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IS YOUR CHRISTMAS
CHRIST CENTERED?
(By Rev. Albert Nimelh, O.F.M.)
The two children were so ex
cited they could hardly open the
monastery door. They were so
breathless they could scarcely
stammer: “It’s gone, Father, It’s
gone!”
“What’s gone?”
.“Somebody stole it!”
“Stole what?”
“The Christ Child from the
crib in the monastery yard.”
A LITTLE CHILD . . .
Sure enought. There it stood.
Everything in its place; every
thing pointing to the manger
but the Christ Child was mis
sing. Christmas would not be
Christmas without a Christ
Child. Oh, for the wisdom of
children! They have a way of
getting to the heart of a matter.
Now we are not going to ask
you to join a crusade to “put
Christ back into Christmas.” We
are simply asking you to recon
sider. Let’s not become so en
grossed in doing the customary
things that we forget why we
do them. Many of our customs
originally had a connection
with Christ and His birth and
there is no harm in retaining
them as long as their origin in
Christ is remembered.
For instance: Christmas gift-
giving is meant to be an ex
pression of love. Its purpose is
to remind us of the great Gift
of love on the first Christmas
night. Our decorations and deli
cacies indicate that inner joy
we feel because Christ came
into this bleak and dark world
bringing light.
Our special regard for the
poor at Christmas time is in
spired by the poverty of Christ.
In the back of our minds we
link the poor with Christ who
identified himself with them.
Even Santa Claus will not de
tract from the true meaning of
Christmas if We will only re
call that St. Nicholas was one
of the Saints who practiced the
charity of Christ.
If you want a norm to deter
mine how much of Christ is in
your Christmas, just ask your
self the question: “Why?” Why
are you sending cards? Why
are you giving gifts? Why are
you helping the poor? Why are
you singing carols?
All over the world in hun
dreds and thousands of homes
and churches, in Main Street
shop windows and even on
Broadway, crib scenes greet our
eyes. Some are large, even life
size. Some are tiny, capturing
interest by their smallness.
Some are well made, finely
shaped; others are crude, but
realistic.
ORIGIN OF CRIB
To some people the appear
ance of these peaceful scenes
means nothing but long hours
of wearisome shopping. Fussy
Aunt Jennie must be satisfied.
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To others the crib scene spells
roast turkey and cranberry
sauce—Thanksgiving all over
again. '
To all people the crib scenes,
regardless of shape or size, artis
tic touch or lack of it, crystal
lize one central idea—“Christ
mas is coming.” These scenes
rivet attention on the most im
portant event in the history of
the human race, the birth of
Jesus Christ, the Son of God.
These well known crib scenes
are the offspring of the love of
one Saint, the Poverello of
Assisi. Seeking a new outlet for
his love and wanting to spread
devotion to the Babe of Beth
lehem, St. Francis hit upon the
novel idea of the crib scene.
Among the wooded cliffs in the
Umbrian hills he had Giovanni
Velita reproduce in a lifelike
and visable manner the birth
of Christ.
As the peasants made their
way to Greccio along the torch-
lit paths to Midnight Mass, at
which Francis served as deacon,
songs of praise rushed forth
from glad throats and joyous
hearts. Here 1300 years after
the actual birth of Christ, the
wooded glen re-echoed the
(Continued on Page 4-B)
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A Star For The Christ Child
John Travers Moore is the
author of “Sing-Along ’Sary’
(II a r c o u r t, Brace), “Little
Saints” (Grail), “Modern Cru
saders” (Farrar, Straus & Cuda
hy), “The Three Tripps”
(Bobbs-Merrill) and many oth
er stories.
By
John Travers Moore
On bitter winter nights such
as this the boy and Granny
would share fire and bread and
hear the music of the wind, for
the wind truly makes music in
mountain countries. It sighs or
hums in the pines or cedars, and
sometimes even sounds like the
swishing of ocean waves. To
night, it was blowing fiercely.
Now and then it would vibrate
a loose board or bang the shut
ter which had the broken lock.
“Do . you hear somehing,
Grandma?”
The old woman did not an
swer the boy. It is doubtful that
she heard; she does not hear
well. Neither were her eyes as
good as they used to be, nor
did she smile as often as she
once did. She had reasons for
not smiling: Times were hard
and she was not getting any
younger. She had fallen behind
in her duties, too — her sew
ing, for example. Anyone could
tell that by the little boy’s
clothes, particularly in back
where the patches needed
patching — although not a great
deal could be done about the
clothing generally, since it was
originally intended for someone
much larger, and thus, was
more than ample,
A CHILD IN THE SNOW
The boy heard the cry again
and went to the door. He slip
ped outside. The night was bit
ing. No stars were in the sky.
Snow was falling, wild flakes
scurrying to the earth as if im
patient to join others to form
a deeper spread of white.
“Come to me,” the boy heard
the voice call and hurried tow
ard the sound. He found a child
in the snow.
“Help me,” said the child.
The boy reached down and
tried to lift the child but could
not.
“It would make no difference
anyway,” the child said sadly.
“I would still need a star to
guide me home.”
A gust of wind blew the
words away. The tlittle boy
wondered. He looked at the sky
and saw no star. What manner
of child was this who needed a
star to chart his course home
ward. He had heard of the
Christ Child. Could this be the
Christ Child?
He turned his gaze to earth
again — and the child was gone.
Had it been an illusion, a mir
age? Was he ill, delirious with
fever? He felt his forehead. It
was cold. He felt his nose; it
was colder.
