(As the title says, this is a legend. But a hundred years ago, local people did exactly these same things — and worse — convinced that they were doing good. Sadder still, we find it back again today. — K.H.)
The congregation sang “Silent Night,” and the choir responded with one resounding chorus of “Go Tell it on the Mountain,” Pastor MacDonald said, “Merry Christmas,” and the 1925 Christmas Eve service was a treasured memory. The children grinned and vibrated, the grownups smiled and stirred, and everybody started gathering coats and hats, and peering under pews for mittens. “Thank you, Pastor!” “Beautiful service, pastor!” “Merry Christmas, Pastor! See you on Sunday!”
Mrs. MacDonald squeezed his hand. “Another fine service, John. Everyone loves your Christmas messages so much. Are we about ready to go?”
He squeezed her hand back. “Not quite, beloved. Take the children home in the motorcar, and I need five minutes with a group in my office, then I’ll walk back to the parsonage. So I will be with you in twenty minutes, but later I’ll have to go out again. After the children are all in bed.”
She sighed. “THAT group? Tonight, of all nights?”
“Tonight above all other nights, my dear. It’s a very small sacrifice for God and country.” He wanted to kiss her, but many of the older folks in the congregation would be fleeing the sanctuary before the thunderbolt struck. Some of the younger ones, too, for all that it WAS the 1920s, with even the Great War now history.
The half-dozen people in his office all jumped a little when he walked in. Why would such a ministry opportunity scare them so much? Well, as ever, the flesh is weak. But still. These are the truly committed.
My Klan.
He smiled. “Merry Christmas.” They smiled, and relaxed just a trifle, emotionally seizing on the familiar. “Merry Christmas, Pastor!”
Better. More vim. “Let’s begin with prayer. Heavenly Father, we thank thee for sending thine only begotten Son to us, to be the Light of the World. Grant that we, too, may be lesser lights for thee, under the glorious fiery cross. Amen.” The others muttered “amen” after him.
He beamed on them. “Now, I know this is the first time for all of you, and you feel a little awkward. Some of these folks you might brush shoulders with at the grocery store, or might work beside at the Erie roundhouse. And they may even be good people!
“But that just makes it even sadder. They’re lost, lost in heathen darkness. AND they threaten our beloved country, America the beautiful. Remember that Catholics MUST obey their priests, and priests MUST obey the Pope – or they’ll each go to Hell. So even if they want to, they CAN’T be loyal to America. And if Al Smith wins the White House at the next election, well, the Pope will rule us. He’ll pull the strings in the White House, and even here in Hornell.” He paused. “The next step will be persecution.”
They groaned, but didn’t speak. “We’ve got to stand up for America, for the cause of God and truth… a white man’s country, and a Protestant country, just like God gave our forefathers and they passed down to us, and we’re going to pass it on to OUR children!” Several heartfelt “amens” answered him.
“So we’re going to picket their midnight mass. And all across western New York, Klansmen from other churches will do the same in their own communities. We don’t do this in anger, but in sorrow. We want Catholics to see the error of their ways and repent. But we also want them to know that if they try to steal our country, they’ll have a fight on their hands!”
“Yes!”
“So – no aggressiveness, no arguments. We’ll just march – peacefully – and silently – back and forth on the sidewalk ACROSS from Saint Ann’s. Don’t interfere with anyone, don’t block their way.” He looked them over, and made a decision. “Leave your picket signs here, in the office. I’ll pick them up, and I’ll bring them along. DO NOT start without me. ABSOLUTELY do not. We need to show the world that we Ku Klux have discipline. Heaven knows people will criticize us anyway… the world always does, when you’re doing the Lord’s work… but we’re not going to hand them any extra excuses. Now all join hands for a closing prayer, and meet back here, on the front steps, at 11:30.” Moments later, he was locking up and striding home.
Pastor MacDonald always loved Christmas Eve with his children… reading the Christmas story by candlelight, piling all three kids onto the sofa with him for “The Night Before Christmas,” the whole family sharing hot chocolate, and then putting the little ones to bed. A lot of his calling involved the skillful use of words, but even he couldn’t possibly find words to say how much he loved them.
As the clock struck eleven he put his coat and scarf on and kissed his wife, who was clearly restraining herself from saying the things she wanted to, but of course a woman’s view was limited to the home – rightly so, he thought, but that blinded her to the bigger needs of a whole nation. The night was cold and the stars were bright – a storybook Christmas! – as he stepped out briskly toward the church.
He got half-way there before one leg flew high off a streak of black ice, momentum yanking the other foot off the ground with it, and he only had time to grunt before he smashed onto the sidewalk full-length on his left side, flopped onto his back, and stayed there. The stars were still up above. But the view was very different.
Brakes screeched, a car door slammed, and fast footsteps sounded. “Mister! Hey, mister! You awake?”
“I’m awake, thanks,” the pastor croaked. “Got the wind knocked out.”
“You sure went flying.” The stranger whistled. “Look, mister, I’m a Scout leader. If we were out in the field, I’d splint that leg of yours before I let you move. One of these houses must have a ‘phone. You stay put, and I’ll have them call the ambulance. OK?”
“OK,” he said. His voice was a little stronger, but so was the pain. “Hurts to breathe, too.”
“Well, all the more reason, then.” Despite a blanket sent out from the house that had the ‘phone, Pastor MacDonald’s teeth were chattering by the time he finally heard one wail from a siren. Doors slammed, once again footsteps sounded, the Scout leader whispered to the newcomers, and two ambulance volunteers got down on their knees with the pastor. “Mister, my name is Pavelski. We’ll put a splint on this leg of yours, just in case, just until we get you to the hospital, and the docs there can take care of anything you need. After the splint we’ll rock you onto a stretcher, and it’s going to hurt. So’s the splinting. You weren’t in the war, were you?”
“Not… overseas.”
“Well, O’Brien and me were. We promise, we know what we’re doing. We’ve done it before. But like I said, it’s going to hurt.”
And so it did, making the pastor’s head swirl, but he was still alert enough to say, “Not St. James Mercy Hospital,” when they got him loaded into the ambulance. “Take me to Bethesda.” He would NOT go to a Catholic hospital where some Romish priest would pollute him with incense, and gabble vain utterances in their dead foreign tongue. O’Brien and Pavelski looked at him, then at each other, then shrugged. “Bethesda it is. Either way, be prepared. Some of these streets have frost heaves.”
Which proved to be painfully true, but before long he was in a bed, with a doctor busily on the job and his wife finally sent for. “Broken left leg. Broken left arm – both will need traction. Ribs might be cracked, but the good news is that your back is probably just wrenched. I’m afraid you’re going to be enjoying our hospitality for quite a while, Mr. MacDonald.”
“Pastor.”
“Sorry, Pastor MacDonald. Afraid this won’t be much of a Christmas for you. I’m Doctor Cohen. We’ll be spending a lot of time together for the next few weeks.” The pastor closed his eyes. Cohen. I should have gone to St. James. Why are you punishing me, Lord?
O’Brien and Pavelski, with a little help from their siren, caught the last ten minutes of midnight mass. When it was finished, happy parishioners streamed into the silent and holy night.