage nearby. One more blanket would do it.

"Greg, when you leave in the morning, make sure
you turn out the lights. I’ve been finding them on
when I come over here in the morning. I’m trying to
save on electricity. The church folk aren’t rich, you
know."

Greg smiled, understanding that he did have a
habit of forgetting to turn out the lights in his one-
room shelter at the church. He also had a habit of
leaving dirty dishes in the sink downstairs in the
church kitchen. Furthermore, he forgot to turn down
the thermostat when going off to work each morning.

I guess it is part of being in your early 20s, I mused
as I left this fellow.

How could parents put their child out at Christ-
mas? That was one question that had been eating
away at my heart ever since he knocked on the
parsonage door.

The next day I twisted my master key into the
lock, opened the door into his room, and found that
he had done just as I had asked--lights off, heat
turned down. But those crusty dishes were still in the
sink.

I'd better clean up this mess before the women of
the church come in here to complain, I thought.

Then I scolded myself for expecting that of the
women. They knew his plight. I knew down deep
inside that there would be no complaining. They, too,
had sons.

"How is it that they told you to leave?" I had asked
him when he wandered into my living room that
desperately cold night.

"They said they had had it with my being a
Christian. At first I thought they were taking to this new life of
mine. But then, they flipped it all over the other way." He
had looked down at the carpet, hardly able to take it in,
that his own mother and father had sent him packing.

Where else could he go? There were no relatives
nearby. It was the church--which was where he would
have to end up. And so there he was on my front
doorstep, with his suitcase pressed against his side.

“You can use the rest rooms--shave, bathe. You
can use the church kitchen to make your meals.
Sometimes we'll invite you over for supper. How's
that? And there's your own thermostat. It heats up just
this room off the sanctuary."

I pointed out all the conveniences of being sent
out in the cold at Christmas. "Of course, the sanctuary
is a good place for you to go in quiet, getting your
thoughts together," I suggested. Greg was a student of
the Word. Since becoming a believer, he could not get
enough of Scripture.

"There are some of my study books in the shelves
around the corner. Take your pick. Enjoy!" I tried to be
cheery, though it was not all that easy talking to a
young man who was bunking out in a side room in the
church. Yes, it was the house of God. But on cold,
wintry nights it was also a lonely place to walk into all by
oneself. Creaks sounded in the night. Radiators
croaked at odd hours.

"Just don't get caught in the rest room taking a
sponge bath when someone with a key decides to case
the place," I said, chuckling.

He was game. What else was left? He had finished
college and had come back home to make some
money to pay off some bills. And now this.

"How can parents put their own son out like
that?" he asked me one especially empty evening.

"It's hard to answer that one." I shrugged, not
wanting to appear too serious. I figured that if we moved on
to another subject, the pain just might go away.

On the following Sunday I gently told the
congregation of Greg's plight. After the worship service,
people needed no prodding to get heads and hearts
together. In short order, whisperings on behalf of
goodwill toward the young man were filling the halls.

The Sunday before Christmas was fast approach-
ing. We were going to enjoy our fellowship meal after
the morning service.

"Do you have the box decorated?" someone
asked. I assured her that Marie had everything in
place--mostly hidden from Greg's view.

"Where do we put the presents?"

"Over there, behind the table. I'll get them later
and put them in the box so that everything will be put
together."

What fun it was to poke about, doing things in
secret when it all added up to warm a heart!

"Good morning, Greg," I called out to him as he
left his one-room abode to join the rest of us for Bible
class.

"Good morning to you, Pastor," he replied
cheerily.

Greg had been invited to his parents' for Christ-
mas Day. He would go, he said, "to show them that I
love them in spite of what they've done to me." Fine.
Then go. And what would they have wrapped up
under the tree for their son-put-out-of-their-home-
because-of-his-faith?

The meal was eaten with relish. Such delicious
tastes!

"Now?" Sally asked as she tugged at my coat.

"Now," I whispered back.

The huge box was brought out into the center of
the fellowship hall.

"Greg.

It was not easy to get Greg's attention when he
was eating!

"Greg, we have something special for you today.
Here are some presents we have wrapped up just for
you. May this be a blessed Christmas after all."