He searched about, hoping to
find the child. There was no
sight of him.
“Granny!” The boy ran back
to the house, passing through
the yellow patch of lamplight
where he had seen the child.
“Someone is out in the snow—.”
He paused abruptly. "Was out
in the snow.”
The old grandmother frown
ed because the boy had gone
outdoors without his coat, but
she listened to his story with
the patience of the old. “It
might have been the Christ
Child,” she told him. “Who
knows the mysterious ways of
God?” She then chided him for
going without the coat, and re
minded him that it was Christ
mas Eve and that he should
soon be in bed.
He lingered as long as he
could. The Christmas tree was
not decorated as elaborately as
most. But it was a good tree.
The only trouble was that a star
was missing at the top. The star
they had used had worn out,
the year past.
THE EMPTY CRIB
The creche was in its accus
tomed place under the tree.
Granny would never miss put
ting out the creche. Though it
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Merry Christmas
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THE BULLETIN, December 26. 1950 PAGE 3-B
Was dusty in spots, where Gran
ny missed seeing them, it was
where it belonged, with the fig
ures of Mary and Joseph and
the Three Wise Men and the
shepherds — and the little an
gel with the chipped nose
watching from the roof, peeking
over the edge.
The boy dusted the creche
idly, glanced up at the tree, then
down again at the creche.
“Granny!” His eyes widened
with amazement.
The old lady turned in her
rocker. She had no trouble
hearing the call this time.
“The crib is empty!”
The grandmother leaned back
and nodded. “I tried to find the
figure of the Baby Jesus. It
must have become lost.”
“But how —”
“Never mind I’ll look for it
again.”
The little boy was not ful
ly comforted. A creche without
the Baby Jesus was not com
plete — not 'a creche at all.
Even the angel with the chip
ped nose seemed to be unhappy
and not smiling. The star miss
ing from the top of the tree was
not encouraging either. The star
— that was what the child in
the snow had mentioned: A star
to guide him home!
The little boy set about im
mediately to make a paper star
from the Christmas wrappings
they had saved from last year.
He worked painstakingly on the
shiniest of the lot.
Granny watched him a mo
ment, then quietly left the
room. She went to the mirror of
the old marble-top dresser.
Thinking of the boy working so
hard for the Christ Child, she
smiled, and the mirror returned
the smile, just as people do
when smiled at. She glanced
down, suddenly remembering
where she had carefully put
away the figure of the Child
Jesus. It was before her in plain
sight. She had left it there to
have it nearer her during the
year, but that it was in plain
sight had, over dreary days,
made it more difficult to see,
simply because she had grown
less aware of its presence.
A STAR TO GUIDE
The boy was still busy when
the grandmother returned. His
fingers did not fly. There was
some extending of the tongue in
concentration, first from one
side of the mouth, then the oth
er, and eventually a star was
formed. It was not exact. What
star is? It shone beautifully. It
was a star to be proud of, a star
for Christmas a star to guide
one home? A star on a Christ
mas tree guides anyone home
at Christmastime.
But the crib was empty.
“Granny—” The boy started
to tell Granny of it but stopped,
startled, staring at the crib.
“The Child is in the manger.”
“I found Him while you were
working so valiantly to give
Him a star.” Granny smiled.
“He was where I expected Him
least.” It was good to see Gran
ny smile; it made her face light
up and soften like it used to.
“Do you think, Granny,” the
little boy asked, after collecting
himself from his surprise, “that
the child I saw in the snow was
truly the Christ Child?”
“Who can say?” The old
grandmother stirred. “To bed
with you now.” She watched
thoughtfully as the boy climbed
the worn, cottage stairs.
The wind at the panes was
breathing faintly, once more
making a sort of music in the
trees. Flakes, like stars, filled
the night. They fell gently, sil
ently, brushing the earth as
softly as angels’ wings.
The little boy knelt by his
bed. “Have I given you a star,
My Lord?”
There was no answer, and al
though he did not know it, a
single-star peeped out from
heaven among the clouds that
had gathered with the storm.
Downstairs, the old woman
poked the fire and promised
herself that mending would be
done, for with busy hands again
would come more happiness.
She walked over to the Christ
mas tree. In the creche below,
the figure of the child Jesus
lay sleeping, with Mary and
Joseph watching over. The
Three Wise Men offered their
gifts; the shepherds were ador
ing — even the little angel with
the chipped nose seemed to be
smiling in a vision of peace.
The paper star at the top of
the Christmas tree was shin
ing, in its fashion, as brightly
as any in the universe — a star
for the Christ Child, a star to
guide Him home. It was, per
haps, a star of hope in a world
of need, for without hope there
is nothing, even as without Love
there is no light. But, above all,
it shone forth in the true glory
— the spirit of remembering
Christ at Christmastime.
THE VIRGIN'S
NAME WAS MARY
Your Name is oil poured out
On our smarting spirits,
On our groaning hearts,
O Mary,
Your Name is oasis in our
wasteland of waiting.
It is wine after the black
bread of regret,
After love’s white fast.
Your Name is like a silence
full of bells.
Mary, your Name is a pause
in song.
It is the moment before flight.
Your Name is a waterfall of
fragrance.
It is a crystal dance of sound,
Mary.
Your name is a basilica of
cool darkness
For the frightened, the
deserters
Who have no place to pray.
Your Name is as oil
poured out
On the troubled waters of
the world.
Your .Name is like a
silence full of bells.
—Sister Mary Frances,PoPr
Clare (Reprinted by per
mission of the author from
her collection of poems
“Where Caius Is”).
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