A Christmas Tale: Jacob Butterby and the Christmas Star

It was Christmas Eve, and Jacob Butterby was tearing hairs out of his beard in anguish.

As the mayor of Kings Edbury, Jacob was responsible for the Christmas decorations in the town square. Every year, the star would be placed on the top of the tree during the church service at the very beginning of Christmas Day. As the sun rose and the service ended, the people would throng into the square to admire the magnificent star. Then they would smile at one another and say, “Christ is born!” And Christmas would begin.

But this year the mayor’s secretary had just brought the bad news that the usual star, made many years previously of gorgeously painted canvas stretched over a wooden frame, was not in a fit state to top the tree. Someone had stepped on it by accident.

“Can it not be repaired?” asked Jacob desperately.

“I’m afraid not, sir.” The secretary held up what remained of the star. Muddy canvas hung from the broken wood. It no longer looked like a star at all.

Jacob looked out of the window to the tree in the square below. It was an exultation of bright ribbons, paper stars, gilded fruit, and glinting glass baubles. But at the top its tip was bare and ugly. 

He tried to seem firm, deliberate, and not at all anxious. “We will have to find a new star,” he said.

He went to the woodcarver’s house.

“The Christmas tree needs a new star,” he said. “Can you make one?”

The woodcarver looked up in surprise from the fireside, where he was sitting with his small son. “Tonight?” he said. “I certainly haven’t time to make a new one tonight. I wonder if I’ve got anything already that would do.”

He beckoned the mayor into his workshop.

“What about this?”

It was an enormous cart wheel. Eight wooden spokes, each one as thick as Jacob’s arm, spread out from a heavy metal-capped hub in the centre.

“If we took the rim off and left the spokes sticking out, it might look like a star,” the woodcarver suggested hesitantly.

Jacob stared at him. “No,” he answered. “We need a star that fits the tree, so that Christmas can begin. A wheel would be far too heavy.”

And he strode out of the woodcarver’s workshop.

Next the mayor went to the ironmonger’s. Perhaps she would have something they could use—something lighter than a cartwheel. 

He thumped on the door of her cottage. “Mrs Clatten, open up!”

“Mr Butterby!” the old lady said in surprise when she eventually came to the door.

“The Christmas tree needs a new star,” Jacob explained. “Can you help?”

Mrs Clatten’s whiskery chin moved up and down in concern as she thought about the problem. “Perhaps I could make one out of wire?”

She showed the mayor her own decorations. Dozens of small stars were hung from the rafters, fashioned of thick black wire. They looked like spiders. Jacob shuddered. 

“No,” he said. “We need a star that is more beautiful than all the other decorations, to symbolise Christ’s birth. Wire would be far too ugly.”

And he turned away from Mrs Clatten’s door.

Next Jacob went to the house of the wealthiest family in Kings Edbury. Perhaps they would be able to provide a replacement star. He was shown into the parlour and sat down on a woven chair.

“The Christmas tree needs a new star,” he began, sipping his glass of mulled wine.

“I know,” said his sharp-voiced hostess. Jacob wondered how she could possibly have heard. 

 “Time is ticking, I hope you realise,” she went on. “The tree must have a star first thing tomorrow.”

“Yes,” replied Jacob numbly. “I have been to see the woodcarver, and the ironmonger. No one seems to be able to think of anything.”

“Perhaps—” said a small voice in the corner. It was the maidservant.

“Yes?” said her mistress disapprovingly.

“I was only going to say, perhaps I could make one out of straw? I think I could make a star, if I stayed up all night. If you wanted, sir.”

Jacob Butterby closed his eyes in despair. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “We need a star that is splendid and impressive, to start Christmas properly. Straw would be far too cheap.”

“Anyway,” added the wealthy woman, “this is something which, as mayor, Mr Butterby really ought to be able to solve himself.”

Jacob blushed. He hastily finished his wine and went out into the square again.

“What am I to do?” he wondered aloud as he looked up at the tree and its bare tip. He imagined the anger, disappointment, and ridicule of the townspeople when they gathered first thing on Christmas morning to find that their tree had no star. It would be awful.

He felt a tug on his sleeve. “Mr Butterby,” said a small voice. Jacob recognised the woodcarver’s son.

“I made a star for the tree,” said the child. But what he was holding looked more like a magpie’s nest than a star. It was a shapeless bundle of shiny objects. Polished tin, false jewels, silver spoons, and the jagged pieces of a broken mirror had been carefully tied together with string around a frame of sticks. It looked as though it might fall apart at any moment.

Jacob tried to stay calm. “This is not a star,” he said to the boy. “Go home and give those spoons back to your mother.”

“But the light—” began the woodcarver’s son, trying to explain. He was interrupted by an urgent voice from across the square. 

“Mr Butterby! Mr Butterby!” It was the secretary, hanging out of the window of the town hall.

“Have you found a new star?” cried Jacob in a surge of hope.

There was a pause. “No, sir,” said the secretary. “But you must come and get ready.”

Jacob’s heart sank. He had forgotten about his other mayoral duties. He had to wear impressive clothes and host all the most important people of the town for a Christmas Eve banquet.

“Then there’s nothing more I can do,” he said miserably. Leaving the woodcarver’s son standing alone beside the tree, he trudged inside.

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“Go in peace,” said the minister at the end of the service, and the wooden doors opened to let everyone out into the dawn. Jacob lingered by his seat, pretending to fiddle with his coat. Eventually he and the minister were the only people left inside the church. They walked out together.

As they reached the doors, Jacob heard a loud gasp from all the people outside. His heart was in his mouth. They had seen the bare, ugly tip of the Christmas tree. It was a disaster. It was the worst Christmas in the whole history of Kings Edbury.

Then he flung his hands over his eyes. A blinding light had hit him. It came from the tree!

“Mr Butterby!” cried voices around him. People were clapping him on the back. They were even cheering. “This is a different kind of star altogether!”

Jacob peeped through his fingers. Tied to the top of the tree was the messy bundle of spoons, tin and bits of mirror. The sun was rising, and each shiny piece caught its light, sending brightness glancing all around the square. It was dazzling.

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light,” said the minister softly by Jacob’s side. Then he smiled and shook him by the hand. “Merry Christmas! Christ is born!”

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Jesus was like “the rising sun”, who came “to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace” (Luke 1 v 78-79). That first Christmas Day, God did what was desperately needed, but what nobody else could do—and he did it in the most unexpected way. Merry Christmas from everyone at The Good Book Company!