In the late 1930’s, American writer and Civil War historian Philip Van Doren Stern began working on a Christmas story. It would take several years for the fable to take full shape, and even then Stern couldn’t find a publisher. So, in December 1943 he self-published 200 copies, in pamphlet form, of his little story. The narrative steps into the life of a man named George, on Christmas Eve, as he is contemplating suicide. George believes his life to be worthless, and that it would be better for everyone had he never been born. Standing on the edge of a bridge, just outside of the little town he called home and ready to jump, his decision is interrupted by an angel-type-being who grants him the wish of having never been born. Stern’s Christmas fable takes us on George’s journey to realize the precious gift of life.
As copies of Stern’s story were given to friends that December 1943, one copy ended up being brought to the attention of RKO Pictures. Intrigued, they purchased the rights to turn the 4100-word story into a script for a movie. Soon thereafter, a director named Frank Capra purchased it from RKO and brought it to the attention of actor James Stewart who had recently returned from World War II. Stewart severely suffered from PTSD. As a bomber pilot he had watched friends die, had many brushes with death, and found himself in the throes of combat so often that eventually his superior officers grounded him because of his condition.
After his service, Stewart seriously considered retiring from acting to lead a quiet life running his family’s store in Pennsylvania. Capra had different plans for Stewart and the two married their talents to create the film It’s a Wonderful Life. The character of George Bailey would become James Stewart’s favorite of the over 80 characters he portrayed on the big screen.
Stern’s original opening of The Greatest Gift begins in dark and desperate fashion, typical of a depressed person standing on the edge of meaning and meaningless,
The little town straggling up the hill was bright with colored Christmas lights. But George Bailey did not see them. He was leaning over the railing of the iron bridge, staring down moodily at the black water. The current eddied and swirled like liquid glass, and occasionally a bit of ice, detached from the shore, would go gliding downstream to be swallowed up in the shadows under the bridge. The water looked paralyzingly cold. George wondered how long a man could stay alive in it. The glassy blackness had a strange, hypnotic effect on him. He leaned still further over the railing…
ALL of history waits. Everyone wonders, pontificates, and anticipates future history. How will it happen? Will it gloriously burst on the scene with a prerecorded symphonic score designed to give us all the feels that accompany a foreshadowing hope? Or will it sneak in the side door, purchase an economy ticket and sit amongst us, all the while we are oblivious to its presence? Will the ‘what’ we wait for live up to the hype, or will it disappoint?
Before discussing the ‘what’, I would like to ask a sacredly relevant question: If all of history waits…if we each are individually waiting…where are you waiting? After all, where we spend our time waiting, is a reflection of our view of life and self and the meaning of it all.
For some our ‘where’ is next to George Bailey on the bridge, standing on the brink looking at the abyss. The dark current swirling like liquid glass somehow feels like a residence, a destiny that cannot be escaped. These find a strange refuge in the paralyzing cold and deafening silence of this place. For them the painful nights have become the norm, they have become home.
Others are down the street, far from the shadows of George Bailey’s experience, in the city, enjoying all the decorations and Christmas lights. They drive slow down the main street, not wanting the moment to pass, not wanting to leave so much happiness. Their cup is full this time of year, full of Christmas magic with all its sights, sounds, and smells.
Many of us, though, secretly find ourselves somewhere in between. We aren’t on a bridge needing rescue, nor are we lost in the moment amongst the decorum of main street. Our bedfellows are both joy and sadness, excitement and anxiety, hope and despair. At times we see the meaning of it all, other times the world around us feels meaningless.
As we begin this Advent season, a time of waiting and anticipating the birth of Jesus, let’s begin with the ground beneath our feet. It’s ok. It’s not selfish. If anything, it reflects the entire meaning of the Advent season. God came to us, to the place of our current condition, he put his feet on the ground next to ours. He shared the dirt underneath our feet. So the ‘where’ is an important place to start. The bridge far removed from joy, the street at the center of happiness, the in-between places. Your emotional address, your ‘where’, and honesty about it, can be the starting point of a season of waiting that gives way to something unexpected…something needed.
The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood. We saw the glory with our own eyes, the one-of-a-kind glory, like Father, like Son, Generous inside and out, true from start to finish John 1:14, The Message
All of history was waiting, and Jesus slipped in the side door, purchased an economy ticket and sat next among us. The incarnation story begins with our place. Our broken, messy, standing on the brink, driving down main street, or somewhere in between neighborhoods. Christmas comes to us, that’s what makes is so magical. In the coming weeks we will focus on different parts of the meaning of Advent. But for today, here at the beginning, hope is on the horizon…and its coming to us.
This is part one of a four part Advent devotional series provided by SLU.