The Christmas my dad almost burned the church down

Christmas is coming, and with its myriad decisions to make is the one about Christmas services: which one, what time, do we even go anymore? As this time of year gains on us, I’m reminded of my father, now passed, a small-town Saskatchewan United Church minister, and how, in the early 1970s, he gave in to pressure from his congregation to come up with a Christmas Eve service so parishioners didn’t have to drag themselves away from the tree on Christmas morning.

But after only a few years, even that novelty grew stale. What to do? Well, the old boy had a brainwave. We had recently built a family cabin in the nearby Cypress Hills, so he drove up there and hunted out a big log from the forest floor. Someone must have helped him load it up, because by the time I got home for the holidays — I was in my early 20s at this point — he had it up on two sawhorses at the front of the church, right in front of the pews.

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A person in a red sweater holds a charcoal bag next to a grill in a forest. Logs stacked behind them. The scene feels rustic and outdoorsy. — Rev. Steward Roberston at his cabin in Cypress hill in Southwest Saskatchewan. (Photo courtesy of William Roberston)

Next, he took his drill and bored over a hundred holes in neat little rows into one long side of it, kind of the way a yellow-bellied sapsucker leaves a tree.

When we all rolled in before 7 p.m. on Christmas Eve, Dad, the happy-looking minister, was waiting at the doors to welcome us — something he’d never done before — and hand us all a small birthday candle. “I’ll tell you what to do with this later,” he said. Sure enough, after a few hymns, the familiar but much-beloved Christmas story and some general well-wishing, all guaranteed to have the younger set squirming with anticipation, my father told us the time had come to use our candles.

“Here’s what I want you to do,” he said. “Row by row, starting with you folks in the front, file up, light your little candle at the big white Christ candle burning here on the altar, say a quiet prayer and then place it in this big, what we’ll call a yule log.”

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I’d already placed my candle and was heading to my pew when I heard multiple gasps. I looked back at the big log, and sure enough, those candles had ignited the wood. Flames were shooting about three feet into the air. Everyone had backed away from the log gone rogue and even my old dad wasn’t sure what to do.

One of the church elders broke from the general trance and ran to the choir room off the front corner of the sanctuary. Back he came, a large fire extinguisher in his hands. “Out of the way, Reverend,” he commanded, and proceeded to spray down the whole business.

With that little production accomplished — my father, somewhat abashed, standing unusually speechless — we all stood waiting quietly for the next part of the service to carry on. Not since the town Alcoholics Anonymous group met in the church basement on Saturday evenings had there been so much smoke in the sanctuary. What now?

My father found himself and turned to thank the impromptu firefighter for his quick action. He told us all we could resume our seats and apologized for an idea that was not well thought out and could have had serious ramifications. Of course, by now, danger over, a general tut-tutting rippled through the crowd as people found their places and told him not to worry about a thing.

I was still standing in the aisle at the end of my pew, letting a few folks pass by, when two boys, likely about Grade 8 and heading for the back where I used to sit when I was their age, moved past me. Both were wearing huge grins. “Best Christmas service ever,” said one to the other. “No doubt,” replied his pal, and I started to laugh. The old man had done it. It’s the things that go wrong at a Christmas concert or service that make it memorable. Now my father had made it so for these boys, and for me too. I still think of it and smile.

Merry Christmas, Dad.