Ring Out, Wild Bells

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more,

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out thy mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

       (Alfred, Lord Tennyson - 1850)

The Drive Home

My favorite moments of Christmas for more than four decades were those moments I was driving myself home after the final Christmas Eve service. The world–my world–was, at last, quiet.

I am a retired Presbyterian minister. During my ministry I felt responsible for helping Advent and Christmas-season worshippers experience the power and mystery of God's birth in human flesh. Our Christmas Eve services were the culmination of the drama played out the four Sundays previous, the season of Advent.

Churches fill the weeks before Christmas with special events: extra musical presentations, greens and poinsettias, cookie exchanges, outreach and service activities, giving opportunities, classes, and always one or two other things someone thinks would be so nice to do this year. Worship planners walk a fine line between doing what they've always done and trying something new, hoping telling the story in a new way might capture worshippers' frequently divided attention.

I never did all of it myself, but I was expected to know about and support it all. On top that, I am a married man with a family, so there was all of that to think about and do, too. My wife and daughters were busy with their own activities, some in the church and some not, plus we made time to do special things together. Because my wife is an excellent organizer and executer of family events, we and our daughters always made it to Christmas Eve in one piece, even if the My Little Pony castle still had to be assembled.

I approached leading Christmas Eve worship in high anticipation. On that night the sanctuary is unnaturally beautiful and full, old friends greet one another with special warmth, hassled people relax, visiting grandchildren are proudly displayed, college students and service members away from home for the first time are excited to see each other, the music is familiar and yet startling, and the candles glow as we sing "Silent Night," lifting them heaven-ward on "wondrous star, shed thy light."

And then it is over. The crowds file out. Partially burnt candles are collected for reuse next year. Ushers double check to make sure no candles have been left burning. The offering is stowed safely away. Little by little the place empties and usually, in the smaller churches I served, I am left alone in the building. I turn out the last lights and lock the doors, and walk out into the night to drive home.

I love that drive. It is so quiet, too quiet even for music. Traffic is light. Most businesses are closed. Lights sparkle on houses. It is as if in that moment the world has finally stopped, and there is hope that perhaps, this time, it will finally hear and absorb the promise of "peace on earth, good will to all" that the angels sang.

That drive home was always my own, personal Christmas moment. I've been missing it ever since I retired.