How MERRY the First Christmas

It's like a scene from the story of The Little Match Girl. Standing in the black, white, and grays of the cold winter night, a waif-like girl, stands staring into the window of the wealthy as they celebrate a festive, color-rich, aroma-laden holiday celebration. It is Christmas for all, but that plate glass window might as well be a universe of separation between the two worlds.

The older I get, the more I realize how we religious folk,..in an attempt to preserve it's significance wonder,..have taken the most tender, fearful moment of God's intervention in human history, only to glamorize, trivialize, merchandize, and holy-fy it. Starting with religious education, then Americanization, the simple, insecure wonder of the first Christmas has been turned it into plastic figurines on front lawns in December or miniature crèches, the necessary part of most people holiday decorations.

I don't mean holy,...as in "God is holy",…but Western Christian's concept of the Nativity has made it "a sacred place of pilgrimage or worship." (Webster's Dictionary)

Over the years, as an artist I've used sound, color, and images to move church, theater, and television audiences at Christmas time. "Creating the right atmosphere" it's called. The costuming must be right: Dress Mary (ages 18-25) in blue and white. Use a live baby if possible…and pray he/she 1) doesn't cry during "Silent Night" or 2) that he/she move their arms so the audience can stop wondering if it is a real baby or not.

But, as a writer, historian, and storyteller, I am irresistibly drawn to the simplicity of the original events. As Luke (the author of the book named for him in the Bible) writes to his friend Theophilus, I can sense his struggle editing such a lengthy account of the life of Christ. I can also imagine him tucking away parchment notes to do a longer treatment on just the birth of Christ when he could get around too it.

The writer in me wants to compress the story to a one-hour telling, accurate, but competitive enough to hold the average American's overly video-stimulated mind.

The historian must get the setting, the background, the politics, the costuming, the architecture and the language precise.

The storyteller,..compromisor between the two,..walks the tightrope, piping his audience along though the sights, smells, feelings, and emotions of the characters. His time is of essence; he must guide you with speed AND accuracy.

So, "Touch my robe", as the Second Spirit told Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Journey with me before tinsel and the trimmings, ribbons and wrappings, carols and cards, Santa and sleigh bells. Travel to when holidays were scarce, life was hard, insecure, and often cruel.

Un-Holy Night -- After twenty-one centuries, choirs and soloists sing, "Oh, Holy Night." But that late summer or early autumn night Mary and Joseph the carpenter huddled in the cave below the Bethlehem Inn, it was not a Sabbath or holy (special, set apart) day in their culture; just another average night, after an average day, in an average week, in an average year. But that's how God interrupted human history--on an average day.

Un-Wanted -- Long before Mary was elevated by religious leaders to veneration, she was a simple, Jewish girl, scarcely out of puberty. It is with the naïveté of a teenager she says to the angel in Luke 1:38, "Let it be as you have said," then heads off to spend three months with her cousin miles from town.

Returning home, now in the full bloom of motherhood, Mary is met with skepticism and hostility. It is a small town, the rumor mill turns, and Mary is grist for the wheel. Her explanation is outrageous, her family shamed, her fiancé is wounded, her community disgraced. Their choices few, dictated by the Law of their Fathers: Banishment, Divorce, or Death.

Un-Comfortable -- Luke 2:19 says that, following the visit of the Bethlehem shepherds, Mary "treasured up all these things in her heart and pondered on them." But that concise statement is only the summation of more than nine months of turmoil and triumph. She had an angelic visit, but only her fiancé would believe her. Mary endured the gossip and ridicule of small town Nazareth.

One songwriter captured her heart in Breath of Heaven (Mary's Song),

I have traveled Many moonless night
Cold and Weary With a babe inside
And I wonder What I've done

Holy Father You have come
Chosen me now To carry your son
I am waiting in a silent prayer

I am frightened by the load I bear
In a world as cold as stone
Must I walk this path alone

Be with me now … Be with me now

Un-Recognied -- The Jewish Scriptures (Old Testament books in the Bible), written between 1450 BC and 430 BC, contain hundreds of prophecies about an “anointed one” or Meshach who would arrive in their future. This Messiah would “deliver” or “save” all the Jewish people, bringing them to paradise or heaven.

