Lexington, KY - Years ago on a deep winter night, Robert Atkinson, the new Episcopal bishop of West Virginia, paid his first visit to St. Michael's Church, Kingwood, to introduce the parish leaders to a man who was a candidate to be their next vicar.
Kingwood is the county seat of Preston County in the Potomac Highlands, an area connecting the mountain ranges in southern Pennsylvania and western Maryland. Preston County borders both states and is famous for its annual buckwheat festival and gracious hospitality.
The bishop told the story this way: he and the priest met with the church's vestry for dinner and then moved to the church for their meeting. It was a long meeting. Afterward the priest left to stay with parishioners and the bishop was to go to his room at The Inn, where he had checked into a comfortable room earlier in the day. Only two other guests were registered. The Inn was a place well known for good cooking, including buckwheat cakes at breakfast.
Preston County was also known for sudden blizzards. Snow was falling heavily by the time the meeting was over. The dean of the convocation gave the bishop a lift to The Inn, and left in a hurry to head for Morgantown, where the snow would be lighter.
The bishop made his way up the walk to the inn in blinding snow and howling, savage wind. The porch lights were on but the place was dark. He knocked at the front door, then on windows. At last he kicked the storm door to wake up the sleeping innkeeper. No one came.
At some distance he saw a telephone booth and set out for it, thinking to call The Inn. But he had no change. From the booth, though, he could see lights at a stone building nearby. It was the Preston County Jail. He woke a sleeping deputy sheriff, and spent some time convincing him that he was telling the truth about being a visiting bishop locked out of his room.
At last the deputy telephoned The Inn, but there was answer. Shortly a city policeman who had been making his rounds stopped by. It was by then one o'clock in the morning. He suggested that he and the bishop return to The Inn and see if he could pry open a door or window. They went all around the building, but it was impregnable. The policeman decided it wouldn't be good for him and a bishop to be found breaking and entering.
Back at the jail the bishop was given a cell, bars on three sides, and a comfortable bed and blanket. He claimed it was the first night he ever spent behind bars. About three o'clock he awakened himself laughing at his predicament. Who would believe it.
Around six the bishop struggled to The Inn and was greeted by his host who demanded to know where he'd been. The bishop in turn posed the same question.
If the innkeeper gave a satisfactory answer, the bishop didn't tell it, but he did get a complimentary buckwheat cake and sausage breakfast.
The story quickly made the rounds in Kingwood and eventually the state. On a return trip the circuit judge gave the bishop an appointment as a member of a permanent committee to make an annual inspection of the county jail. And on future visits the bishop often complied with the order.
I wish this had happened on Christmas Eve. No room -
or at least no access to a room -
at The Inn. Taking shelter in a lowly place. But the time was late January.
Still, in the bishop's story there's a person in trouble, wandering in the darkness, frustrated, in danger, hoping for help. Much as Christians, looking back 2,000 years, see humanity. In that story there comes a light shining in the darkness. And the darkness has never overcome it. An unimaginable thing happens: the word of God becomes flesh and lives among us, "full of grace and truth" and "we have beheld his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father."