Christmas Time

There are so many things I think about this season that it is difficult to translate to the written word. How I celebrate it. My family traditions. The story as revealed to us in God's word. The sparkle of the seasons. The music. The manger. The contrast between Santa and St. Nicholas.
Gold and silver adorn the stores. Holiday trees are everywhere, though a real Christmas tree with the star of Bethlehem atop, is found only in churches and homes. Funny that this should bother me. There is no Christmas tree in the Bible. Paul and Silas never made popcorn garlands and Peter never had an argument with his wife over what day to take down the tree.

I think about the people who have been such a big part of my Christmas over the years. I think of them often but particularly at this time of year. My Aunts Joan and Joyce. Visits to them at Christmas are interwoven with so many good memories. My brother Rodney and the early morning treks downstairs at grandmother's house to look for our gifts under the tree, then heading back to bed with our stockings in our arms. Mother and Father and all the sacrifices they made to make this day so special for three boys. My own children and the magic of Christmas in each of their eyes. I have never seen a human express such pure joy as my daughter Rachel on the morning she opened a package with a long awaited doll inside. It was a glimpse of heaven, the type of expression reserved the best things in life. Or the end of this. When we enter heaven it must be with an expression just like that, unrestricted joy.

I think of the contrast between my big tough son, and his request as a child for "a little poodle" for Christmas.

I will remember Caroline as she struggled to read the Christmas story aloud when she was six or seven. How proud she was, and how we thought it would never end as she spurned any help and concentrated on pronouncing every word.

I will always remember my grandfather's reading of the Christmas story and the long ritual that surrounded the evening and the waiting to open family gifts on Christmas eve.

My first midnight Christ Mass, in one of the early years of this century. How this old tradition of the Anglican and Catholic church drew me closer to an understanding of the miracle of this day.

Mary, the blessed mother of Jesus. Worshipped by Catholics, ignored by Protestants. Somewhere in my religion there must be a place for her. The Holy mother of our Lord. The special vessel chosen by God to bear his son. We carry Him inside us spritually, but she carried the God who created her, inside her body. Her blood flowed through Him.

In the northern hemisphere Christmas comes when nature sleeps. We wonder if the early day of winter, December 25, is the true birthday of our Lord, or is it an old pagan holiday that the early church adopted? Wouldn't we be surprised to find that this really is the birth date? How wonderful that when all around us is dead, when all the leaves have fallen, when the small mammals are in hibernation, when the world is encased in ice, the manger of Bethlehem sends a message of life and love and warmth and rebirth.

The haunting strains of "What Child is This?". The world still asks that question every day, every sunrise, every sunset. Who is this Jesus, who is this God / this man that we cannot shake from our minds? Why are we so drawn to him yet something in us also pushes him back. We love the baby, we worship the Lamb of God, but we fear the wrath of the Lion of Judah. What does it tell us about ourselves that we spend weeks and weeks preparing for Christmas but spend only an hour or so in preparation for Easter. What does that say about me?
I will join my family on the eve of his birth. At his altar I will confess my sins. I will take his body and his blood. I will remember Mary and Joseph. I will thank my heavenly father for coming to this world just like me, a small helpless boy.