Open Writing

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Christmas is coming
The goose is getting fat.
Please put a penny in the old man’s hat.
If you haven’t got a penny,
A ha’penny will do.
If you haven’t got a ha’penny,
Then God bless you!

That child’s refrain is the earliest Christmas song I remember singing (if it be lawful to call it singing!). It heralds the approach of Christmas, the coming feast of plump goose, and the need to be especially charitable to the poor and needy. That was in the simple time of my childhood.

In my mature years, Christmas is become multi-faceted to the extent that the elementary rubric of my infancy no longer addresses the impressive array of sights, sounds, and events that come together for one special annual celebration that is observed throughout the world in diverse ways yet always with a central focus on the historic event that seems for a time to be swamped and pushed to the perimeter of all the activities that come together to prepare for its remembrance.

It is a time of times so variegated that without an overarching vision of the whole, there seems to be no connection between them. Yet, as illogical as it appears, its singular purpose is indisputable, unambiguous, and inexorably pursued to an exquisite culmination.

It is a time of phrenetic activity: Revision of gift lists, Urgent hunting for just-one-more-Christmas-card; Wrapping presents; Dashing out to buy more paper, ribbons, and stick-on bows; Cooking traditional dishes; Stocking up on staples and specialities; Concocting special dishes for finicky guests.

It is a time of questions: Do the fairy lights work? When does the tree go up? Turkey, pork, or goose for Christmas Dinner – or all three? What about the vegetarians – nut cutlets – again? Who exactly is coming? Do we need to fill up with petrol – again? Did you get a pack of toilet paper (remember last year!)? Is there room in the fridge for a quart of heavy whipping cream? What can I throw out to make room for the trifle? Where’s my recipe for royal icing? Has the Christmas Cake matured yet? Where – oh where – can we get Christmas Crackers? Did Cousin Georgia say she was coming – or not coming? Where is her letter?

It is a time of boxes: big boxes full of toys and surprises. Small boxes that tell of special love and enduring affection. Boxes that hide in cupboards, under beds, attics, neighbour’s garages, all of which incomprehensibly find their way under the bottommost boughs of the Christmas tree to be opened on the Day of Days in imitation of the gifts of yonderyear when exotic benefactions were pressed upon the Holy Family.

It is a time when children get caught up in the spirit of giving and receiving. A time when wise parents teach their small charges to distinguish between giving and getting, and bring them to realise Who is at the centre of everything on which the name of ‘Christmas’ has been fastened, and not to be distracted by the glitz and glamour of a greedy world in which the reason for the season is sometimes obscured by fripperies, charivaria, and superficialities that detract from the its true meaning.

It is a time of preparedness: Mountains of laundry must be done so that all the beds have clean linen. The carpets, furniture, and curtains must be sprayed with that stuff we bought from the Monday Market because Auntie Flora is allergic to our dogs – no one else’s dogs, but ours! Uncle Bill can only drink soymilk, so how much should we get and can we freeze it? Cousin Dora must have gluten free bread. Great Uncle Bulgaria has to have salt-free, fat-free, calorie-free food, so what the heck I am going to give him for food I can hardly wait to discover! Where did we buy the cinnamon bread we had two years ago, or did we bake it at home with that special flour?

It is a time of decisions: Should the ham for Boxing Day’s tea of cold cuts be glazed, or scored, salted to make for delicious but deadly crackling? Shall I we bake pork pies or will Dewhurst’s have some of their delicious pound pies left? Should I cheat (again) and buy in some of Sainsbury’s mince pies, or should I buy a gallon of sweet mincemeat and make the real McCoy?

It is a time of sadness: We see empty places that last year were filled with departed loved ones and now absent friends. We look back down the years remembering those who are missing from our hearths and tables and feel again the pain of their leaving. We muse on the love and loving time we shared, becoming silent and wistful as we drop a silent tear or two.

It is a time of confusion: Do we know exactly who is coming? Do we have enough beds, chairs, plates, cups and saucers, knives and forks, towels, laundry detergent, table space, and home remedies such as aspirin, Alka Seltzer, migraine potions, stuff for aching teeth, spots, burns, rashes, coughs, colds, and influenza? Should we worm the dogs?

