~ Act One ~

It was Christmas Eve in Candle City. In a bleak back room a red, half‑spent candle burned in an old whiskey glass, the bottom half of which was filled with old cigarette butts, an empty matchbook and a couple of champagne corks. The candle’s name was Mary M, and her flame danced brightly as tiny streams of wax trickled down her sides, which were draped with a string of cheap glass beads.

        Mary M was a barmaid in the Boiler Room Bar located in the lower north end of town. On this Christmas Eve — as a heavy snowfall covered the city, and families and friends gathered around their Christmas trees — the Boiler Room Bar was all but empty.

        One lone customer sat at the bar talking to the bored bartender, who was leaning back against the sink with his arms folded. At a small table in the back of the bar, Mary M sat with her arm around a young sailor, his head resting on her shoulder. The sailor was homesick and melancholy — it was Christmas Eve, and he was far from home.

        Mary M sang softly to him, “I’ll be home for Christmas, just you wait...” when suddenly the front door flew open. Into the bar blew a white whirlwind of snow. In the center of the swirl stood three tall white candles carrying bags filled with gift boxes.

        “Excuse us, please,” said the tallest of the three candles, each of whose wicks was still perfectly wrapped in wax. “We’ve got some gifts for the poor people. Would you direct us to the City Shelter for the Homeless?”

        Mary M stood up and, wearing her best smile, walked over to greet the three strangers. “Merry Christmas, and welcome to the Boiler Room Bar. Care for a drink?”

        “No, thank you, Miss. It’s late, and we have to get back for Midnight Mass. Could you kindly direct us to the Shelter for the Homeless?”

    "Sure, that’s easy,” replied Mary M. “Straight down this street, three blocks, on your left. It’s inside that old warehouse by the train tracks. But maybe you can stop here on your way back. We all can have a little Christmas cheer together. Don’t forget now.”

    The three tall candles thanked her and left the bar. As they walked down the street, one said, “Whew! She was something else! I bet before the night’s over she’ll roll that drunk sailor for all he’s got.”

        “Did you notice?” said the second candle. “She’s got the disease! She’s already wasting away! Why don’t those kind of people take care of themselves?”

        After a pause, the third candle added, “There, but for the grace of God, go I!” Walking in silence, the three candles, carrying their bags of gifts, disappeared into the darkness of the night.

                                                         ~ Act Two ~

        Sometime later, the three white candles, without their bags of gifts, came walking back up the street. The snow swirled in great white clouds around a neon light flashing BAR‑BAR‑BAR. Beneath it stood Mary M, looking up at the falling snow with the wide‑eyed wonder of a child who was delighting in the white winter ballet for the first time. When she saw the three approaching, she called out happily, “Hey, did you three find the place OK?”

        “Yes, thank you,” answered the tallest of the three candles, “your directions were excellent. Well, have a very Merry....”

        “That was neat of you three, I mean bringing gifts down here to the poor on Christmas Eve. I’d tip my hat to you,” giggled Mary M, “if I wore one. We don’t see beautiful candles like you down here very often. You’re so tall and straight, so perfectly white.”

        “Thank you, Miss,” said one of them. “You see, we’re church candles. We’re made of pure, guaranteed‑natural beeswax. See, it’s stamped right here on us. Church law requires that, you know! Nothing less than 51% pure beeswax for us church candles.”

        “And,” added another, “we’re not just ordinary church candles; we’re also blessed candles!”

        “Really!” said Mary M in wonderment. “I guess I should have known by just looking at you. How lucky you are, I mean to be blessed by the church, and to be so pure: 51% natural beeswax!”

        “Yes, and also, Miss,” said the third candle, “besides being blessed, the three of us have a mission in life!”

        “A mission!” said Mary M in amazement. “You mean you’ve got some higher purpose for being alive? Gosh, you three are really fortunate. Most of us just live day to day, trying to make ends meet. Hey, how about that drink I offered you. Don’t worry, it’s on me tonight; after all, this is Christmas Eve.”

        “Thank you, Miss, but we’ve got to keep moving or we’ll miss Midnight Mass. Merry Christmas and God bless you.” The three tall candles turned to leave, casting sly side-glances at one another.

        “Hey, wait a minute,” said Mary M, “I forgot to ask. What is your mission in life?”

        The three proudly answered in one voice, “We’ve been called to be ‘the Light of the World’!”