For 170 years, brutal Roman soldiers raped, pillaged, and murdered at will to keep their dominance an undisputed reality. Religion was the common man's solace, their hope, but its leaders untrustworthy. The prophecies were taught, but they were for future generations…the God of Abraham seemed impotent.

Thus, the problem of recognizing fulfilled prophecies on average days, through average people. The approval of prophecy fulfillment often falls to scholars and the sanctimonious who spend time jerking camels through the eyes of needles. Their opinion is colored by prejudice, experience, and doctrine. Fortunately, God seldom needs our approval or salvation of the human race would still be trapped in unending committee consults.

It was a handful of average people who recognized Jesus that week:

• peasant Jewish girl
• sawdust covered carpenter,
• ragtag bleary-eyed sheep-herders, and
• two elderly church goers who refused to accept more than shallow, token religious show. (See Luke 2)

Un-Accepted --After his humble birth, Jesus and his "kingdom teachings" were rejected by the religious hierarchy because this self-styled rabbi didn't match their desired Messiah-mold. Herod the Great feared Jesus because of complications an heir to the Throne of David would be to his Judean client-king relationship with Rome. Roman officials (Pilate) might tolerate miracle workers and healers, but kingdom builders had no place in the Empire.

Un-Embraced --Despite centuries of effort, few orchestras strike notes so desolate, painters choose oils so lonely, writers touch hearts with isolation, or singers probe the insecurity facing Mary, Joseph and the newborn child.

"No room!" ripped at the heart of Joseph and Mary. Ironically, it still echoes in streets of America where an enlightened, tolerant society has room for anything but the nativity in public buildings. (Not much has changed in 2000 years.)

No special lighting to add a magic glow to face of the infant in the cave.

No perfume overwhelmed the musk and manure of the animals that shared his birthing room.

No comfort was afforded the swaddled infant in the stone-carved manger other than broken straw and passed over grain. ... (A foreshadowing of another stone-carved ledge were his lifeless, swaddled body would lay thirty-three years later.)

No family surrounded the couple, providing them with the security of relativities and friends.

The future -- insecure.

Their hope -- in a God who lead one average day at a time.

So this Christmas, as you stand in your festive, color-rich, aroma-laden holiday, take a moment and pause at the Nativity. Look though the plate glass window of time and allow the music, bright lights and colors to fade. Tarry a moment and watch Mary, Joseph, and the baby of the crèche start to move. They once were more than carved figurines.

They were average people, just like you and me…when on one average night, a newborn's cry announced human history would be average no more.

(For a fairly accurate retelling of the familiar story of the first Christmas, watch The Nativity Story, released 2006.)

The REAL Santa Clause

What if I were to tell you that the Christmas Hero we force our children to have their pictures taken with has a checked past?

Like a peak behind the curtain at the Terrible Wizard of Oz, there is more than meets the eye when it comes to Santa Claus. A little background check turned up some interesting facts:

1) Orphaned at 9, Nicholas was born in Turkey but given a Greek name meaning "victory of the people"

2)May have been spent most of his youth on fishing boats rowdy sailors

3) Became a preacher

4) Served first term in prison for offend the country's ruler with his preaching.

5) Served second term for slugging a fellow preacher during a debate

6) Never wed (which would cast doubt on his marriagability in 21st Century
society.)

So how did this single, Turkish, ex-con preacher, get to be the North Pole Toy Company CEO and ad-spokesman for Coca-Cola and Hallmark Cards?

Perhaps you think I'm attempting to give YOUR Holiday hero a bad wrap. Not really. But would you have kept reading had I not at least raised a question or two?

I struggle with two opposing views of about this Icon of Christmas. First, there are those who want to WORSHIP Santa Claus . . . Allowing him to be the excuse for their children's unbridled greed at Christmas. These same parents then wonder why their off-spring don't "understand what Christmas is all about."

Au-contre' The brats understand all too well!

But then there are those who want to banish Santa, his spirit of giving and all, as a SECULAR Pawn of the Season. I consider their well-intentioned, at times sanctimonious, if not ill-informed knee-jerk.

They are like the "Don't take Christ-Out-Of-Christmas" sermons that come from pulpit and Blogs of America. I shake my head for they betrays the ignorance (lack of knowledge or education) of the writer or speaker. The letter X is the first letter of the word Xristro, the Greek word for Christ. Xmas, then, does not eradicate the name of Christ from Christmas. It is a legitimate term in the Greek Orthodox church.