The young man--not all that tall--rose to extra
height with gladness as he sauntered over to the gifts
that bore his name. One by one he lifted them, poking
his ear tip to their sides, feeling their shapes, looking
at each of us in wonder and thanksgiving.

"How can I say what's in my heart?" he asked,
hardly able to say much more.

"You don't have to say anything," I responded.
"Just your being with us this Christmas has made this
season very special for our church family."

Christmas Day came and went.

"Greg?" I knocked on his door late Christmas night.
Loud music was blaring out from inside his room. What
if someone from the church had come into the building
to hear that mash called "music"? I thought.

"Greg?" I knocked again. Presently he came to the
door.

"What are you listening to?" I asked whimsically,
as if not caring all that much, just making conversa-
tion.

Greg turned down the volume, then sat on the
sofa made into a bed.

"I guess I was just trying to drown out something
inside with that noise," Greg said haltingly.

"That bad, was it?" I ventured.

"That bad."

"And what did your parents get you for
Christmas?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Nothing at all? Nothing? Just plain
nothing?"

Greg nodded. At the other side of the room were
all the gifts given by the church folk. They were now
unwrapped and neatly stacked in one corner.

"My parents are not very happy people. I feel
sorry for them. I'm beginning to understand that they
really do need a lot of help."

I didn't know what to say.

"Their not giving me anything was really getting to
me tonight. I turned up the radio so that I could drown
out some of the hurt inside. I figured that no one would
be here on Christmas night this late. So I thought it
wouldn't harm anything--the loud music and all that."

"No problem, Greg. No one would have stopped
by. I just wanted to see how you were, and that's why I
decided to walk over to check things out."

"Yet, Pastor, through this whole mess I've realized
one precious gift that stands out more than anything
else."

"What's that?"

"It's that I do have a family. They are more than I
have ever had in my whole life. They are all those
people who come into this church. They love me. They
gave me those gifts over there."

I left him and walked back home.

"How's he doing?" my wife asked as I walked
through the door.

"Not too well. But not too badly either. I mean, I
think this is one of the most precious Christmases
Greg will ever know. For some very important reasons,
this season will no doubt stand out in his memory as
one of the most meaningful times in his life."

Time has passed. Greg has grown older with the
rest of us. He left the church room for a second shelter
and then a third as he moved from one situation to
another.

Yet with the passing of the seasons, I have looked
back to realize that not only for Greg but also for the
entire congregation that will be one Christmastide
that will highlight all the others.

It was that year all of us came to understand what
it means to have been put out of an inn, only to be
sheltered by the hearts of those who care enough to
love.

CHRISTMAS KINDNESSES

We were seated beneath the mammoth, lofty pulpit in Boston’s historic Trinity Church. Along with some 2,000 worshipers, we had gathered for the annual candlelight carol service.

Handsome faces wreathed in expensive scarves passed through the large, heavy curtains that divide the outer quarters from the sanctuary. Women garbed in their seasonal finest gracefully seated themselves in the ancient pews.

“A person has to get here an hour early to get a seat,” I overheard a fellow whisper to his friend. Even as he spoke, ushers were pointing to side walls where late arrivers could stand throughout the service.

On the expansive platform, poinsettias smothered the regal churchly furnishings. A lone gold cross hung from the front’s very center, as if to crown the ornate display ablaze with color in celebration of Christ’s birth.

Majestic strains pealed forth from the organ: “Trumpet Tune in C Major,” by Henry Purcell; “Sonata for Flute and Organ,” by George Frederick Handel; and others.

One by one, dozens of tall white candles were being lit. They stood as silent soldiers amid the flowering plants.

Our family had invited guests to join us that chilly December evening. Since this worship had become a cherished tradition to us over the years, we relished sharing it with special friends. We awaited anxiously every move, nuance, and musical offering yet to be placed before God.

Looking to my left, however, I noted a young man who did not seem to fit. He was crouched over at first, bent with his head magnetized toward the floorboards. Then, with a sharp twist to his right, he slung himself about, rearing his black hair into the air with a jerk. His dark eyes shot at me, then bounced away, then back again in my direction. I noticed some saliva mixing with his beard.

