Tonight, I’m going to read you a story I’ve adapted a bit from one written by Michael Lindvall. It’s called “The Christmas Pageant.” And it seemed appropriate for at least three reasons. First, the narrator of the story is a pastor…so that seemed appropriate. Second, it takes place in rural Minnesota and we lived in Minnesota for three years, so that seemed appropriate. And third, it’s been a number of years since Bethany Presbyterian has done a Christmas pageant, so it seemed safe!

The whole saga of the Christmas Pageant really began precisely forty-seven Christmases ago when Alvina Johnson first directed Second Presbyterian’s “Children’s Christmas Pageant,” something that she continued to do through ten pastors, nine U.S. Presidents, three wars and for the next forty-six years but not this year and that’s the story. International alliances came and went; wars were fought and peace made; ministers were called and then called away – but Alvina Johnson directing the Christmas Pageant was like a great rock in a turbulent sea.

Alvina is “Mrs. Johnson,” although there is no “Mr. Johnson.” One might call her “stubborn,” but that word isn’t quite enough. Alvina is unmovable. When folks around here get put out with Alvina, who is disguised as a sweet and demure seventy year-old lady, they refer to her, under their breath of course, as “the iron butterfly.”

But Alvina does what she says, always, exactly, and forever. Forty-seven years ago somebody asked her to do the Christmas Pageant. She said yes. They didn’t say, “Would you do the Christmas Pageant this year?” so Alvina, who is a literalist in all things, assumed that they meant forever, and she is a woman of her word.

Alvina’s Pageants always had precisely nine characters: one Mary, one Joseph, three Wise Men, two Shepherds, one Angel, and one Narrator. The script was simply the Christmas story out of the King James Bible.

Auditions for the nine parts were held the last Sunday afternoon in October for forty-six years. Rehearsals for the nine lucky winners were held for the next five Sunday afternoons. Alvina’s goal was nothing less than perfection in Christmas pageantry: perfect lines, perfect pacing, blocking, enunciation, perfect everything, which is not easily achieved with little children, even nine carefully selected ones. Critics said that Alvina would have much preferred working with nine midget actors, if she could have gotten away with it.

Time and again people tried to get Alvina to open things up so that every kid who wanted a part could have one. “Alvina,” they would say, “Scripture says that there was a heavenly host, not just one lonely angel. Alvina, why not a few more shepherds, then everybody could be in the Pageant?” or “Alvina, if there were shepherds, there had to be sheep, right? We’ll make some cute little woolly sheep outfits for the three- and four-year-olds.” “Nope,” she’d answer, “too many youngsters, too many problems.”

Early in the fall, however, something happened that deflected the inertia of nearly half a century of always doing it the way it had always been done. The Christian Education Committee included the three young mothers of last year’s rejected Mary, Joseph, and Wise Man Number Two. And these young mothers, at their September meeting passed the following motion: “Resolved: All children who wish to be in the Christmas Pageant may do so. Parts will be found.”

Alvina heard about it that night and was in my office the next morning at nine o’clock sharp. She began by asking me if I thought the decorations on the Christmas tree in the church parlor were appropriate. Now, I knew this wasn’t the problem. I, too, had heard about the committee meeting the night before.

“What’s the matter, Alvina?” I asked. “Young mothers,” she said. She spit these tow words out as though “young mother” were an illicit occupation. “Young mothers,” she continued, “who have no knowledge of or experience in the proper direction of a Christmas Pageant.” She then resigned as director and said, “If these young mothers know so much, let them try to do it.”

She was angry, maybe even angry enough to quit the church and become a Methodist, but she didn’t. I suspect that she wanted to hang around at least long enough to see the young mothers fall flat on their faces.

The Pageant was last week. The young mothers didn’t fall flat on their faces, but the Pageant was, well, different from what everybody had come to expect over the last forty-six years. It seemed as though there were a cast of thousands, even though the actual number was fifty or so, which was every kid in the church up to about eighth grade.

There must have been a dozen shepherds and ten angels (a veritable heavenly host). Then there were the sheep, a couple dozen three-, four-, and five-year-olds who had on woolly, fake-sheepskin vests with woolly hoods and their dads’ black socks pulled up on their arms and legs.

The Pageant was a lot of things, but smooth it wasn’t. And one of the chief problems was these very sheep. The only sheep most city kids have ever seen are on the front of Sunday church bulletins: peaceful, grazing sheep who just stand there and look cute and cuddly. But half of the kids here live on farms. They’ve seen real sheep. They know that sheep don’t just stand there. They know that sheep don’t often follow directions. They know that sheep are dumb. They know that all sheep want to do is eat.