Nicolas was named Bishop of Myra in the earthly fourth century by the Catholic church, a post he held until his death on December 6 343.

He was best known for the kindness he showed to a poor neighbor who was unable to support his three daughters or provide the customary dowry so they could attract husbands. Nicholas slipped up to the house by night and dropped a handful of gold coins through the window so the eldest daughter could afford to get married. He repeated this act on two other nights for the other two daughters.

The gift grew from a handful of coins to bags of coins. Instead of dropping them through the window, he dropped them down the chimney. And rather than land on the floor, the bags of coins landed in the girls stockings which were hanging on the hearth to dry.

People then began to suspect that he was behind a large number of other anonymous gifts to the poor, using the inheritance from his wealthy parents. After he died, people in the region continued to give to the poor anonymously, and such gifts were still often attributed to St. Nicholas.

For this reason, I am reluctant to throw out the "spirit of Saint Nicholas" with the commercial mold of holiday sales-laky we've forced Saint Nicholas into. It's as fake as the synthetic white whiskers strapped under his nose.

As Bishop of Myra, he wore the traditional ecclesiastical robes and mitered hat. He is known to have been slim, with a dark beard and a serious personality.

By 1300 he was wearing a white beard. But the 1800's he was depicted with a rotund belly and an ever-present basket of food over his arm. Soon came the black boots, a red-cape, and a cheery stocking on his head. In the late nineteenth century his basket of food became a sack of toys. In 1866 he was small and gnomish but by 1930 he was a robust six-footer with rosy cheeks and a Coca-Cola.

Santa reflects the desires of people all over the world.
With the centuries he had become the composite of what we want.

A friend who cares enough to travel a long way against all odd to bring good gets
to good people.

A sage who, though aware of each act, has a way of rewarding the good and overlooking the bad.

A friend of children who never gets sick and never grows old.

A father who lets you sit on his lap ad share your deepest desires.

Santa. The culmination of what we need in a hero. The personification of our passions. The expression of our yearnings. The fulfillment of our desires.

"And The Angels Were Silent" Max Lucado

While Santa makes a great Christmas hero, ultimately even the original Saint Nickolas can't provide what we really need. When December's requests become February's payments, Santa's left the mall. . . He only comes once a year.

And when Santa comes, he sometimes gives much, he doesn’t take away much. He doesn't take away the grave, mistakes, the anxiety of demands, or healing hurts.

Again Max Lucado says it best in "And The Angels Were Silent"

We create heroes from castles and crusades,…sanctuaries and stories,…politics
and airplanes. God chooses a virgin to bear himself…He dons a scalp and toes and
two eyes…he burps and sneezes and gets bit by mosquitoes.

Here was a hero who could touch blind beggars and their darkened eye gulped down the light. At his command, twisted, useless limbs became whole. At his embrace, desperate lives filled with hope.

His birthplace was among the smells of livestock. His death at the hands of arrogant politicians, religious bigots, sweat-soaked solders, and ambivalent admirers.

Only God could create a plan like this. Only God could create a hero like this.

So, when it comes to goodies and candy, cherub cheeks and red noses, go to the North Pole.

But when it comes to eternity, forgiveness, purpose, and truth, go to the manger. Kneel with the shepherds. Stare with the soldiers at the bloodied crosses. Finger the empty grave clothes in the vacant tomb. In between those events you will find a hero worth celebrating every season of the year.

Thanks-Giving and Thanks-GIMMY!

AT LAST! I have observed the respectable days of mourning between Thanks-Giving and Thanks-GIMMY! It's Here and it's my time to rail!

I've placed my lump of coal in my heater. (Yes, I do have a vintage charcoal heater.) Told Cratchet to pull that comforter tighter about him if he wants more warmth.

Next, I sharpened my feather quill with my replica Sweeney Todd shaving razor before turning off the electric lamps. If any joy can come to this cold heart it's knowing the six-pence I count on my desk will say there and not fill the coffers of the power company. It is with morbid satisfaction I watch that aluminum wheel slow to a stop, squeezing one kilowatt after another out of the power company.

I light my solitary hand-dipped candle to document my ravings, but not to worry, my laptop screen is back-lit.

What is it about this Season that Set my Satirical Side all a-Sizzle?

