Here in late December, it’s probably happened for the last time this year in churches all over the world—the annual church Christmas pageant.
These productions are variations (or compilations) of three basic formats:
- A performance of traditional Christmas carols perhaps sprinkled with poetry or other dramatic readings
- A Christmas cantata or chorale with men in ill-fitting tuxes and women in red, floor-length, satiny gowns that will be just as useless to them after Christmas as a bridesmaids dress after a wedding
- A costumed retelling of the Nativity story that walks the razor’s edge separating cute from calamity. You know what actors say about working with kids and animals
Depending on the size of the budget and number of players, production values vary wildly.
- Accompaniment ranging from badly tuned pianos to 100 piece symphony orchestras
- Voicing ranging from shower singers to classically trained, operatic virtuosos
- Staging ranging from “Let’s do a show in Aunt Becky’s barn” to full-blown, Broadway-ready spectacle
The miraculous thing is, no matter where these productions fall on the spectrum, they work.
There’s no real explanation for this.
Maybe the quality was sufficient to move the needle from “church good” to actually good. Maybe the sincerity and dedication of the players were so evident that we couldn’t help but be moved. Maybe it’s because we simply allowed ourselves to sit down and shut up long enough to get a glimpse of the mysterious majesty of the message.
But nearly before the last note fades away, giving us the chance to savor the soul-drenching, sacred and peaceful calm of the moment, it happens.
It happened at my church, and it probably happened at yours.
Someone runs to the stage, microphone in hand, and says something.
Sometimes the words are tangentially relevant but, usually, they are vacuous and trite and distracting. The simple fact is this person has chosen to force words into a space that should be occupied by a holy hush.
Perhaps the person is a junior pastor for whom this moment represents a rare opportunity to address the entire congregation. Perhaps it is a senior pastor relishing the chance to win over all the new faces in the crowd and grow his attendance numbers. Perhaps the speaker is a truly gifted and earnest one but feels that the method the players chose to communicate their connection to the greatest story ever told is somehow insubstantial and illegitimate when compared to his own.
Whatever the reason, the damage is done. Every participant and every observer has been robbed of the marvel of standing in an instant where time has temporarily stopped—a moment where the hope of peace and wholeness dwells.
To all the actors and singers and musicians—I am sorry. I am sorry if you have ever felt the sting of having your dedication and talents and hours of preparation dismissed so casually in moments like this. We should all instead be taking a moment to celebrate you for surrendering your time and talents for the sake of your cause.
To the prodigals in the congregation—I am sorry. I am sorry that you chose to attend this event in hopes of resurrecting the feelings of devotion and connection you once had to this story, only to have the moment you so desperately needed be taken away.
To those first-timers who only came because the nice neighbor asked them to—I am sorry. I am sorry that you missed out on your moment, the moment the church so wanted for you to have when that someone invited you. We really do believe in the transformative and life-changing power of our message, we’re just really lousy at the communication and execution of it.
To all of us—As we move into the new year, it is my great hope is that each of us takes purposeful care not to step on the sacred. You never know where you may find it lying around.