So, when the young mothers casually instructed the two dozen sheep to act like sheep, they really should have known better. Some of the sheep started to do a remarkable imitation of grazing behind the communion table. Some wandered down the center aisle. Some of them had donuts they found in the church parlor to make their grazing look even more realistic. When one of the shepherds tried to herd them a bit with his shepherd’s staff, some of the sheep spooked and started to scatter just like real sheep do. It was, in fact, a remarkable imitation of sheep behavior, even though a bit out of the ordinary for a Christmas Pageant.

Now, Alvina was watching all this from the last pew of the sanctuary. I could just see her from where I was sitting. As the sheep spooked and scattered with much imitation bleating, Alvina looked down to hide a smirk. Young mothers, I’m sure she was thinking. If they know so much, let them try to direct the Christmas Pageant. The real climax of imprecision came, however, at that point of high drama when Mary and Joseph enter, Mary clutching a baby doll in a blue blanket.

This year’s Mary, whose name was actually Mary, was taking her role with an intense and pious seriousness. She looked into the face of the doll in her arms with eyes that really seemed to see the infant Christ. Joseph was another story. He had gotten the part because he had been rejected from Christmas Pageant participation by Alvina Johnson more times than any other kid in church. “With good reason,” some might say.

Anyway, Mary and Joseph were to walk on as the Narrator read, “And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem…to be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.”

At least this is what the Narrator was supposed to read. It was what the Narrator had read at the rehearsal. But a few hours before the performance, one of the young mothers had observed that none of the children could much understand King James English, so they voted, in their ongoing mood of revolutionary fervor, to switch to the Good News translation of the Bible for the performance. “What kid knows what “great with child” means?” they asked.

The Good News translation is much more direct at this point. So, as Mary and Joseph entered, the Narrator read, “Joseph went to register with Mary who was promised in marriage to him. She was pregnant.”

As that last word echoed from the Narrator through the PA system into the full church, our little Joseph, hearing it, froze in his tracks, gave Mary an incredulous look, peered out at the congregation, and said, “Pregnant? What do you mean, pregnant?”

This, of course, brought down the house. My wife, wiping tears from her eyes, leaned over to me and said, “You know, that may well be just what Joseph actually said.”

Alvina was now wearing a look that simply broadcast I told you so.” But as the Pageant wound into its closing scene and the church lights were dimmed for the singing of “Silent Night,” a couple of magical – I would allow, miraculous – things happened. The sheep, when they had finished with their part, bleated their way down the aisle to sit in the last couple of pews to watch the end of the Pageant. Alvina was in the last pew and she suddenly found herself surrounded by a little herd of three-, four-, and five-year-olds in sheep outfits.

It was late, the church was warm, and the sheep were drowsy. I glanced over to Alvina as the Wise Men were exiting and the organ was softly playing the melody of “Silent Night.” The sheep in the pew on either side of Alvina had fallen asleep and were resting their fake-wool heads on her shoulders, something they would feel comfortable doing with any grown-up in the church.

As the church went dark for the singing of “Silent Night,” we could see what had been happening outside for the last hour. The first real snow of the winter was falling. Big, fat flakes floated down and covered everything with a white, uniform perfection. As we – little kids and grown-ups – saw it, there was a spontaneous and corporate “ahh.”

We sang: “Silent night, holy night, All is calm, all is bright.” It was very softly that we sang and all the sheep were quiet, even the ones who were awake, and everybody looked at the snow. It was as if flakes of grace were falling, falling free out of heaven and blessing the muddy earth with purity, a whiteness covering the dirt with perfection. When the carol was finished, no one stirred for a long time. It wasn’t planned, but we all just sat there and watched.

It seemed like an eternity, but it was maybe two minutes. Minnie MacDowell broke the spell. She’s hard of hearing and always talks too loud. She meant to whisper to her husband, but everybody heard. “Perfect,” she said, “just perfect.”

And so it was – not perfect in the way Alvina’s Pageants tried to make things perfect, but perfect in the way God makes things perfect. God accepts our fumbling attempts at performance, at love and fairness, and then covers them with grace. I think the moment may have even touched the iron butterfly. Minnie said that Alvina mentioned to her that if they needed any more sheep outfits for next year, she could perhaps find time to make a few.

Adapted from “The Good News from North Haven,” by Michael Lindvall