It was Sunday, two days before Christmas, and I was standing in the middle of a gymnasium—the chaotic centre of a Christmas pageant rehearsal.
At the back of the gym, kids workers frantically tried to gather children to rehearse dance moves for the grand finale. At the front, musicians set up instruments and fought with the decorations team over extension cords. Along the wall, people arranged tables with all kinds of Christmas baking. All the while, the friendly hulk of a janitor methodically wheeled in rack upon rack of folded chairs to set up for the expected audience.
It was a happy chaos, made all the more hectic by the absence of our pastor, who, an hour earlier was called to be with a mother from our congregation, who was in labour. Originally from Congo, this young mother moved to Canada with her six-year-old daughter while her husband remained in Africa. Since she was on her own, she asked our pastor to accompany her to the hospital when she gave birth to her second child.
However, on this particular day, the birth of a new baby was only the beginning. That afternoon, whispers circulated about a shooting that had taken place back in the schoolyard. Unfortunately in our community, a shooting is not always big news. The sound of gunfire sometimes does not even warrant a police response, let alone create any kind of hiccup in the rhythm of the community.
The scale of the community's reaction generally depends on the answers to certain follow up questions: Was anyone hit? Was anyone hurt? Was anyone killed? To my shame, I must admit my primary concern that day was not the severity of the crime, or the presence or absence of a victim, but rather if the proximity of the shooting to the gymnasium would keep parents from attending the pageant
Later that night, we learned a young man had been killed in the shooting. It was not until the next day, Christmas Eve, we found out he was the son of a woman who attends our church. In his early twenties, he was her only remaining son. His older brother died six years earlier—also in a neighbourhood shooting.
The night of the shooting, the young man was walking through the schoolyard when gang members ambushed him. He tried to run away, but was outnumbered and outgunned. He was cornered against the school fence where he died alone, next to the playground, and right outside the gym where we were preparing for the pageant.
Inside, unaware of the severity of the incident, the show went on. In the end, most of the parents did attend, and were delighted by the children's performance.
Despite Joseph's stage fright, he and Mary, along with their troop of angels, shepherds and wise men, all entered on cue. The children remembered their lines; dance moves went off without a hitch, and the parents, some of whom were attending church for the very first time, shone with pride.
After the pageant I could not help but reflect on the incredible juxtaposition of the day's events. Inside, while the children celebrated the birth of Jesus and the true meaning of Christmas, our minister helped welcome a new Christmas miracle into the world. This baby's mother came a great distance, leaving her old life behind in the hope of new opportunities for her children. And at the same time, only yards away, police partitioned parts of the school playground with yellow tape while they gathered evidence and questioned witnesses. Life and death, hope and grief, side by side.
One week later, we gathered as a church for our regular Sunday service. We gave thanks for Raese, the son of the Congolese mother. We also prayed for the mother who had lost her second son to gun violence. That Sunday, we came together as a church to give thanks, to pray, and to remember.
The Message version of John 1:14 says, “The Word became flesh and moved into the neighbourhood.” Jesus came 2000 years ago, and at His birth, mixed with the songs of shepherds and angels, were the cries of the children Herod murdered. This was the world Jesus came into. This is our world.
Be near me Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever, and love me I pray
Bless all the dear children in They tender care
An fit us for Heaven to meet with your there.