It is a time of forgetfulness: Old grudges are forgotten – or put safely away for the Season only to be revived later when the Spirit of Christmas has worn off. Oh, my, we forgot to get a present for little Archie. Did we get a Christmas card from Great Aunt Maude last year? I’m sure I have forgotten something else but I can’t remember what it is!

It is a time of remembering: We remember with fondness friends whose religious traditions run almost parallel to but apart from the Christian festival, and send them our Heartfelt good wishes for Diwali, Hanukah, Eid-al-Adha, Eid Mubarak, Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice or Tohji-taisai, Yule, and Bodhi Day Observance, because Christmastime should not be taken as an excuse by Christians to forget their brothers and sisters in other faiths, or even those in none.

It is a time when the better selves locked inside ordinary men and women surface to become closer to the people they always meant to be, as they strive to become closer to the ideals that are personified in Jesus.

It is a time when people in new cars who normally don’t give lifts to their friends stop at bus stops to pick up sodden strangers with two inches of snow on their caps and more on their boots, and each is warmed and elevated by the experience.

It is a time of magic, miracles, and wonder, when all the booming, buzzing confusion of the rush for the Christmas season and its social demands becomes strangely still when we sit finally in silence for a moment and into our quiet time comes the sound of angel voices declaring the birth of a tiny baby whose mission was to make bad men good, good men better, and better men perfect.

It is a time when love rises like a star in the hearts of the faithful, and even unbelievers are likely to get strange warm feelings in their hearts that they cannot understand, do not believe in, and will rationalise into oblivion when the season is over, although they will never completely forget the warm encounter with the numinous that pecks away at their unbelief.

For those of simple faith it is the recreation of the sacred time when the Baby Jesus was born to transform human lives and to lead them smiling towards God.

It is a time when Theologians ponder the mystery of the Incarnation when the Son of the Most High God was conceived in the womb of and born to the faithful Jewish maiden, Mary, and stew in their perennial juices whether to call her Theotokos or some other name. They will stroke their beards and pore over tomes of ancient but not unchallenged wisdom to try and understand the nature of the event of the birth of the God-Man Jesus – the promised Messiah – who came to introduce the Kingdom of God, and to save and exalt those who follow Him in worthy discipleship.

Multitudes of children will don bathrobes and have their heads wrapped in striped tea towels. Some will have wings pinned to the back of their white shifts and be issued with stern remonstrances by anxious parents that they are to behave like the angels they are rigged to represent.

In rural areas, livestock will be pressed into service in makeshift khans where scenes of shepherds presenting themselves before the Christchild, and oriental magi will offer symbolic gifts that portend the life, mission, and death of the sleeping Newborn.

These nativity scenes will be played out with the expected and recurrent glitches that accompany children’s role-playing. But however well or badly the story unfolds, even in the face of collapsing scenery, and unco-operative – sometimes anti-social – donkeys, sheep, and goats, or, as in one notable case where the innkeeper announced to a stunned Joseph, "Aye, lad. We’ve got plenty of room. Come on in and bring the missus!" the story will be taught to a new generation, and reaffirmed and reinforced to those already familiar with it.

Mothers will weep as their angels leave off beating each other long enough to intone the words, "Peace on earth, and goodwill to all people."

Somehow, the Spirit of Christmas is at the mercy of these little ones whose play acting reminds us that even in such a holy time we are all still superlatively human, and still in need of a Saviour to lead and guide us to become our better selves that are more pleasing to Him and His Father, and more generous and to our brothers and sisters in whatever country or faith they happen to be harboured.

When we come through the buzzing, booming confusion that the run up to Christmas seems to produce and realise these compelling truths, then we have reached into the very Heart of Christmas and have been touched by the Blessed One whose birth we remember and celebrate at this very special time of year.

Copyright © 2006 – Ronnie Bray
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Read Ronnie's Weekly Letter From America:
http://www.openwriting.com/archives/letter_from_america/

Other stories at:
http://www.2theheart.com/author_ronnie_bray
http://www.meridianmagazine.com/voices/011024summer.html

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