        “Yeah?” Mary M replied, “but you ain’t even aflame! Look, your wicks are still wrapped in wax! Regardless of how much pure beeswax you’ve got in you, or if you’ve been blessed by the church, how are you gonna’ be the Light of the World if you’re not afire? You three had better pray! Yeah, pray for a miracle — a Christmas miracle. You’re gonna’ need one if you’re going to be the Light of the World.” She waved good-bye to the three. Then, shaking her head, Mary M turned and went back into the bar to give a little love to the young homesick sailor.

                                                            ~ Act Three ~

        As the three tall white candles hurried down the street toward their BMW, one said, “What did she say?”

        “She said, ‘We’d better pray for a miracle,’” replied the second candle.

        “What kind of miracle?” asked the first candle.

        “I’m not sure. Did you notice, though, that there was something really different about that red candle?” the second candle wondered.

        “Who could have missed it!” said the third candle. “She was on fire! But you know as well as I what that means: She’s got the disease that wastes you away! It’s only a matter of time before...before she’s gone.”

        “I know that,” said the second candle, “but did you see the way she lit up that dingy bar? And what she did to this dark street — even with all this snow falling, she outshone that neon light. Maybe she meant that we should pray to be set on fire so that our light really can shine?”

    “We’ll shine in heaven — when God calls us home!” retorted the first candle.

    “Yeah, I know that,” the second candle answered. “But, what if...what if we’re supposed to shine now? I think we ought to pray.”

        As the three candles stood in silence, the snow stopped falling and the clouds parted to reveal a star‑crowded sky. The three prayed aloud, “O God, set us on fire, tonight, here, now!” Then the three white candles bent their heads in silent prayer. In the process, however, they failed to see the shooting star. It was huge. It blazed across the night sky like a giant Fourth of July sparkler.

        Some who saw the star that night said it was a Chinese satellite reentering the atmosphere. Others claimed it was a UFO. Whatever it was, it fell directly onto the street a block down from the Boiler Room Bar in a gigantic explosion of silent light — causing the wicks of the three tall white candles to burst into flames!

                                        The End

Dear old and new friends,

    As Christmas approaches, family or friends living afar often telephone to visit and extend holiday greetings. Alexander Bell’s invention of the telephone was more than a technological marvel, it was a miracle of holy communion that unites across the miles people with one another.

    This week before Christmas imagine that your telephone rings and when you answer it a voice says, “This is the Whitehouse. Please stay on the line for President Obama.”  Imagine your amazement or how your mind would conjure up questions to ask him. As you waited, imagine your eagerness to tell friends and family about this once-in-a-lifetime phone call?

    Or say your telephone rings and an Italian-accented voice said, “This is Rome with a call from the Vatican. Please stay on the line; Pope Francis would like to visit with you.” After overcoming your original shock you think, “Why me? I’m no cardinal or bishop, but I had heard the pope does call ordinary people.” Then that Italian accented voice comes back on the line, “Grazie for holding. Please continue to do so since His Holiness is eager to speak with you, and will be with you shortly.” As you wait, wouldn’t you begin to think of questions you wanted to ask or perhaps request him to pray for your sick cousin? Or say that you receive a telephone call from the Dali Lama…or perhaps the Archbishop of Canterbury…or even Billy Graham, how would you respond?

    Now reflect on an even more astonishing possibility. Your phone rings, and when you answer you hear a serene angelic voice say, “This is Heaven calling. Please stay on the line for a telephone call….” Naturally you would dismiss it as some crazy prank until you recalled seeing an advertisement for the bestselling author Mitch Albom’s newest book, The First Phone Call from Heaven. And in that advertisement what caught your eye in large type was, “What if the end is not the end?”

    Take your time now to pause in reading this reflection to seriously consider from whom among your deceased family or friends you would like to visit? While involved in contemplating this suddenly you realize that the caller might not be a deceased family member, but God! Instantly calculating the exceedingly incredible consequences if that was who was about to speak with you, would you continue to hold or would you push the “off” button to end the call?

Dear old and new friends,                

    Saint Nicholas, bishop of Myra in southwest Turkey, while immigrating to America found that his golden shimmering halo and ornate episcopal vestments had been stolen, but in their place was a Nordic red and white fur-trimmed suit of clothes. The early Dutch settlers pronounced his name, “Sinterklaas,” easily mispronounced as “Santa Claus.” In these December weeks the jolly, smiling white-bearded face of this saintly giver of gifts seems to be everywhere.

