A Christmas Story from Long Ago - The Last Step in a Journey

The year was 1967. I was serving in the USAF, and had just completed a one-year total immersion Russian Language course at Syracuse University, courtesy of that branch of the military. For a year, we were not allowed to speak anything but Russian when we were at the compound dedicated to those studies. Between that course and my next assignment, I had two weeks of leave, so I flew home to California and the small town where I had grown up.

By that time, I was well into my transition from Presbyterian Christianity to atheism. Once I arrived back in my old home town, some of my friends who were still attending that Presbyterian Church mentioned that I was in town to the choir director. When I was younger, I was often a vocal soloist at that church. I was a Bass/Baritone with a vocal compass that also ranged up into Tenor territory. I seemed always to be singing at church.

The choir director, who had also been my voice teacher, called me and asked if I'd sing a piece in their Christmas program, and I reluctantly agreed, although I had reservations. He allowed me to pick the piece. I said that I'd sing "O Holy Night," if he didn't mind. "Terrific!" he said. I scheduled a couple of rehearsals with the church organist.

The lyrics for that piece of music were originally written in French, so I thought it would be interesting to sing it in both French and English. Then, I had what I though was a brilliant idea: Why not translate the lyrics into Russian, and sing it in all three languages. So, I started working on the translation. It was an interesting exercise, matching the meter of the music with an accurate translation.

Anyhow, that Sunday came around, and I showed up in my Class A blue uniform, fresh from the dry cleaner. I performed the song as I had planned, in all three languages, and took my seat. It went well. I did about as good a job with it as I could do. I thought it made a fairly good farewell to that congregation, frankly.

Following the service, though, I discovered that I had made a mistake. The head Deacon of that church's congregation came up to me with an angry look on his face in the narthex of the church. "What made you think it was OK to sing that song in Russian? Are you some kind of Communist now? You offended me by doing that and profaned this church!"

I looked straight into that man's eyes, and said, "There are many Christians in Russia, Sir, as well as in France. Apparently, though, there is one fewer Christian than I thought in this church." Then, I simply walked out of the building. I have never been inside that church since. Unwittingly, that elderly Deacon provided the final momentum for my path toward atheism.