It is easy to be cynical about Christmas. After all, we borrowed the midwinter feast from the pagans, and after 2,000 years there is some convincing evidence that they have succeeded in reclaiming most of it back. Conspicuous consumption, over-eating, frantic partying in defiance of the encroaching dark it cannot be denied that these are all aspects of Christmas in the developed world in 2003. Nor can it be denied that Christmas is hard for many people, especially those who are poor, and excluded from the shopping frenzy about which the rest of us complain. For some, Christmas deepens the pain of bereavement, or the sorrow of being forced to spend Christmas in exile from their own land and people. Others dread Christmas because they are lonely, or they no longer have the wonder of childrenıs joy to look forward to, because their children are grown and gone. Are we then, to give up on Christmas? It is tempting to write it all off, but something stubbornly refuses to let us do so. So much of the madness of Christmas arises from a muddled attempt to express love and appreciation, to give to others with an open heart. In the midst of frantic preparations, or the sting of grief exacerbated by watching others celebrate, there are moments when we sense a gentle invitation from One who will never force his way, only invite. The powerless child, born far from home in poverty and insecurity, reaches out his arms to us. If we let the stillness linger, tears may come, but tears of healing. The child teaches us, in the words of T.S. Eliot, that: We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Those who say that Christmas is only for the children, speak truer than they know. The Christ Child speaks to the childıs heart in all of us. The challenge is to be silent long enough to listen. Ends December 2003 |