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Thursday’s Fare . . . December 17, 2003
Let There Be Lights
Nothing quite brings back the memories like Christmas
lights. No matter
your age or where you come from, chances are you remember the sets that your
parents pulled out of those dusty old boxes from the attic or basement.
The lights in our home, and I can only assume every other house in America at
that time, where of the big, bright colored variety - the kind that when viewed
up close can produce color so "other worldly" and vibrant that children
still marvel at them amongst the endless thrills of technology that surround
them today. The cords were thick and durable, with heavy black sockets
containing solid brass screw plugs. They looked like you could use them as
climbing rope if you found yourself short of one while attempting to put
Rudolph on the roof.
But regardless of how carefully Dad had packed them away the year before, they
always seemed to come out in a supreme tangle. This produced long and tedious
minutes ahead of the high anticipation of stringing them on the tree and
throwing the switch. My siblings and I would agitate and squirm, but we soon
learned not to offer Pop too much help during the de-conflagration process.
If we played our cards right we might be able to get the tree mostly
decorated before things with him went invariably south.
Stringing the tree always started out pleasant enough. It was usually
accompanied by sweet holiday carols on the radio and the smell of hot apple cider
from the stove. But it typically degenerated into a rather edgy and tense
ceremony as Pop struggled to replace bulbs, and keep the four of us from
pulling or stepping on the strands that were somehow still working.
"SON! Please try and stay away from those . . . ."
"PIP - POP - PIP!!"
"Sorry Dad."
By the time Mom took over for stage two - the hanging of ornaments - Dad had
usually beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen, where I can now only imagine he
was adding a little something to the "wassail" on the stove. A libation,
I must confess, I recently availed myself of in similar fashion. Alas, I
suspect that ol' Santa himself finds occasion to fortify his
patience against the unceasing activity of all his little elves.
Whatever his means of solace, Pop always seemed to return with forgiveness in
hand and the moment of the lighting of the tree was always a joyous occasion.
We stood there like four little deer in the headlights - the object of our
awe beaming the "Good News" in radiant and splendid color . .
. The "Good News" being, of course, that there would be
presents beneath it soon.
The Christ Child? His time would certainly come. But this wasn't it.
I recently heard a prayer given during the "children's time" at our
church
that said, " . . . and help us to remember that Christmas is the time to
remember the birth of the baby Jesus . . ."
The first thought that entered my mind was, "Well, yes . . . and
no."
Because if we're honest, especially as regards our view of the world as
young children, Christmas isn't just about the birth of the baby Jesus.
It's also seems to be very much about trees and lights and gifts and being out
of school and candy and Santa and reindeer and . . . everything else that has
absolutely nothing to do with him. And yet, maybe EVERYTHING to do with him.
After all, if there were no historical celebration of the birth of
Christ some 2003 years ago, our December holidays would consist of the Jewish
observance of Hanukkah and perhaps a few late harvest festivals.
But the truth remains that the Glory of Christmas has been all but buried
beneath those traditions of celebration that have been seized by secular
culture and amplified to the point of being completely overwhelming. Like some
overpowering signal of pop music that drowns out the simple refrain of "Silent
Night" as it is played on a distant AM radio station, "secular Christmas"
so utterly dominates our culture that any hope of hearing the true music
within seems hopeless. But maybe our attempts to combine the two are where we
go wrong. Just as listening to two songs simultaneously is impossible for
most anyone, perhaps the two distinct Christmas's that we all experience are
best received apart and on their own.
Have you ever tried to read Luke's wondrous words to four small children on Christmas
Eve? It's like trying to paddle up river at the peak of the flood -
like handing an Amtrak ticket to someone who's getting ready to board the
Concord. (Before you email me with your criticism of this analogy, please
note that Amtrak still delivers its passengers to their destination, while
the Concord no longer flies.) Our children will listen to be sure, but
the words are far better heard on Christmas Day when the distractions are
past and the "waters are calm."
Clearly for Christians, the moments that we are able to set aside during
the rush and frenzy that is "the other Christmas," are the one's
that
really count - the one's in which our greatest expression of Joy is found
and received. But that shouldn't necessarily diminish our ability to
discern and discover the movement of the Spirit in those "other
Christmas moments" - one's in which we are caught up with family and
friends in the joyful and playful sharing of our traditions and love for one
another. No matter how petty and simple some of them may appear to be . . .
For who's to say just how much the Spirit is or isn't caught up as little
Sammy squirms nervously on the Mall Santa's lap?
Or just how far the memory of a brightly lit home might go in
substantiating someone's idea of the depth and breadth of God's love for the
world.
Or what a single strand of colored bulbs glowing amidst the scotch green pine
and the soft sweet essence of home may mean to the seeking heart of a child,
who may one day dare to fathom that there just might be something more going
on in this world than so many of us are willing to admit . . .
So Merry Christmas Dear Reader! "Real," and otherwise!
May the love shared in your home be extravagant and bright!
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