I T is impossible to be indifferent to Christmas. It is impossible to be 
indifferent to the war. Equally impossible is it for us this year to 
view Christmas without looking at it through the dark glass of the war. 
And it is not altogether to be regretted. For many of us the war will 
bridge the vast chasm between vague illusion and grim reality, between 
Christmas here and Christmas Over There. 
The illusion is that angels hovered in ecstasy where a star stood still 
over Bethlehem. The reality is that aeroplanes wing their way toward 
the star. 
The illusion is that angelic hosts sang of peace. The reality is that 
shrapnel sings of war. 
The illusion is that men bowed down to worship. The reality is that 
men rise up to slay. 
Yet how compatible the two! 
From the one must come the other. From chaos must come order. 
From loss must come immeasurable gain. From out the dissonance of 
war cries a voice proclaiming the true vocation of our manhood. Across 
the chasm is flung the bridge of His humanity. In stooping to accept 
our manhood, He has elevated our manhood to divine estate. We are 
given “a capacity for the Infinite,” and wage His war. He comes, a 
Prince of Peace, bearing a sword. We who fight, fight as young gods 
that “the government shall be upon his shoulder.” 
I F Christmas is very real to us, so then must be this war. In a million 
homes the Christmas candles burn—to light the feet of men who are 
Over There. This is the bitter paradox of the Manger. If the path 
that went out from Bethlehem had not led to Calvary, Bethlehem would 
mean nothing to us. 
If with the kingly gift of gold and the adoring richness of frankin¬ 
cense had been no bitter myrrh, how sadly would the homage have 
failed! In this hour, if with the gold of our toil and the incense of our 
loyalty we are not willing to give also the bitterness of supreme sacri¬ 
fice, then Christmas will be a hollow thing. 
The path that goes out from Bethlehem today leads through the 
shambles of No Man’s Land; and a million of our sons shall walk 
upon it. 
T O light that path shall be the duty of us who are left behind. For 
if our sons had not gone forth, our homes and the things our homes 
stand for would be swept away. Life would have meant a shuttered 
house in a dark street. Christmas Day would come, but we could not 
see the light shining forth from Bethlehem. We must follow that path. 
It is the only way to the star. It is the only bridge we can fling across 
the chasm between an illusionary faith and the grim reality of today. 
It is difficult to see all the way from Bethlehem Town to Calvary 
Slope. It is equally difficult to see all the way from the beginning of 
the war unto the end. The bridge is very long. The way to the star 
passes through impenetrable darkness. Today we wear the flag; a year 
hence we will wear mourning. Beyond that lies the resurrection of 
world peace and world freedom. Our faith is real and true only ac¬ 
cording to the measure with which we can see across the divide of 
our coming sacrifices to the place we would attain. The light we must 
shed down the path that crosses No Man’s Land is the light of our 
burning sacrifices and unquenchable ardor. 
I T is easy enough to scorn the sentiment of “Keep the Home Fires 
Burning,” but it would be difficult to find saner advice for those of us 
who cannot take an active part in the war. We must stand firm. We 
must never lose faith in the righteousness of our cause or its ultimate 
victor}-'. The thing the men at the front fear most is neither death nor 
defeat, but the weakening of those at home. They who are treading 
the path across No Man’s Land expect us to tread our own grim path. 
They ask of us our gold, our loyalty and our willingness to make big 
sacrifices. Give these! No king ever received more noble gifts. No 
people will have ever been so enriched by such giving. 
T RUE, there is no glamour about our task. We must spend wisely, 
eat wisely, live wisely. We must hold fast to the principles on 
which the American home is founded. We must maintain the morale 
of our womanhood and the discipline of our children. We must go 
about our work steadily. We must keep the house in order, the grass 
cut, the garden weeded. Humble things? Yes, but noble things when 
endowed with a purpose. 
There’s the word! Our living has been given a purpose. We exist 
to attain an end, just as Bethlehem happened that the supreme sacrifice 
of Calvary might be, just as the seed is sown in No Man’s Land to-day 
that the flower of lasting peace may spring up there. 
B ETWEEN the message of the angels and the message of our casualty 
lists lies the story of a darkened land. And even as our sons shall 
read it so must we. 
Valor we must leave to them. Courage is our portion. 
Valor is a brilliant thing, and young, bred of the hour’s need. She 
has a flashing eye and a quick arm. She marches with head erect and 
the boulevards echo with cheers for her. Her costume is the brilliant 
panoply of war. Musically her side-arms chink. She fears nothing. 
Death is the crown of her sacrifices. 
But Courage, Courage is a homely soul. Her face is seamed and her 
hair grayed. Her hands are gnarled from hard labor and her back 
bent with carrying great burdens a long way. Silently she stumbles 
forward, alone; and few know her passing. Her arms are prayer, hope, 
faith. She fears naught save the mercy of God. Death is the least of 
the sacrifices she can make. 
For Courage picks up her burden after Death has passed, and she 
carries it on, tireless, unreluctant, her eyes fixed upon the horizon. 
There she knows will appear, in His good time, the dayspring of Peace. 
