“My only rule: if I understand it, it’s no mystery.” — Scott Cairns
I was born and raised out on the Great Plains. I remember winters there as mythic events, epic enactments of the power of nature, soaring testaments to a divine presence in the world beyond human reach or replication. The prairie winters were marked by sweeping blizzards, giant snow drifts, frightening wind chills, roads closed or impassable, travelers seeking shelter. There is nothing to break the howling winds out there, nothing to slow the surging storms, nothing to soften the pummeling blow of winter’s charge down out of the Rocky Mountains and across the Plains. I can still picture the scene clearly.
In Weeping Water, Nebraska, my home town, we almost always had snow by early December. We were accustomed to the blowing snow, the icy winds, the dangerously frigid temperatures. We thought it was fun, looked forward to it, every winter storm an adventure. The sledding was great, especially on Gospel Hill. You could get going so fast down that hill that we had to post lookouts at each intersection all the way down to Main Street, to warn unsuspecting motorists of the speeding sleds that were approaching. They had to stop, because we couldn’t.
My earliest memories of Christmas were born in the awesome power of the Great Plains winters. The irresistible power and beauty of nature converged somehow in my mind with the overwhelming sense of awe and mystery I found in the Christmas story. These intermingled in the crisp Advent air of my childhood and youth to create an experience of wonder that continues to revisit me every year at this time. It’s all still there: the enormous sky, the endless fields, drumbeats under the tall grass, ancient flutewinds that turn your head in the dark — grace notes arching into a distant echo of angel choirs, cattle shuffling in their stalls, and certain prayers we only whisper when the horizons are wide enough to receive such a far cry of glory.
The heart of the Christmas story lives beyond rational thought, in a story world of imponderable depth and beauty. Against all odds, it sings of throwing the mighty down from their thrones and lifting up the lowly, of good news to the poor, release for the captives, and liberation for the oppressed. Even now, after all these years, sometimes I can only stand and marvel at the whole improbable scene: angels, unlikely parents, no room at the inn, animals, a barn, shepherds, exotic strangers, a certain star. Rumors of a miraculous occurrence are announced first to farm workers and foreigners. There is a child at the center of all this.
I stand immobilized beneath starry winter skies, my imagination running rampant as chills dance up and down my spine. We have the whole rest of the year to search for understanding and meaning. Right now, I’m waiting for the light to appear, wherever it is, whatever it means, however it comes. I’m searching the skies for winged radiances. I’m hoping for goose bumps. I’m on the lookout for the incomprehensible. I’m trying to break out of the little house of my ordinary world. Enough of explanations, farewell for now to theology and historical Jesus studies. I’m ready for the ancient winds to burst again out of the far mountains and across the Plains. I stand braced against the edge of the world, waiting for a random gust to brush my face with Incarnation.
Rev. Bert Marshall of Plainfield is a semi-retired pastor in the United Church of Christ and currently serving as bridge pastor at First Congregational Church in Dalton.