t was a typical December day in Chicago. The steam rolling in off the lake made ice crystals in the air and the wind blew cruel, as it usually does in December. I walked down the stairs to Lower Wacker Drive and walked up the steps to the Billy Goat Tavern. Blinking lights and yellowed tinsel hung in the window.

I walked in and was overwhelmed by the smoke and smell of stale beer. Slim Whit- man was yodeling, “We Three Kings,” and the regular crowd was seated at the bar. Tina LeMay was making nice with a reporter from the “Times,” Alderman Jack Barns was plying a perspective donor with “shots,” and the O’Brian brothers were busy with a customer who needed a ’64 Mustang. As I headed to the booth I held up three fingers to Jack, the bartender, and ne nodded.

Philipp Melancthon was reading the “Trib” while Luther was busy writing on a yellow legal pad. Melancthon looked over the top of the paper, smiled, and said, “Good to see you Joe. Looks like the Cubs are back in the doldrums. Just can’t stand success, I guess.”

Luther put down his pen, slid over, patted the spot next to him, and said, “Good to see you, Joe. Hope you’ve had a good year?” Before I could speak, Jack put the three cold mugs of amber liquid on the table. “To 2021,” said Philipp. We all hoisted our mugs and drank. The cold liquid soothed my parched throat.

When we put our mugs down I said, “A GOOD YEAR? Are you bloody kidding me? A pandemic, a nasty election, rioting, looting, burning. Churches and synagogues closed by dictatorial mandates. Good year my foot.”

“You sound down, Joe,” said Philipp.

“But what about ‘hope,’” said Luther. “The world waited for thousands of years for a Savior. There were wars, famines, pandemics, earthquakes, and in spite of all of that, they had hope. Hope that God had not forgotten his promise. Hope that the Messiah would come. Hope that he would put all things right. You lose hope, Joe, you might as well lay down and die. But God delivered. He fulfilled the hope when Christ was born. Now, it’s not God’s fault that the people won’t respond. It’s not God’s fault that they think power, money, and fame are more important than forgiveness, salvation, and eternal life. But that’s not God’s fault. In fact, maybe this mess will start a revival. With no place else to turn, maybe they will come back to God. Maybe if we are bolder in our proclamation of the gospel, maybe if we weren’t so shy about inviting friends to church, about immersing ourselves in God’s Word, maybe, just maybe, things would change. It’s about hope and keeping it alive. That’s the message for now. There is hope, hope in Christ, hope in the baby in the manger. You preach that and lives will change.”

We finished our drinks, Slim Whitman began to sing, “Joy to the World,” and for the first time in months I felt hopeful. I rose from the table, thanked them, and turned to leave.

Philipp yelled after me, “And tell that Tapper fella he’s got rocks in his head. THERE WILL BE CHRISTMAS.”

I smiled, and as I hit the night air, it didn’t seem quite so cold. I believed once again.

Veritas, Curt