Obviously, the well-groomed man at the other end of the pew did not notice the youth’s behavior, for he was mesmerized with the lighting of the candles. I wondered what his reaction would be whenever he did glance to his left. There he would witness a crippled man with crutches, a crooked body garbed in denims and flannel shirt.

How had I missed this young man’s entrance within our halloed corner of the sanctuary? Without notice, he had simply slipped in, wedging his way into our tidy mosaic of season’s liturgy.

Presently I saw an usher—black-suited with a red carnation in his lapel—stoop over the young man, whispering something into his ear.

“Oh no!” I gasped inwardly. After all, this was Christmas. And we were in a house of God. If ever love feasts were to be in fashion, surely this was the time. Surely that usher was not demanding that the poor young man leave for fear of disturbing the sedate!

The usher left him. His head flipped back again while two hands led two arms into jutted motions scraping the air. One leg shot out and then back against the floor. His eyes darted back to me. Fright was all over his face.

All of a sudden I felt sick, not because of this poor creature, but because of my own fear of what was going to happen to him. Torture is commonplace, and violence has been with us since the first two sons scuffled in the field. But surely we would not have to live down a mean display of pretense at Christmas.

People kept milling about, some stretching their necks, hoping they would find some tiny space on a pew for sitting. Few caught sight of the intense drama going on nearby. What could I do? I had no authority in this church. There was no speedy network of rescue that I could call into play and so relieve the anxious, confused black eyes beneath his furrowed brow.

Seemingly out of nowhere, an attractive young lady seated herself beside this youth. I saw her place her hand upon his shoulder, then lean near to his ear, whispering something. Her smile was comforting, understanding, as she turned her head to look straight into his eyes. Presently those distraught limbs began to calm down, and his head settled itself more evenly atop his neck.

What are they going to do with him? I thought. Will they, even with a veneer of kindness, lead him away from the rest of us? What game will they play to convince him that he would enjoy the service better from a side room somewhere?

She said no more. She just sat there, listening to Vienna’s “Westminster Carillon” from the organ.

The usher who had spoken with the young man then passed right in front of him, going across the aisle to the second pew from the front. That tall churchman had spotted a space 12 inches wide. With diplomatic graciousness, the usher informed the person seated next to that space that he would have a visitor sharing the worship.

Back to the attractive lady and crippled man the usher made his way. Gently, he lifted the young man under his arm, taking the crutches in his other hand. It was as if the Red Sea parted there for the crossing of this twosome; no one interfered. In no time, the youth discovered himself being presented with the best seat in the house. Smilingly, the person to his right welcomed the lad into the pew.

Again, seemingly out of nowhere, a man in his late 20s-dressed in denims and flannel shirt, his hair tied in a knot at the back of head—knelt down along side the crippled one. I watched him assist the other in shedding his winter jacket, first one arm and then the other drawn out of the sleeves. Next, he carefully placed the crutches on the floor right inside the seat. That done, the kind man joined the attractive lady elsewhere, but within eyeshot of the crippled man.

It was then that I heard the opening Christmas hymn being sung from a far back balcony. The soprano lifted her voice with
Once in royal David’s city
Stood a lowly cattle shed,
Where a mother laid her Baby
In a manger for His bed...

I could not help but turn around to see the sight. There was the robed soloist surrounded by others dressed in holy day splendor. After all, this was the start of something very special. Worship had begun.

Slowly I turned back to face the sanctuary’s front. But in the turning I glanced again at “my friend.” I saw then the most marvelous sight. Still mixed with the hairs of his black beard was a bit of spittle, but now in his eyes I saw joy.

He, too, had heard the opening words of Christmas praise. He was looking over at the attractive lady and her companion. I did not mean to be prying, but I could not help but glance at them as well. There they were, beaming with kindness rendered, so happy that he was all right, that he had been given a good place to sit, so ready for the worship of the King. On the second verse, the congregation was to join the soloist. With a shining face, the youth twisted his mouth in jubilation. The furrow was gone from his forehead, thank God. And with the rest of us he was singing forth--

With the poor and mean and lowly
Lived on earth our Savior holy.

Although it was still days before the 25th, I knew in my heart that for me, at least, Christmas had begun.

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