    Small children profess an infallible, dogmatic belief in him. Adults are Santa atheists! These “closet atheists” don’t outwardly deny his existence…especially to their own children. Unlike some atheists, Santa infidels don’t write books about his non-existence or the ridiculousness of his circling the globe in a single night to gift children. A scholar (whose name I’ve forgotten) once replied when asked if he believed in the existence of God, “No, I do not believe God exists—and I miss him!” Sinter Klaas atheists say the same, for faith in him includes the magical, whimsical fantasy, daydreams, make-believe and active presence among us of elves, fairies, leprechauns and message-delivering angels.

    Compared to a child’s world, Santa atheists live in a shrunken merry-less world congested with dreary practicalities and endless problems. Their world suffers a drought of wild imagination, hilarity, joyous surprises and eagerly animated anticipation. If this sounds like where you live, and you desire to live in a happier place, here’s a suggestion: Go to a department store and the throne of Santa Claus, then go up to him and ask to be converted as a one of his believers!

    Be prepared, he’ll ask you to enter his convert course by engaging daily in that legendary childhood practice of pretending. Belief in him means make-believing you are him, not by dressing up in his red outfit but by imitating his merry jolliness in life’s difficulties, be they as unpleasant as descending dirty, sooty chimneys. Emanate his anonymous gift giving and experience his joyousness in secret gifting. Paradoxically, imitate him as an atheist, a nonbeliever that your gifts must be acknowledged by obligatory “thank you” notes.

    As a believer/disciple you will acquire St. Santa’s miraculous eyes capable of recognizing those who are hungry for gifts, both rich and poor, along with his great passion to feed that hunger. Pretend spring, summer, autumn and winter, and I assure you not only Santa Claus and his elves but the entire enchanted world of a child will be yours…yes, for by pretending you become a child again and a saint!

Dear old and new friends,

In her Nazi concentration camp journal, Etty Hillesom, a young Jewish woman, reflected that God wasn’t coming to rescue her.

    “One thing is becoming increasingly clear to me: that You cannot help us, that we
    help you by helping ourselves…all that really matters is that we safeguard the little
    of You, God, in ourselves, and perhaps in others as well. Alas, there doesn’t seem
    to be much You Yourself can do about our circumstances, about our lives…I do not
    hold you responsible. You cannot help us but we must help You and defend Your
    Dwelling place inside us to the last.”

This Spirit-inspired prayer of Etty recognizes how useless it was to pray or expect God to save her or the others from the diabolic horrors of the Nazi death camp! The Holy One wasn’t going to send any angels or Emmanuel to overpower the Gestapo guards since in her case God was impotent—not almighty! This dark depressive fact, however, inspired Etty instead to come to God’s help! She could do that by protecting that small Divine dwelling within her to the very last.

Her prayer is ideal for all in hopeless situations, those dying in the last stage of cancer, of AIDS or descending the slippery slide of Alzheimer’s. It also is a fitting prayer for all who are imprisoned by an addiction, migraine headaches, the terrible choice of a marriage partner or being stuck in a lonely life. The divine paradox is that instead of God answering our prayers it is you and I who must answer God’s prayer to safeguard the Emmanuel within us.   

God is a savior, a rescuer, an Emmanuel, a name meaning, “God among us—within us and with us.” This Mystical Presence dwells in a small still place in our hearts. Like a tiny flickering pilot light it can quickly activate warmhearted kindness, sharing of one’s meagerness with the needy, acceptance of those who are malicious and heartfelt gratitude even for a hard crust of stale bread. Any of these can make Emmanuel come forth brightly in the darkness.

In spite of approaching horror, Etty knew she was safe as long as God continued dwelling within her. So when you’re caught up in hectic holiday rushing, busy schedules, shopping and gift preparing you can imitate her. It is almost impossible to keep all that noisy Christmas clatter “out there!” unless you create islands of silence in your day whereby to be in touch with the inner-Emmanuel. Otherwise, all the noisy hubbub of Christmas can invade your soul and like the hellish evil of a Nazi Death Camp easily smothers the small divine flame within.

                                             Let all you with ears hear
                                        and answer God’s prayer for help!