Entertaining Angels on Christmas Eve?

It was the worst weather on a Christmas Eve I had ever seen. The rain was steady, and just above freezing. The windshield wipers struggled, because the rain kept turning to ice as it landed on the car. We were driving home slowly from the candlelight service at our church, my wife, Marsha, following in her own car (we never managed to get to church in the same automobile).

Our heads were full of the melodies of the holy night. Angels were still singing on high, and Mary had laid her child "lowly in a manger." The faces in worship had been wonderfully illuminated by tiny candles as we sang "Silent Night." We had done our part to show Jesus that we knew the holiday was about "peace on earth and goodwill to all."

As we turned the corner onto our street, a neighborhood homeless person was standing on the corner. She was wearing her usual layers of coats and sweaters. A sodden scarf was wrapped around her head. I knew that her name was Tina.

I had talked with her before, on sunnier days. She would stop me on my walk to the library and ask for change. She was a small person, of middle years. A wild light burned in her eyes, as she talked about the Secret Service agents who followed her; or the FBI who tapped her phone. Tina did not have a phone. The Lutheran pastor down the street told me that sometimes Tina would buy a frozen pizza at the grocery and cook it on the large (and very hot) spotlight in his church yard. Tina was probably crazy, but she was not dumb.

On this awful, icy Christmas Eve, Tina was standing on the corner with her thumb out, like she was trying to catch a ride somewhere. I recognized her and knew that she was not trying to catch a ride. And to my shame, I drove on by. As I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw my wife stop her car. I watched as she talked with Tina, and then Tina got into the car. We drove the three blocks to our house.

By the time we had gone that short distance, Tina was quite frightened. She was off her usual route, and this was strange territory to her. Tina spends most of her life afraid.

I WENT INTO the house first, took off my wet coat, and turned on the oven to warm up the food. Marsha and our children (all college age at that time) came in and Tina reluctantly followed them -- just inside the front door, but no farther. She stayed there with her hand on the doorknob, ready to bolt for the safety of the street in case there was trouble. She clearly did not feel at ease in this setting: a tree with Christmas lights; a living room all decorated for the holidays; smells of home cooking coming from the kitchen. For Tina this was dangerous turf, and she wanted out as soon as possible. I wondered what memories of Christmas past haunted her.

As Marsha talked with Tina, she got mostly one-word answers. Did Tina need anything? "Dunno." Did she have a place to stay? "Yeah." How could we help? "Dunno." Was she hungry? "A little." But a couple of times in the conversation, Tina looked around and said quite lucidly to my wife "You have a lovely home," or "Congratulations on your nice family."

It was obvious that Tina was not going to come any farther into the house than the doorway. In spite of the children's stories I had grown up on, this angel in disguise (a very heavy disguise) was not going to get too near us. Whatever blessing we were going to bestow on each other was going to be handled at the doorway between the warmth of the house and the frigid street. The street was the place that Tina considered her safe haven. We were not going to be her salvation from exile, at least not this night. But our lives had touched, and there was something in that. We had talked with each other like neighbors, and that was a Christmas sort of thing to do.

Finally, Marsha packed up some food like she was making a lunch for Tina to take to work. And Tina asked for some dry socks. We put in a few Christmas goodies, along with the socks, some fruit and candy, and a few dollars from the desk drawer. We talked a little more, but Tina would not stay to eat.

Then Tina asked for a ride back to "her place." So we drove her the 10 blocks, to where she asked to be let out in front of an abandoned house on a side street. Then she was gone, like Br'er Rabbit heading for the briar patch.

IN THE STORIES of my childhood, the tales always had a nice, warm ending. The stranger is revealed to be the Christ Child in disguise. Or an angel would come to say that the homeowner had been visited by a saint. Or the pot of soup would refuse to run out as strangers were fed.

But we received no such revelation. And we had no great sense of having done a good deed. Her needs were so great, and our offering so small. Our lives were set in a pattern and so was hers. Mostly, we were struck by the inadequacy of it all. There was so little we could do.

It is like offering shelter for the homeless at church one week each winter. Yes, it's a help. But there are so many more people than CARITAS can handle. There are so many more nights when they need shelter. It is like spending an hour a week with a child at an elementary school on the east side of town. It is a help, but there is so much more that needs doing. It is like . . .

It is like a Jewish teenager hearing an angel say that her baby will change the world, that her child will turn things upside down. "God has scattered the proud with all their plans. God has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted those of low degree. God has filled the hungry with good things, but sent the rich away empty-handed." The Gospel of Luke says that Mary received the angel's message, and made herself available. Just one woman in an out-of-the-way neighborhood said "Yes." That was not very much -- but it was enough.

Maybe these encounters with the homeless, or at the school, or with some elderly relative who always needs help -- maybe these encounters are more about changing us than fixing someone else. Maybe they are more about bringing us down from our lofty seats of self-confidence or comfort. Perhaps they are all about waking us up to what needs to happen in our lives, in our city, in God's world. And in that waking we realize that we, too, need for God to break in with some new beginnings for us all.

When we are at our lowest, we remember that God lifts up the lowly, and fills the hungry with good things. Perhaps we can see our small, inadequate deeds of love as raindrops -- raindrops that finally fill up the river of compassion. Now there is a river whose streams make glad the City of God. In that city there is no darkness, and no night. No one there is homeless. No one there is a stranger left out in the cold. Our small deeds of kindness point to that destination.

I guess I do believe that Tina was a divine visitor, after all -- just like the old stories say. But we are still trying to unwrap the gift. For God is in this somewhere. God is in all of this somewhere.
Charlie Summers is the pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Richmond. Contact him at .