As you probably know and remember (or don’t, because why would you?), I cannot keep up with marking Advent or any sort of Jesse Tree devotional nonsense. The young mom in me still has hope she might erect a Christmas tree after she’s found a clean, empty spot for it; the older mom knows of no such living area. The young mom thinks candles are terrific and cozy; the old one has scraped melted, dumped, poured, played-with wax off a bevy of wax-unfriendly fabrics. I tell myself I will just live in a constant state of wonder, rather than save it all up for the twenty-five days leading to Christmas, when presents must be wrapped, holiday concerts must be attended, and influenza, ear infections, and pink eye must be fought with all diligence. Our small, weary world rejoices in antibiotics and ice-free driveways. We marvel at the excitement of Santa visiting at the public school PTA dinner, because a miracle is born on Friday nights when different languages and cultures bond over pajama-clad kids and lukewarm baked ziti.
December begins just like every month. All the single digits fly by and I really don’t even recognize it for a new month until I’ve paid my trash bill and signed the date on the check. December sixth, yes–ok. I suppose I ought to start thinking about the school coat drive and all the Giving Tuesday emails I ignored until now. It feels excessive to pack more charity into one month when we could spread it evenly over twelve.
I guess I’m trying, without much luck, to convince the world it needs to be more realistic. Steadier in her convictions. Practical. How did Christmas come to resemble something so ultimate, so fantastical and outrageous with hardly a pinch of Jesus? Ought we not speak his name on the daily so it doesn’t come as such a surprise when December hits? I find I marvel on the daily–every time I open the Bible, as constant as a steady diet of Truth reorganizes my worldview.
For one to truly marvel, he must know his truth, that something can be born of nothing. That love can find a home with the homeless. That wrong can be made right. That the impossible isn’t wishing on a star–rather it is a Someone who was born under one. The absolute miracle isn’t that a virgin gave birth, but that God Himself came down to dwell with us.
I hesitate to sound too Ann Voskamp-ish over the wonder of Christmas–she certainly has a corner of the market, same as Harry and David have their annual, festive buyers. If Christmas is for generosity and rebirth, it’s as good a time as any to join in on the wonder. I love the poetic and lyrical, tradition and holy-days. I love the shimmery gifts stacked in perfect symmetry. But I’d also like to stick up for the less qualified, the less-experienced beholders of beauty and the amateur package-wrappers.
I thought about this as I snapped photos of Santa and the various families that came and visited him on Friday night at the school. For five dollars (paid to the PTA), they came in one at a time and chatted with a stranger, a bilingual jolly old elf, and walked away with a small framed picture of the moment. Some bigger kids had been sent with a crumpled five dollar bill and a miniscule hope that Santa would listen to their plea for the new iPhone 11 (I suppose the odds are akin to buying a lotto ticket). It was an eye opening reminder that some children find their safest, warmest, happiest Christmas experience among their school family. Even if there isn’t a new phone under the tree, it’s nice to have someone listen when you talk. Santa can feel like home in that way.
I used to be a person who rolled her eyes at the silliness of standing in line to visit Santa. As a child I only ever did it a couple of times, and never when it wasn’t free (always present: a clearly fake, overly white synthetic beard), so it seemed insincere. He never brought me anything close to what I wanted as a child, and I wasn’t about to be made a fool every year. As a grownup under the influence and wisdom of more experienced parents, I too made a vow to purge the nonsense and return to the “true meaning of Christmas”. My kids and I– “as for me and my house”–we would be intentional.
I won’t get into Santa (my oldest kid, at the age of four, announced to everyone he knew, “Santa was a man that died hundreds of years ago” even as I tried to slap my hand over his mouth to preserve their innocence), but I think we’ve all probably been bashing the wrong man. The point is, we are all people made to marvel. Christmas is a match that sparks a thrill of hope.
In no way should the professional, pinterest and popular celebrity celebrators dampen the spirit of we who are plain, non-matching in our sweatpants or stuck in the house with a bunch of sick kids, watching Frozen for the third time today. Your average Joe, the kind who barely know what boughs of holly are or how in the world to deck the halls. Blue collar saints and stocking fillers who hope a child lights up for joy over new toothpaste and socks on Christmas day. The hope of an iPhone, the reality of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls from a can.
We are celebrating humility, after all.
It is the hallmark of Christmas, and we skip right over it in our quest to “be more intentional”–a privileged person’s perspective, to be sure. Our best intentions sometimes indicate our sincere belief we have something to offer. The truth is, we don’t. This is what humility is–admitting I have nothing, absolutely nothing to offer. I’ve read somewhere that humility isn’t thinking less of oneself, but thinking of oneself less. I’m not sure I agree, because Jesus “considered equality with God something not to be grasped.” (Phi.2:6)
He thought less of Himself. He thought on his Father, and he thought on us. He humbled his infinite self to the confines of time and space, to a gravity-bound world full of disease and suffering. He humbled himself to the helplessness of a newborn baby, Holiness dependent on sinners and a teenaged mother who didn’t have a clue what she was doing. He humbled himself to a life where clean water, vaccinations, and school wasn’t available, where the crippled, deaf, and blind were laid along the dirt road, waiting for someone to see their awful state and take pity. Jesus humbled himself to befriend people that betrayed Him, people who asked dumb questions and didn’t want to hear his answers. People who wanted to trap him like a wild animal to be killed. Even though He was outside of death, he humbled himself, even to death on a cross.
He was from Heaven where tears were not shed and death had no sting, yet he was humble enough to experience it for Himself, the pain and anguish that lived here below.
And I used to think I was too proud to stand in line for Santa Claus!
Maybe I could stand to be a bit more intentional–intentionally humble.
Maybe the ticket to our kids recognizing Jesus–the reason for the season–is our very own, everyday, attention to humility. The way we respect people who don’t look, dress, or behave the way we do. The way we don’t avoid hard conversations and pain and death. The way we go about in the world, yet not of it. The way we lower our expectations on how Christmas ought to be celebrated. The way we acknowledge this whole world is walking in darkness, that Jesus also put up with people who acted ugly and unfair, and Heaven is on the horizon.
It’s okay to put up stockings and go hog wild at the cookie exchange. It’s okay to sit on Santa’s lap. It’s okay to switch up traditions and make the elf on the shelf disappear. It’s okay to be sad and disappointed and cry–Jesus, too, was a man of sorrow. It’s okay to see humanity for what it is, to be thankful God sent His baby boy to the manger, to the cross, to celebrate Emmanuel, God with skin, just like us.
