A couple of weeks ago, my Mom sang with the Philly Pops in a Christmas concert at Verizon Hall, the downtown home of the Philadelphia Orchestra. I didn't care much for the soloist or her songs about chestnuts and little kittens roasting by the fire. I just can't kid myself into fantasizing and romanticizing Christmas. I've always been home for Christmas and I've never taken a open horse sleigh ride. Maybe someday someone will write a Christmas song about what people actually do for Christmas.
The concert turned real when the black gospel choir shuffled into the choir loft. They were not trained singers or performers. They were church choir with all ages, sizes and skill levels. They sang "Go Tell It On the Mountain" like there was something worth climbing a mountain to tell. They clapped, danced and swayed from their mountain in the choir loft, enjoying every minute of the message. It struck me how mild my enthusiasm for the spread of the gospel is and it reminded me of heaven.
That Friday we had a Christmas dinner at our church. I watched a 19-year-old saint make conversation at his table with his unsaved mom and four Nigerians that spoke French, Spanish, their native tribal tongue--and a little English. I watched a sixty something Puerto Rican deacon spend time with sixty something recovering drug addict. Deacons served and the body fellowshipped. Their shepherd was glad to be with sheep that wanted to be led. I sat at a table full of teenagers and tried to locate what planet or at least what solar system they were living on these days. It was beautiful. Laughing and loud voices filled the church basement. Very different people shared one meal and one gospel. It made me think about heaven.
I think that heaven is somewhere between a foot stomping, gospel choir rendition of "Go Tell It On the Mountain" and the noisy din of fellowship in a church basement. I can't wait to see it all.
