Christmas
Column Danger and beauty of Christmas
By KRIS BERGGREN
Christmas is a dangerous holiday. On
the one hand, we begin our liturgical year in Advent -- a time of celebrating
the astounding concept of a God who would honor us by becoming one of us,
making us holy by virtue of association. It is dangerous to see ourselves in
this light, for it means a revolution in how we see each other.
On the other, the profanity of the commercial holiday is like a
toxic starter dough for our sins of excess. Isaiah prophesied 700 years before
Jesus: The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.
In spite of the ceaseless blaze of mall lights, tree lights, even candlelight
and firelight, I wonder why we still seem lost in darkness.
The day comes and goes each year and despite our haul of sweaters
and sweets, basketballs and Barbies, appliances and accessories; in its wake
many of us are still found wanting. Were not good enough because we
dont have enough. Worse yet, we are left to begin a new year -- and now,
a new millennium -- with the burden of looming debt rather than joyous
freedom.
Its a struggle in my house, too. Well end up feeding
the Christmas machine, despite my tenuous protest of wanting to downsize this
year, now that two-thirds of my children realize that Santa does not fit down
every chimney in the world in a 24-hour time span, no matter how spunky those
reindeer might be. But can the Miracle in Bethlehem ever meet the Miracle on
34th Street?
My family has certain priorities in line, rituals that carry
religious and family tradition: We light candles on the Advent wreath and each
night that were home, chronicling The Jesse Tree, the popular genealogy
of Jesus. Oyster stew on Christmas Eve is a must, as it was for my mother.
Luminarias from the street to the front door, as my husbands family
always did. Singing carols with friends at a nursing home early in Advent.
Making the house festive.
Christmas decorations are like old friends, my aunt says; you
return to them every year after a long absence and youre glad for their
familiar shapes and unconditional presence. You know just what to expect of
them, and yet they reveal their beauty and their value in new ways every year.
Yet there always comes a time to move on, to box up the artifacts of our winter
celebration.
I try to be organized in order to make the task easier the
following year. I put all the early season stuff in one box -- the
Advent wreath, the childrens Christmas books, the wreath hanger for the
back door. All the tree decorations go in another, and a third holds the Santa
types -- a growing collection of Father Christmases and Saint Nicks, and even
one guy we call Santas brother because he looks like Santa
but is dressed in green, not red. (For all you TV Rudolph fans: We
think he spent time on the Island of Misfits with Herbie the dentist.)
But still there is always the 11th-hour effort sometime after
Epiphany and before Lent to put all the straggling ornaments away, the ones
that have rolled under the sofa or been relocated by the dog. Last year,
whether because it didnt fit in my nifty organizational system, or
because I simply forgot, a Nativity set was left on top of the piano for
months. This one wasnt our real Nativity but a mismatched
grouping of figures purchased by the children at a church rummage sale for
about a dime apiece, stable not included. I decided to keep the little
crèche scene up all year, to help us keep a little Christmas all year
long.
If you havent seen Miracle on 34th Street, the
50-year-old classic is worth it. Maureen OHara plays Doris Walker, a
single mom who has steeled herself and her daughter from the false hope of
Christmas -- and life -- by educating her not to believe in Santa or any other
foolish promise. Yet, by movies end, as you may guess, mother and
daughter alike learn to believe.
Faith, says Doris, is believing in things when
common sense tells you not to.
Whether its bringing a tree from outside indoors, or the
spirit of Kris Kringle, or a savior born in a stable to poor peasant parents,
Christmas is about making room for the irrational that tugs at our deepest
heart.
If we are to be a Christmas people all year, it helps to seek out
reminders of why Christmas makes a difference. And I mean more than the pine
needles that must replicate under the sofa because Im still vacuuming
them up in June. How about if instead of a season of desire, Christmas could be
seen as a practice of satisfaction. Our hunger no longer aches. Our holy day
leaves us filled with all good things, a storehouse to sustain us for another
annual cycle; were no longer found wanting anything.
Long after the shine and sparkle of Christmas dim, a stable-less,
mismatched Nativity set on a shelf in the piano room will continue to serve as
my familys talisman of hope in the everyday Miracle.
Kris Berggren writes from Minneapolis. She can be reached at
bergolk@earthlink.net
National Catholic Reporter, December 24,
1999
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