Well, it’s blizzarding outside (welcome to Nebraska!), there’s an angel in a red robe playing what I assume to be a first century version of the trumpet in the opposite corner of the room (It’s cardboard. The angel and the trumpet.), I haven’t drunk my cup of hot chocolate for the day, but it is feeling something like Christmas. Which is probably a sign of health and awareness, considering we’re less than 48 hours out from the Big Day.
Christmas. That time of year when girls know to expect aromatic gifts that they’re not quite sure if they’re supposed to wash with or eat (With flavors like Vanilla Hazelnut and Coconut Cream, who would have ever thought it was only hand lotion?), and boys sit in church pews, listening fanatically to see if they will change the old hymn to “where ox and lamb are feeding,” instead of that other word. The time when pastors are allowed to sing all sorts of utter lies about a jolly man in a red suit and a reindeer with a similarly scarlet nose that everyone knows doesn’t exist - and not a single, truth-loving member of the congregation cares. The time of year when we entertain all sorts of traditions - gift giving, kissing plants (that’s mistletoe to you), carol singing, murder of the pines (I’m sure every true blue tree-hugger buys a plastic one) - in a society that struggles to keep up even traditional traditions, like having a father and a mother at the head of the family.
A time when the songs exhort you to dream about snow, even though you dread it the rest of the year. When family finally comes before work, unless your name is Scrooge; and, even then, you might reconsider if only a Tiny Tim would walk - excuse me, hobble - into your life. A time when the stores are packed and the bars are empty (or are they?). A time when, for once, you might walk down the street and see people not only smiling, but cheerfully chatting with that all-suspicious complete and total strangers.
It’s a good thing, right? No matter what else they might accuse us of, at least the rest of the world has to admit that we know how to celebrate Christmas! Even if the point does get a bit lost in the whirlwind. Because even though we might congratulate ourselves that they’re using the word “Jesus” on the public radio stations as something other than a swear word, it’s easy to bypass the heart of the matter. We don’t do it on purpose; there’s just so many other things to look at. One more illegitimate baby to populate the globe isn’t really that spectacular. I could walk you down the street and point out ten more. Not that any of them had shepherds or angels singing over them; a nurse maybe, but no one crooning in Hebrew, and certainly nothing heavenly. Maybe that’s why two thousand years ago a good portion of the Israelites, the Pharisees, and the local rulers missed it. I’m not sure about the idea of a synagogue ruler belting out “I saw Mama kissing Santa Clause,” but I’m sure they had plenty of other things to look at. Something besides another illegitimate child.
Unless He wasn’t illegitimate. Unless it was miraculous. Unless the Son of God really did become flesh and make His dwelling among us, like John says He did. Unless He really was who He said He was. Is who He says He is. And if that’s all true, then Santa and Rudolph really ought to be tossed in the backseat with the Legos and fairytale books. We have more important things to look at.
