Dear Singers in the Night,

As some of you know, Dani and I hosted our Sanctuary Choir for a pre-Christmas gathering in our home; we won them in the Living Waters for the World raffle—the choir had graciously offered their caroling as one of the fundraising prizes. Dani and I invested heavily in this ticket, and our deep hedge paid off. The choir anticipated arriving on the steps of a home much closer to the church; they also anticipated a program of one or two carols to accomplish their promise, but we had bigger plans. Asking from them more than they promised carried an additional price, so we agreed to feed them if they caroled up and down our block on 110th street in our West Morgan Park neighborhood.

Caroling is one of those olde timey Christmas traditions, often pictured, seldom performed. FPCLG has its own caroling tradition, but COVID has rendered trolley rental somewhat unwise. Past caroling adventures were always by appointment. Apart from a late Amazon delivery, after-dark doorbell ringing is seldom appreciated, so we sang only at homes where the occupants anticipated our arrival, never with figgy pudding, but anticipated nonetheless.

This early December plan was different. The Sanctuary Choir was assigned the task of ringing doorbells and seeing what happened. Knowing my neighbors, I anticipated our bell ringing to be ignored. I even planned on a little hostility, but out into the cold, sleety night we trudged, taking our chances with the homes up and down the street.

To my surprise, my original cynicism was met with gracious smiles. Once folks figured out what we were doing, we received almost universal welcome, with the minor exception of Steve across the street, who, in good humor, told us we were crazy for being outside in this weather, predicting we would all contract pneumonia for our foolish adventure. None of us succumbed. It was hard to take this kind of ribbing seriously from a guy who drives a snowplow for the city.

At the very first house we were greeted by a mom who, just hours before, had explained to her two teenagers how, when she was growing up in upstate New York, people would go caroling for Christmas. She had explained the ritual with deep sentimentality as her son and daughter rolled their eyes in disbelief. Now, there we stood as literal illustrations of her reminiscence. They gaped, and she cried.

A few doors later we came upon the home of a neighbor who had just been promoted to homicide detective with the Chicago Police Department. Years ago, he had been the victim of a police shooting, losing the index finger of his left hand in the incident. Undaunted, he had returned to duty and eventual promotion. This night he was headed to his car, lugging his gear into the dark streets of the nightshift. As Jason gave us pitch for "Silent Night," he stood by the curb in front of his home, knowing not what the evening would bring. We sang him off to work, and as “heavenly peace” rang through the night, he began to sob.

This was so many weeks ago. Decorations are cleared from lawns, and disposable live trees have long been picked up from the alleys. With or without pandemic restriction, the weeks after Christmas create their own isolation. Cold days and early darkening nights cocoon us in our houses where neighborly contact is postponed until spring thaw, except when you’re walking the dog at the precise moment someone is shoveling walks. This was the case last week when a neighbor from across the street shut off his snowblower and came across, I thought, to greet Aggi. When you’re walking the dog, all greetings are about the pooch.

“Hey, do you remember when the choir from your church came caroling?” he called out. Not waiting for an answer, he continued, “I’m sorry I didn’t come to the door. My daughter answered and told me to come out, but I couldn’t. I heard you, but just couldn’t get up. Just before you guys came to the door, I received the call that my father had died. He was gone, and there you were singing carols, like he planned it. I just sat there crying like a baby. Haven’t had a chance to tell you till now, just wanted to say thank you and tell the choir thanks. God’s work you did!” We removed gloves and shook hands, his eyes glistening again.

There’s something profound about a random blessing. For all our scheduled events and carefully curated experiences, sometimes the greatest gifts arrive unplanned. They remind us how most things are not in our hands but God’s, and God orchestrates what we cannot control, bringing heavenly peace and joy to the world at Christmastime and all the time.

Grateful for carols in and out of season, I remain,

With Love,
Jonathan Krogh
Your Pastor