Bishop's talk
Christmas Talk
For
Cardston 5th Ward
Dec. 20, 2020
Good afternoon brothers and sisters. It is so wonderful to meet with you today, and to once again celebrate the birth of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.
One of the benefits of being in my position is the ability to pick and choose the days when I will speak. An extra benefit, during this time of Covid, is that I can actually remove my mask for a few minutes while delivering my talk. Lori said it’s almost enough to make a person want to volunteer. Almost.
I’m sure like many of you, we are looking forward to a Christmas unlike any we have previously experienced. Yesterday, Lori and I drove to Calgary, where 4 of our children live with their families, and delivered the final Christmas gifts we had been working on these past few weeks. We loaded the truck up with all sorts of things that mostly Mrs. Claus has been envisioning these many months and went to four separate homes where we did a pretty good job of maintaining our social distance and unloaded the presents one by one. At each house, we wished the grandkids a Merry Christmas and dealt with the reality we wouldn’t be seeing them in person this next Friday. Instead, we’ve selected times when they will FaceTime us so we can watch the grandchildren open their gifts. We’re scheduled to start at 7:00 am with James’ family. So, no sleeping in this year for Grandpa and Grandma Brooks.
There is an amazing sense of joy and excitement in the face of a young child as they tear open the wrapping paper and look at the contents inside. Mrs. Claus spends months buying, planning and wrapping, all so she can watch those joyful expressions on Christmas morning.
Our daughter Abby took her three children, ages 8, 6 and 4 to see Santa this year in a pretty pandemic proof area of the mall. Brynn, the 6 year old said, upon seeing the man himself in his red velvet suit, “Are you the real Santa? I’ve seen hundreds of pretenders and I want to know if you’re the real guy.” He assured her he was and she then felt comfortable sharing her rather extensive list of wants.
One thing we are truly going to miss this year is the annual nativity. We’ve got enough grandkids here now to have a complete ensemble cast of Mary and Joseph, two angels, a donkey, a sheep and a cow, but alas, we don’t have an infant available, although if we had simply postponed Christmas a few weeks, that role too would have been complete. Our son James was grateful for the increase in our progeny as his part has, for last several years, been that of the donkey. However, as you are all painfully aware, we are simply not going to be able to get together to pull it off. We were asked to take the Nativity costumes with us to Calgary yesterday, so maybe the kids have something in mind. Lori is usually the program director, costume designer and set dresser. I’m not sure they can do it without her hands on direction, but we shall see.
I think I mentioned earlier this summer that Abby got me a subscription to StoryWorth, which is essentially a journaling program. Each week it asks me a question and I’m supposed to respond. I must confess I have been somewhat dilatory with respect to that assignment. Sometimes the questions ask me to remember things I would just as soon forget. Other times, they are extremely personal and I am loathe to share my responses with anyone, let alone my children.
This week, however, it asks me about my most memorable Christmas. Now that is an interesting question. Note the context; it doesn’t ask me for my best Christmas memory, or my favourite Christmas experience, rather it asks for my most memorable Christmas. This year will be my 62nd Christmas, so I’ve got a few to choose from, although frankly my memory of the first 3 or 4 is pretty scant.
I know I’ve said before that I grew up attending this building as part of the then Cardston 1st Ward. I have vivid memories of a nativity consisting of large, cut out figures portraying the Nativity being placed somewhere up on the area near the organ and piano. They were kept in the choir loft behind me during the rest of the year. A few weeks ago, we were getting something out of that choir loft and I must confess I was disappointed not to see the familiar Nativity figures peaking out from behind the filing cabinets. Each year, we sang every Christmas carol in the hymnal, and because we met and sang in Sunday School as well as Sacrament meeting, sometimes we got to sing our favourites more than one time per season. A huge real Christmas tree, fresh cut from the foothills, stood in the northwest corner of the cultural hall and was trimmed with lights and other decorations. It seemed to be put up sometime in early December and wasn’t removed until the New Year arrived. I recall it always being a beautiful example of a true Christmas tree.
This was in direct contrast to the tree we had in our home. While we too had a real tree for most of my formative years, that, and it’s colour were the only things held in common between the Church tree and our home tree. It seemed like my father was always surprised by Christmas’ arrival and he would rush to find the last tree from the lot behind Ken’s Confectionary, throw it on the roof rack attached to our family station wagon, then, without the assistance of ratchet straps, or occasionally even rope, slowly drive it the 5 blocks to our home. I can only imagine that the tree did, on occasion, show some reluctance in being part of our Christmas festivities by detaching itself from the car, because my father was often in a foul and decidedly un-Christmas-like mood by the time he arrived at our house. The next hour or so was spent trying to find a side of the tree that did not include large areas completely bereft of needles or even branches. Nevertheless, my mother was an absolute wizard at setting up the tree. She organized its trimming by removing from storage the relatively simple, but to her priceless, collection of ornaments she had managed to accumulate over the years. The only new additions to festoon the tree were the icicles, thin, spaghetti like ribbons of silver- something that had to be replenished each year because once they stuck to the boughs of the even sparsest tree, they were there to stay. My job was to throw said icicles, usually in large, tangled clumps, onto the branches. It was the only task to which I was apparently suited. Imagine my dismay when, upon getting married, I discovered my skill with icicle throwing was not to be allowed within 30 feet of any tree Lori was decorating.
