I looked around the room. It was the same room I had always known, "always" in a five-year-old boy’s life. There was a four-poster bed and plenty of quilts with patchwork designs that became a muse to think about the intricate world that lay just beyond the door and the front porch. At the foot of the bed was a cedar chest (that my wife has to this day). My Uncle had built it for Aunt Eva on their wedding day in the dawning years of the twentieth century). There was a Zenith television, old, round, and unreliable, a curmudgeonly thing purchased when Aunt Eva's husband was alive (“Uncle John" was a timber man and farmer from North Carolina who followed the timber market to the Amite River near Pine Grove; my very first memory of anything is holding his hand, feeling cool earth beneath my feet, and watching a kindly black man with a hat, steering two mules and a plow, and coming through the woods towards us). I was fond of a small gas heater whose brick tiles shone like the shepherds' Christmas sky. I used to lie on my stomach before the heater, my chin propped on my hands, and stare at the orange and blue on the flame-licked tiles. I could envision the depths of the universe in that little heater. Once, I got too close and singed my pajamas, made from feed sacks. Feed-sack pajamas were not a sign of poverty but a symbol of ingenuity by women like the one who reared me. And I loved those pajamas. I am sorry that I burned the first ones.
There was a picture of my father, Jesse Ellis Milton, graduating from the New London Maritime Officers Academy in 1940, not knowing he was about to lead US Merchant Marine vessels across the North Atlantic or that the wounds of that war would cut his life short. We lived in a home that was built, in part, before the Civil War. My Aunt Eva and I spent that Christmas Eve together on a little more than five acres of ground that supported chickens, Red Devon cows, one Jersey (she was the sweet one), one Holstein, and a considerable number of chickens: Plymouth, Barred Rock, White Leghorn (pronounced, “Leg-un”), and, my favorite, Buff Orpington (“Buffington” according to Aunt Eva). I knew from television and radio (radio was still a staple to Aunt Eva in those days)—swap markets and agricultural reports—that Christmas was a time filled with festivity and wonder, unlike other days. But our Christmas seemed pretty much like every other day—with one memorable edition: mincemeat pie. Aunt Eva made the sweet spice concoction every Christmas. In another year or so, I would chop down a small pine in the woods behind the house, and we would have a tree in the house for about a week. But on this Christmas Eve, there was no tree, not that I knew any better.
I was fond of a small gas heater whose brick tiles shone like the shepherds' Christmas sky. I used to lie on my stomach before the heater, my chin propped on my hands, and stare at the orange and blue on the flame-licked tiles. I could envision the depths of the universe in that little heater.
My dog, “Pogo,” had been hit by a truck just before my father died. The pig farmer from a few pastures over showed up one chilly morning with a black and white pup. “Snooper” would be a friend for fifteen years. As I write this, I realize who hit and killed Pogo. So, there we were with the artifacts, totems of another time: a radio that worked and television that didn’t, my father’s framed picture on a faux mantle, mincemeat pie on the pink linoleum table, and the radiating brick tiles from that little heater. And quilts. Quilts also had our home's unmistakable but unidentifiable aroma: perhaps, the smell of old cotton enduring for nearly a century in a cedar chest. ‘Not sure, but I can sense it even now.
I had been through some difficult years as a wee lad. There is no need to mention the details of such troubles on Christmas Eve. Suffice it to say that because of the “nightmare days” (that is how I referred to the bad times when I was five years old) with a mentally ill mother whom I didn’t know and my father’s death, I was now officially an orphan (a word I learned from listening to the grown-ups and the sheriff of Livingston Parish, who often came out to our humble farm to help Aunt Eva). The courts had placed me with Aunt Eva, recently widowed and, by then, sixty-five years of age. She did not have children. But by that Christmas, she had me. Not just any child, mind you. I was “the Ward” as I heard the sheriff speak of me. I was most impressed with being a “ward,” whatever that was. I figured it was like a “squire,” “duke,” “lord,” or such as I had known in stories.
And on that Christmas Eve, the artifacts I have mentioned—a bed with quilts, the mincemeat pie on a pinkish, cracking linoleum table, a mean old Zenith television set, a radio, and the wondrous glow of the gas heater—gathered like livestock, shepherds, and wise men with gifts—and bore witness to faith being planted in my heart. That was the first time in my life that things seemed calm, still, and safe. And that was the first Christmas after my father died, the first Christmas I can remember.
