Posted: 12/07/07
CYBER COLUMN:
Merry Christmas, Ross Wolfe
By John Duncan
I’m sitting here under the old oak tree, thinking about Christmas and wondering in the spirit of the season about Ross Wolfe. Where are you, dear brother? Ross Wolfe, I wish you a Merry Christmas.
You sent me a letter, and I lost it while moving to a new town. If you had seen the 6,000 pounds of stuff, file cabinets and hundreds of books and papers stacked high that the movers moved to my new office, you would understand. I dug deep for your letter, but to no avail. In fact, you have, through the years, sent me letters.
You once sent me a letter that began, “I’m fine, and it’s really been a blessing in jail.” Were you the Apostle Paul writing your epistles from jail and naming them your prison letters? Were you Dietrich Bonhoeffer writing “Letters and Papers from Prison,” glorious words like Bonhoeffer’s own, “Jesus does not call men to a new religion, but to life”? Or were you in prison, because as you once stated, “I messed up again”? Ross Wolfe, I hurt for you and long to see you and thank you for your letters, and I wish you a Merry Christmas.
Your last two letters stated the same things to me, that you aimed be free again, of alcohol’s demon pain, of jail, and of a clouded past to sing again at Rinky Tinks, a small ice cream parlor on the square of a small Texas town. Are you writing songs and singing again?
Oh, dear brother, you can sing. I will never forget you once told me you played piano for the opening act for Ray Charles. “For Ray Charles?” I quizzed you as I could think of only one thing: “Georgia On My Mind,” which, incidentally, was the name of one of your friends. Your face glowed like an angel as you shared the Ray Charles good news, happiness nipping your nose like you were a child who had unwrapped a toy at Christmas.
I will never forget that twice you gave me CD recordings of your melodious music, “Ross Wolfe in Memphis” and “Every Day I Praise the Lord, ” a CD which has the picture of a beautiful white church with a tall steeple and trees with green leaves and a price tag still on it of $18.48 plus $1.52 tax. How did you arrive at the price? Did I ever pay you the $20.00? Are you attending a tall-steepled church that sings Christmas hymns during this season? Are you still singing “Every Day I Praise the Lord”? Do you know it is almost Christmas, Ross Wolfe?
Ross Wolfe, I will never forget your sweet grandmother Opal, sweetest lady this side of the Jordan and Brazos Rivers, this side of the moon and the earth. She prayed for you and told me so with a crinkled forehead of concern and prayed that you walk the narrow road, and she yearned for you to sing the songs of God’s amazing grace. She begged God that you would live with the Christ tune of joy vibrating and making rhythm in your heart. She loved you, and how wonderful it is to have people praying for you with hearts pouring out love. She prayed that the devil’s hand would not strangle you, but that God’s hand would guide you and keep you free.
I will never forget you sent me another letter about your new song, one that I believe you wrote in jail, titled, “Bump it on Down, Devil.” In another letter, you stated that you were in “my lowest time” and longed to “think about COMING HOME.” I noted you put “coming home” in capital letters and felt you lived on the edge of despair and hope, on the edge of homelessness and wanting to go home. Despair filtered in your soul, in the words of the Psalmist, “I cried out to God with my voice—to God with my voice; and he gave ear to me. In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord; My hand was stretched out in the night without ceasing; My soul refused to be comforted” (Psalm 77:1-2).
“Despair,” Victor Frankl once wrote, “is suffering without meaning.” Despair gave way to fear for you because, in your lowest state, maybe you were losing all hope. You feared the devil would strangle your soul, and you wrote a song, “Bump it on Down, Devil,” as if to say: Despair cannot win; I long to go home; life has meaning.
Can any place be better than home at Christmas? Can life possess meaning in the Christ of Christmas? Ross, are you writing a song of hope?
Ross, one of your letters stated that you wanted people to see Jesus in you. I know you struggled, and maybe still do. We all do from time to time. It’s called life, a series of events that add up to the sum of all our parts, the misery and mercy, mess that imprisons us and the glory that sets us free, and the fear and joy. Ross Wolfe, I wish you a Merry Christmas and know, deep in the fiery depths of my soul and yours, that what you really long for is joy. “Joy comes in the morning,” the Bible says, and after the pain of childbirth. It is birth I am thinking about now, Mary’s birth and the joy of Christmas. Did you know it is almost Christmas?
