Magyar Egyház, 1953 (32. évfolyam, 1-10. szám)

1953-10-01 / 10. szám

MAGYAR EGYHÁZ

lí

Superintendent of the Sunday School, Youth Counselor and many others too numerous to mention. His passing has created an echoing void which was formerly a ringing bass in that section of the choir. His very absence makes us aware of his former presence. And, as is the Fate of us all he succumbed to the victorious call of the Grain Reaper. But as I recall the 10th Holy Sonnet of the English Poet, John Doune, I wonder.

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be Much pleasure, then for thee much more must flow;

And soonest our best men with the do go,

Rest of their bones and soul’s delivery.

Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke. Why swelle’st thou then? One short sleep passed, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more. Death, thou shalt die.

It is with movable regret that I have made you cognizant of the loss which we have suffered in the person of a good Christian, a spiritual buttress, a fellow-member, and to me a dear friend. Just as I have reviewed the past so do I look to the future and to the hope emblazoned in I Corinthians 15 as set forth by the Apostle Paul.

Christmas and ©Id Bicnlai

(Christmas Echoes 1949)

By Irene Strommen

Old Nicolai Bénítson was trembling as his hand reached up to pull the heavy rope that would set the church bell in motion. Some who saw it said to each other that at last old Nicolai was beginning to show his age. For was he not 79 this last September? If Daughter Ann had seen it she would have said it was because he had insisted on walking the whole eight blocks to church in the new fallen snow this morning.

But Nicolai Berntson knew that it was for neither of these reasons at all. He was trembling for sheer joy. Almost every Sunday for forty years he had looked forward to ringing the church bell of Zion, first in the old wooden church, now in the fine new one of stone. But the biggest thrill of all was pulling the rope and hearing the Christmas bells chime, “A Child is born in Bethlehem! A Child is born in Bethlehem!” It seemed to him that they proclaimed the coming of the Great Deliverer to the citizens of Poplar Grove just as the angels had proclaimed the coming of the Messiah to the shepherds of long ago.

And he looked forward to standing in the hall each Sunday morning and watching the people enter—these sons and daughters of the pioneers who built the first wooden church on the hill.

How he loved these worshippers in Zion! Somehow, as he saw them through the years he had come to know the days when they were glad, or troubled, or shameful, or rebellious as they entered the House of God.

On Christmas morning he was especially interested in seeing them walk by in families, in couples, alone.

Some of them, of course, he saw every Sunday in church.

There was Esther Yngve, for instance, walking very slowly today and clinging tightly to the arm of her sister. The doctors had given her only a few months to live. Dying of an incurable disease, people said.

And there was Amy Hansen with her four little boys trailing behind her. Old Nicolai saw the tenseness in her eyes, the strained look about her mouth. He knew what she was thinking about—last Christmas when Art had been living and they had all come to the service together. He remembered that.

Things were changing. Not all in town would turn out for Christmas services as they used to do. But here and there, interspersed with the regular Zion-goers, he saw faces that were very familiar in Poplar Grove. Only they were not at all familiar in Zion, or any other church, for that matter.

There was John Ölesen, one of the town’s lawyers, for instance. He came alone. Old Nicolai was shocked to note how gaunt he had become of late and how hollow-cheeked. Something was eating at the heart of John Ölesen. Maybe no one else but he, Nicolai, knew what it was. He and God. It wouldn’t have made much difference to John if old Nicolai knew, but it was beginning to make a difference that God knew.

And there was Ella Harvey. Nicolai remembered her well, as a child in Sunday school. She wasn’t much more than a child now, but there was nothing child-like about her appearance. He couldn’t help noticing the sullenness about the full red mouth,