When Heaven Came Down (in Three Movements)
If given the chance to craft a musical theme that encapsulates my deepest longing for Advent, it would manifest as “When Heaven Came Down.” This composition emerged while preparing for the Christmas Eve Candlelight Communion at First Presbyterian Church of Chattanooga. The memories of my time there, imprinted in my heart, evoke a tender fondness for the people I served. Yet, pastoral love extends beyond one congregation; it embraces the saints I encountered in every station of my ministry. Each individual is a unique soul, not merely a part of a collective but a distinct person to shepherd towards God’s throne.
My ministerial service is like a splendid canoe trip, maybe the Cape Fear River. We were never quite sure what was around the bend, and it continued to open up to the largeness of God’s glory and grace. The journey has woven through diverse landscapes—each one beautiful in its way: from Soldiers and Military Families in Germany to seminary students in India, from my student days and later, acting president role at Knox, to internships at Coral Ridge, ministering to a congregation in Wales, church planting in Kansas, Savannah, and Weddington, North Carolina; interim pastoring in Indian Trail, North Carolina; engaging with university students in Albania, and ministering in churches, seminaries, and military units across the United States, including academic service at Reformed Seminary and Erskine Theological Seminary. Each of these experiences fills me with gratitude for the privilege of sharing the incomparable Gospel of Jesus Christ.
This Christmas epistle is not just a reflection, but also the story of a song that was born from wonder. "When Heaven Came Down" is a three-part symphony of the soul. The first movement, "Prélude à la nativité", is a vivid tapestry woven from my memories of Christmas Eve worship. I imagine "Once in Royal David's City," the joyful ringing of church bells, children's voices piercing the cold air, and the narthex bustling with anticipation. In the midst of this festive scene, I notice a shadowy figure outside the church - a fellow who is actually me: a solitary observer, yearning to join the warmth inside but held back by an unseen force.
The heart of the composition, the second movement, is where Heaven Came Down. This part, intended to be as serene as a candle casting shadows in a rustic cave, captures the essence of the Incarnation. It’s a moment of divine paradox: the vastness of eternity cradled in swaddling clothes. Here, I recall the profound impact of Miss Cindy Gibbs, my accompanist, whose rendition in Mary’s voice brings the narrative to life. This section aims to convey the profound mystery of God becoming man, a theme eloquently captured by John Donne’s words, “immensity cloistered in Thy dear womb.”
The final movement, La Nativité Ouverture, is a celestial journey that echoes themes from our past and propels us toward the ultimate fulfillment of God’s covenantal plan. (Producers Steve Babb and Fred Schendel helped bring that vision to life). It’s a musical odyssey that culminates in the Second Advent, symbolizing the eventual restoration of heaven and earth. Composing this part, I was overwhelmed by the central truth of the Gospel, feeling both unworthy and yet profoundly grateful for the redemption it offers.
In the third movement, a man steps into the light of the Feast of the Incarnation, symbolizing the universal longing for a home fulfilled in the eternal Christmas.
This is the essence of “When Heaven Came Down,” a song I offer as an embodiment of Incarnational love, a testament to the awe-inspiring mystery of God in human flesh but not ceasing to be God who is Jesus our Lord.
When Heaven Came Down (the words to the second movement)
© 2011 Michael Milton (Final Four Music; Bethesda Words and Music), BMI, CCLI
When Heaven came down
Angel's sweet sound
Filled the night sky
Over Bethlehem
Shepherds quaking
An infant waking
to a world that
He once made
Oh the glory
This Wondrous story
Ancient, and yet it
Remains forever new
When Heaven came down
God's Promise came true
Mary held the
Child of Heaven
Joseph stood in awe
Of David's Son
Shepherds poor and
Princes noble
Both knelt
Before the manager-throne
Oh the glory
This Wondrous story
Ancient, and yet it
Remains forever new
When Heaven came down
God's Promise came true
God's promise came true
God's glory came into view;
Jesus came for me, for you
When Heaven Came Down