A Hundred Voices Strong

(Matthew 1:18-25)

I grew up in the era before over-scheduling. My brother, sister and I were free to our own devices, and as a result we developed our own traditions and rituals.

Jonathan invented The Never-Ending Journey, a cartoon strip penned on continuous reams of perforated computer paper in which a tribe of stick figures sojourned endlessly over various types of terrain. For years we added to the journey, subjecting the tribe to inclement weather and impossible landforms, and recording their wisecracks along the way. They never quite arrived at their destination.

We had traditions for Christmas also. It began with the first nativity. Jonathan put on his bath robe and declared himself a shepherd. We cast Jillanna as the Virgin Mary. I was the angel, standing on a chair to loom over Mary with such an exuberant expression that it scared Baby Jesus – who, I’m sorry to say, was being portrayed by a large Siamese cat wrapped in a baby blanket.

Eventually we moved beyond crèche play and simulated the entire church Christmas program. We lined up the dining room chairs to make pews, and plopped our dolls and stuffed animals in the empty seats. Jillanna played the piano while we sang. After I took up the offering, Jonathan delivered a good Southern hellfire-and-brimstone sermon.

But how can three voices be a choir? The thin notes distressed us greatly, and we determined to make our choir a hundred voices strong. By next Christmas season, we had devised a solution. We set two tape recorders side by side. First we recorded ourselves singing Christmas hymns. Then we played the cassette, and recorded ourselves singing with it. Over and over, we sang with our own voices, adding harmonies where we could. We recorded it again and again, until our choir was a hundred voices strong.

If a child’s work is play, then we worked hard to teach ourselves life lessons that would sustain us. Like the stick people in the Never-Ending Journey, we still travel endlessly over uncertain terrain in changing weather. What makes the story is not the hills and valleys or the strange hail storms, but our response to it all.

Our Christmas program taught us that with a little ingenuity, we can operate beyond the scope of our own limitations. A child can preach the Gospel. A small band of siblings can create a choir a hundred voices strong.

We learned, too, that church is what you make it. I’m thankful that my mother laughed at our antics and did not scold us for being sacrilegious. The truth is, we were practicing. This holiday season, millions will gather in thousands of chapels and churches to celebrate Christmas. To some degree, we are all just playing at church. The closer we come to the throne of God, the more we see that we are unworthy imposters – mere children in religious vestments. Yet our God welcomes us, and perhaps laughs at our antics.

So I’m going to look for that old cassette tape. I suspect that if you listen closely, beneath the hum of over-recorded static and the cracking of children’s untrained voices, you can hear the breath the angels.

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