Oh -- Let me count the ways!

It's not the "spirit of Christmas" -- whatever that is -- I object to.

[See, whenever I mention an abstract term like "spirit of Christmas," it starts bouncing around in your brain like a marble in a tin can. Hard to grasp isn't it? Even more difficult to verbalize. But, alas, leave it to the professionals, like me.]

It is the Holy Herd of Hollow Sacred Cows we all Haul around at Thanks-GIMMY Time I am Hacked off at.

(For you satire-slow pokes that’s December 1-24 in the toy, electronics, small appliance, outdoors, and clothing isles of department stores.)

EXAMPLE: It’s things we do for absolute strangers, in-laws, out-laws, and ir-relatives, at this sentimental time of the year we wouldn't think twice of doing any other time of the year. In fact, you couldn't PAY us to talk to them. Feed a struggling family -- you mean they get hungry more than Christmas and Thanksgiving?

How dare they have birthdays or start school or grow up and need a new pair of shoes at any other time but Christmas!

"Who do they think they are? . . . My family? My relative? ... Obviously you don't know my relatives!"

Jesus -- you know, that little plastic dude they put in the manger this time of the year, -- the one surrounded by the shepherds, wise kings and camels, -- seems he wasn't content to stay put. He grew up became a teacher, a friend of street people, the sick, the shutouts, but irritated the sanctimonious. On day he told a group of those showoffs who wanted some back patting for all they had done for their church and their friends. Jesus pointed to the dirty children the pompous had to wade through and said.., "when you do it for the least of these, you do it for me."

Oh, Darn it! I hate it when He does that and starts messin' with my comfort zone. You mean HE expects me to do this Christmas Spirit thing all year long to STRANGERS?

Finally, after years, I seem to being making progress at my house when it comes to Christmas getting. The boys are in their upper teens. They are down to one request per Christmas and will gladly accept cash or a gift card for the store of their choice. My oldest is married and his wife's problem.

As for my wife and I, we'll give trinkets of affection for each other. It's not that she isn't special, it's just that I'm an all-year giver. I don't wait until Christmas or anniversaries to give her flowers and presents that let her know she is the love of my life.

It is with more than a little pride I walk through my local Super Wal-Mart in my "You-Can't-Touch-Me" Bubble." On the outside I may look like a harmless, meek, bald, English butler, with Santa Clause eyes, but inside there is a Rambo, bandanna-wrapped resistance gift-taban fighter, a bandoleer and 50 caliber machine gun in my arms. As I stroll through the isles I take my stand.

"No, you wire light-wrapped dunking reindeer. I will not be drawn like a moth to a flame."

"Take that, you inflatable flying Santa with Reindeer urinating pellets of white Styrofoam on the inflatable village of unsuspecting sleeping children below.

"You can't tempt me you jive-rapping cameo-dressed Barbies. I don't care how collectible you'll be in 10 years."

"Here's a few slugs you big screen TVs. There will be another super-hyped, fraged, two inches wider, plazzmatic screen that doubles as a microwave and high pressure home car wash to take your place tomorrow…Wait, wait, yea, that really is high definition."

And last but not least. "Were is that bossy woman in the self-check out machine? If she yells at me what to do ONE MORE TIME, I'm going to slide her head through credit card pad and type in 666."

So, after a season of creative drought, I'm back. I'm even considering taking on the HOLIEST CHRISTMAS COW of all . . . That's Right! . . . Santa Clause.

"Abomination!" you cry!

"Off with his head!" you scream!

"Burn him at the yule log!" you mutter from your egg nogg stupor!

But alas....it may not be what you think. Most of my readers can't tell me where the jolly elf came from save the Hollywood antics of Tim Allan or billboards of him holding a bottle of Coca Cola. If you know, please leave me a response in the comments box available.

And I will always feel obligated to leave you with a delightful twist.

Which reminds me: If I'm still on your Christmas list after this, there is a section of my Wal-Mart left standing standing after my mental Rambo Raid. There is this Therapist Select Shiatsu Plus Massaging Cushion which uses a state-of-the-art, moving dual-massage mechanism. . .

Writing these blogs all hunched over by candlelight are havoc on my back.

"Satire is a sort of glass, wherein beholders do generally discover everybody's face but their own." Anonymous