I love Christmas. While the world seesaws on the edge of great fear in a world of terror and great joy in a world where people long to go home for Christmas, I think of Mary’s great fear and her great joy in bringing Jesus into the world; of Mary’s great pain and yet the joyful celebration of Christ’s birth; of Mary when the devil and Herod tried to do all they could to keep Jesus from living and legions of angels when they showed up time and time again in the Christmas story, like Clarence in “It’s A Wonderful Life,” declaring, “You can live again! You can live again!”
I love Christmas! Ross Wolfe, have you written any songs about Christmas? Hey, did Ray Charles like Christmas? Did he ever write an unpublished song, “Christmas on My Mind?”
When I think of Christmas, I think of hope, for people to be free and full of joy and love and peace on earth that comes from heaven and good will towards men. When Saint Matthew announced the birth of Jesus in his Gospel, the encouraging word was one of hope—for God’s presence to lead us home; for salvation from sins and when we mess up; for a star that would shine and lead us to Christ who desires to be worshipped. When Luke recorded the message of angels, their wings glistening like glitter, his Gospel proclaimed an angelic announcement of hope that lights up the dark sky. When John philosophically introduced the child born in Bethlehem as the Word becoming flesh and blood among us, his words became a song of hope for all the nations to sing. Hope reigns at Christmas. Hope sings. Hope shines. Hope hums in the heart. Remember, Ross, your grandmother prayed sweet prayers for Christ’s hope to hum in your heart.
Ross, it is almost Christmas. I cannot wait. I hope it snows, snowflakes on Christmas Eve trickling out of the sky like cotton balls floating in midair racing to the ground to see which one gets to earth first to blanket it with a carpet of snow so that boys and girls and men like me can build snowmen in their yards. Yes, I hope it snows, my dear brother Ross. But even if it does not, this Christmas I think of you and am reminded that Jesus washes our sins as white as snow. The prophet Isaiah said that. And this Christmas I sing the songs of Christmas joy like angels with God’s glory, dazzling onlookers to vibrate my soul with peace and love and hope. And this Christmas, I remember that I need not live on the edge of fear because great joy has come in Emmanuel, “God with us.” And this Christmas, I guess a lot of people, Ross, will think, like you did that day in prison, of “COMING HOME.”
Pliny the Elder in the first century said, “Home is where the heart is.” North Carolina writer Thomas Wolfe said, “You can’t go home again.” But I have found you can go home again, and that home fills the heart and that the heart can make a home for Jesus, Emmanuel, and if it does, despair goes away, peace comes, joy soars and love flourishes like flowers coloring a mountain and filling the air with a fresh smell.
Love, God’s love, Christmas peace, and Christ’s joy is what I send to you this Christmas, Ross Wolfe. Are you in Memphis? Granbury? Georgetown, Texas? Maybe one day I can see you and your bright smile. Maybe, big man that you are, you will give me a teddy bear hug like once you did when you got out of jail and we met with some men from the church at Jack in the Box. You were so happy on that day.
Maybe, just maybe, you will write a Christmas song and send the words to me in a letter. Write a song about Christmas, despair surrendering to hope, fear bowing to joy, and love finding a way in the bitterness of life in the person of Emmanuel.
Oh, Ross, write a song about snow, star-like flakes falling from the sky like glittering stars streaking from the heavens to paint the earth white. I miss your grandmother Opal. And, Christmas joy, oh boy, I wish I had thought to tell you to say hello to Ray Charles for me before he died.
And to you, Ross Wolfe, I say, “Peace on Earth, Goodwill to men. Emmanuel, God be with you.” I pray you are happy, dear brother, like the day at Jack in the Box. I pray you are free. I pray that Christmas joy hums in your heart, the dazzling glory of God’s grace vibrating your heart with the hum of Christ’s hope. Ross Wolfe, I wish you a Merry Christmas. I hope you think of COMING HOME and that you make it home. Christmas joy, oh boy! Merry Christmas!
P.S.: This will be my last cybercolumn. I would like to express my appreciation to Marv Knox and the Baptist Standard for his outstanding leadership and editing and for the privilege of writing. With future changes in the web design of the Standard and changes in my own life, I look forward to reading the Standard and to writing projects that I am planning for the future. Stay tuned in future days. Thanks for reading, for the privilege of writing, and, like my words to Ross Wolfe, “I wish you a Merry Christmas!” Christmas joy!
John Duncan, formerly pastor of Lakeside Baptist Church in Granbury, Texas, recently moved to Georgetown, Texas, where he is pastor of First Baptist Church.
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