Christmas is a touchy topic, and I'm taking it on anyway. Kudos to all my phenomenal writing teachers, whose judgment I weigh in ambivalence. Guilt and apologies for the weak beginning. And, to add to that, here's my signature apology for apologizing.
This is my beef with Christmas. There's too much Christmas: too much turkey, too much pie, too much shopping, too much anxiety, too much guilt, too much guilting, too much wanting, too much getting, too much noise, too much movement, too much wounded bloating, too much emotional gluttony. Excessive excess fattens itself in vats of Christmas lard.
In the lyrics of the cheery carol from Mame, "We need a little Christmas." I'm not Charlie Browning all over you. Have faith. Literally taken, we need a little Christmas, not a glamorous egg-nogged Rockette production at every office party, social invitation, and family gathering.
Keep your "Christ in Christmas." Keep your bell ringers and extensively drawn shopping strategery. Keep your tents parked out through the night in front of Best Buy. Keep your cowish eyeballs fixed on that LED screen in that blasted box. Trample everyone in your path. See if I care. I will be snoring along in tryptophan dreams.
I do care, though. I care a lot. This is not a rant at commercialism or secularism or religion. (Not even close.) This is a reminder that we're not the only ones. We're not alone in this life, and keep reading before you find that offensive, too.
I cannot think of a more innocuous, simple, raw, difficult, or human holiday than Christmas. Who can argue two young teenagers, unmarried, riding donkeys, seeking a place to sleep, being turned out of every conceivable joint; landing, unannounced, in a home to filthy barnyard animals, giving birth to a child of questionable paternity; placing that newborn baby in a feeding trough.
The story is not glamorous. It would never make the cut for reality TV. There's nothing attractive, sexy, or sparkly about it. It's unassuming. It's boring. It's a stale sigh in a beating-heart hiccup pageant of Caesars and silver. It's tarnished and inexpensive. It's plain and unnoticeable. Miley Cyrus and Robin Thicke wouldn't get an inch of press for this move.
Mary and Joseph would be prone to scorn by our current standards. We would look at them with unkind, judging, and fearful eyes. They'd be a problem to hide, to send away, to gossip about with our righteous religious equals. We might give two deviant teenagers food, clothes, or a toothbrush. They might be allowed to pick through a pantry stock of rice and peanut butter.
But would we invite them to the table? Would we ask them to join us in our feasting; roasted, buttered, gilded decadence, gravied and garnished, ceremonious and formal, fresh and fragrant as winter rosemary?
It would be hard to look such a pair in the eye. It might be hard to touch them. It could be awkward. We put a little change in a paper cup to feed our malnourished egos and to nurse the chalice of pride, a sip of the briny-wine tingle.
It's hard to look into homeless eyes. Stuff a dollar bill into vending machine, and retrieve a Snickers bar. It's easy to do. We pleasure in the small satisfaction with no real price tag attached.
I take up the challenge to embody a gracious spirit, to be unafraid, to be forgiving, to be willing, to be present. It can't be easy. It won't be. At this time of year, inconvenience is an uninvited confounding variable. My resources stretch between toddler toy lists, wants and needs of my own, and genuine intentions to share all the light that others were joyful to share with me.
Christ entered this world in the most non-eventful of ways. There are people in our neighborhoods, on our blocks, in our city, in this world that is our world, who, by no fault of their own, are fighting for their lives. From King Herod's palatial compound protected behind walls to lepers on the fringes of villages, we all share in the Mystery of faith, hope, joy, and love.
We are hurting. We are needy. We are vulnerable. We are lonely. We thirst and hunger for heaven's manna. We crave to be seen with innocence, newness, cleanliness, redemption. We all seek some piece of salvation.
Look into those vacant eyes, where you may notice a glimpse of the Divine. We have to look if we want to see.