Which leads me to my most memorable Christmas. All things in the year of 1968 seemed to be going as per usual. It was remarkably cold that year, in fact, the local radio station had a contest to see how long it would be until we finally once again had a high temperature above 0 degrees centigrade. The tree had been recently erected and trimmed, with the appropriate surliness of my father and enthusiasm from my mother, when we received a phone call from my oldest brother, Bill, who lived with his family in Raymond. An emergency had occurred. Their 7 month old son, Jacquie, had come down with pneumonia and Bill and his wife Dawn needed to be in the hospital in Lethbridge around the clock. I remember my mom coming upstairs to my room and telling me we were going to spend Christmas in Raymond with my 4 nephews and 1 niece. Mom and Dad were going to babysit. Their oldest child was 10, two years older than me, and the rest lined up about 2 years apart in descending order. That was the plan. I was devastated. Firstly, Christmas got moved up by 3 days. Magically, Santa found his way to our home on December 22, with only the promise of a small gift or two finding me in my own version of Alcatraz. Secondly, to be blunt, my nephews were, in my eyes, little hooligans. That they were born and raised in Raymond was, I’m sure, just a coincidence. Anyway, I quickly found out I had yet to be enfranchised, and therefore had no say in the matter, and we loaded into the aforementioned station wagon and headed to Raymond.
What started as an immature reluctance quickly transformed into an outright loathing of the circumstances. I discovered that what I thought were an adequate number of presents usually awaiting me under the tree was far outstripped by the treasure trove of gifts all with my nephews’ names on them. I was shattered. Not only were they hooligans, they were spoiled hooligans. Against this background were two of the longest and completely unfulfilling days of my life.
On day two of my confinement, my brother Bill arrived home, had a quick few minutes with his kids, then spent a little longer with my parents. He was his usual jovial self with the children, but markedly more somber when speaking to mom and dad. I asked my mom if everything was ok. She told me Jacquie was extremely ill and we needed to remember him in our prayers. She fasted the rest of that day. Christmas arrived the next morning and Bill was there as the kids opened their presents. He left soon after to return to the hospital. I remember being so jealous of all the presents my selfish, hooligan nephews got to open. The next day, Jacquie passed away. I’m sure we went home for a couple of days, if only to get clothes for the funeral, but what I really remember is seeing that little tiny coffin placed in front of the pulpit in the Raymond Stake Centre. The day of the funeral was so cold people were starting fires under their propane tanks so the propane would flow to heat their homes and fire their stoves.
We stood in that cold in the Temple Hill Cemetery as the grave was dedicated and the body interred. I remember my brother and sister-in-law being grief stricken and watching my selfish hooligan nephews crying. I suppose I cried too.
I had an epiphany that day, even though I was only 8 years old. I realized that the pomp and circumstance of the Christmas I had grown to know was shallow in the extreme, or maybe I learned that it was me who was being shallow.
One of the talks that day was about families being together forever through the atonement of Jesus Christ. Now this was not the first time I had heard about that, but it was the first time the reality and importance of it really struck home. To my 8 year old mind, this was something noteworthy in the extreme.
7 years later, I was asked to portray the Saviour in a Book of Mormon pageant being held in the building now called the Civic Centre. I remember kneeling down the night of the first portrayal and crying for help to somehow, some way, adequately perform that role. To say I was overwhelmed would be a vast understatement. The next three nights, I was aided and uplifted in a way that confirmed then, as it does now, that Jesus is the Christ, our Saviour and Redeemer. The Spirit bore that witness to me, and despite frailties, imperfections and indiscretions, I cannot deny that truth.
It is His birth that we celebrate at this treasured time of year.
When Nephi was privileged to be taught by an angel of God as recorded in 1 Nephi 11 we read:
16 ... Knowest thou the condescension of God?
17 And I said unto him: I know that he loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things.
20 And I looked and beheld the virgin...bearing a child in her arms.
21 And the angel said unto me: Behold the Lamb of God, yea, even the Son of the Eternal Father!
24 And after he had said these words, he said unto me: Look! And I looked, and I beheld the Son of God going forth among the children of men; and I saw many fall down at his feet and worship him.
26 And the angel said unto me again: Look and behold the condescension of God!
31 And he spake unto me again, saying: Look! And I looked, and I beheld the Lamb of God going forth among the children of men. And I beheld multitudes of people who were sick, and who were afflicted with all manner of diseases, and with devils and unclean spirits; and the angel spake and showed all these things unto me. And they were healed by the power of the Lamb of God; and the devils and the unclean spirits were cast out.
32 ...And I looked and beheld the Lamb of God, that he was taken by the people; yea, the Son of the everlasting God was judged of the world...
33 And I, Nephi, saw that he was lifted up upon the cross and slain for the sins of the world.
It is during this Christmas season that we celebrate both His birth and His mission. He is our Saviour and Redeemer. He knows and loves each one of us. The babe in the manger, born over two millennia ago into humble circumstances, is truly the Great I Am. Let us focus on His message and honour His sacrifice by following His teachings and serving those around us is my prayer, both now and throughout the year.
I would be extremely remiss if I didn’t acknowledge all the efforts that have been made by so many during these past nearly 10 months. When I speak with our members, they point out the efforts of our ministers, assigned or otherwise. Thank you so much for looking out for one another. I especially would like to thank Brother Schaffer and Brother McMurray, along with Brothers Spenser and Rowe, who have been so supportive of me. As well, we would not have been able to last these past months without President Widmer and President Jasperson before him, who, with their counsellors, have served so diligently. And of course to President Oertli and her counsellors, who are truly such an integral part of our ward fabric. President Oertli is my rock during these troubled times. And lastly, I cannot begin to thank Sister Debbie Fletcher enough for her amazing work with the blog. It has been our lifeline during these past months. If information is a source of power, it can also be a source of comfort.
May we all have a Merry Christmas as we try to draw closer to Him. I leave you with these thoughts in His Holy Name, even Jesus Christ, Amen.
Deb Bartok’s Number
Peter Davidsen’s Number
Creed’s Number
