A Christmas lesson when facing darkness

Remembered as a unionist, the founder and first president of The Newspaper Guild labor union, Heywood Broun was a renowned columnist, author, playwright, and socialist whose passions ranged from sports and books to poker and, especially, Christmas.

In his newspaper career, Broun worked as a sportswriter, critic, war correspondent and columnist for the likes of ex-gunfighter and sports editor Bat Masterson at the New York Morning Telegraph, for the conservative New York Tribune and Pulitzer’s liberal New York World, plus Scripps-Howard’s Telegram, which syndicated his column, and the Post, which printed one of his pieces before he unexpectedly died at the age of 51.

Weeks before his 1939 death, with World War II starting after Nazi Germany invaded Poland, Broun wrote about defying fascist regimes and the threats they posed to free peoples – even during Christmastime.

Inducted into both the International Labor Hall of Fame in Detroit and the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y., Broun was eulogized by Mine Workers head John L. Lewis, Bishop Fulton J. Sheen, actor Edgar G, Robinson, and author Lewis Gannett, who said, “It was precisely because Heywood played the races, visited the bread lines, produced a Broadway play, ran for Congress, walked picket lines, organized the Guild, and joined a church that he and his column stayed young.”

Also ageless are his many Christmas columns, such as the following piece published 85 years ago in the New York World-Telegram. It’s called “The hand of Herod.”

 

A news dispatch from Paris says that the authorities have decided that midnight Masses may not be celebrated in any of the churches of the city during the Christmas season. It is explained that it would be impossible to keep the light from filtering out through the great stained glass windows of a cathedral. A candle by a shrine sheds a beam which is too broad for the warring world in which we live. If the figure of the Christ child were illuminated it might serve as a beacon for the way of wise flying men from out of the East. And their gifts would not be gold and frankincense and myrrh.

Once again the hand of Herod is raised for the slaughter of the innocents. But those things which were, are with us now. I have seen men and women moved by devotion into such a mood that they felt themselves not only followers but contemporaries in the life of Jesus. To them His death was a present tragedy and Easter morning marked a literal triumph. And to those who are like-minded there lies reassurance in the revelation of the past. Herod was a ruler who for a little time had might and power vested in himself. His word was absolute and his will was cruel. As captain over thousands he commanded his messengers to find and kill the newborn king. An army was set in motion against an infant in a manger.

But though the hand of Herod fell heavily upon Bethlehem and all the coasts thereof, Joseph, the young child and his mother escaped into Egypt. "In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation and weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be consoled, because they are not."

The blood of the young was spilled upon the ground even as it is being shed today. And it may well have seemed, some two thousand years ago, that there was no force which could stay the ravages of the monarch and his minions.

Around the child there stood on guard only Joseph and Mary, three wise men and shepherds from the field who had followed the course set for them by a bright star. Death came to Herod, and the bright star was a portent of the perfect light which was to save the world from darkness. The light of the world was not extinguished then, and it lives today and will again transfix the eyes of men with its brilliance.

In the dark streets of Paris on Christmas Eve, even as in the little town of Bethlehem, a star will animate the' gloom. The call comes once more to kings and shepherds to journey to the manger and worship at the shrine of the Prince of Peace. Quite truly the civil authorities of Paris have said that it is impossible to blackout the light which shines from the altar.

And if I were in France I would go at midnight to the little island on the Seine and stand before Notre Dame de Paris. At first the towers of that great Gothic structure might seem to be lost in the blackness of the night. And it has been ruled that no congregation shall raise its voice to welcome the tidings of great joy. But then I think all the windows will take on magnificence, and that the air will resound with the message which has been given to the sons of men and will be offered again to the fellowship of all mankind. "Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men." And that choral cry will rise above the hum of Herod's grim messengers. It will be much louder than the crash of guns and the roar of cannon. No hymn of hate can prevail if we will only heed the eternal cadence of the Christmas carol.

Merry Christmas.