I celebrated my first Christmas when I was 25. My fundamentalist church eschewed all "pagan holidays" including Christmas and Easter. The thought was that these days were originally pagan celebrations co-opted by Constantine in order to make Christianity more palatable to the culture.
We were right, strictly speaking. But in many ways, we missed the point.
Our intention was noble: we were striving for a pure expression of Christianity. We craved the "simplicity of Christ." We demonstrated that through an austere rejection of materialism and excess.
If Christmas was really about the Christ-child, why not celebrate His nativity every day of our lives? We saw very little use in choosing one day to commemorate His birth.
To this end we rejected traditional symbols of Christmas: trees, presents, Santa Claus, candles, decorations.
We did, however, take the opportunity to help those in need. Which means my parents never bought me Christmas presents, but we often took presents to children who were poor.
There was something beautiful about being outward focused on Christmas. Instead of glutting ourselves on self-indulgence, we sought ways to help others.
And yet, something was missing.
In our insistence on separating ourselves from "the world," we made an idol of our separation.
It almost became a point of pride that we never bought presents for our own family members but always and only gave to the poor.
Our sobriety, dignity and modesty were as much a show as the twinkling Christmas lights we condemned as worldly.
We had created an alternative way of life and we held it dearly.
But our rejection of symbolism was itself symbolic. Our austerity bespoke our conviction just as for other Christians December 25 bespoke celebration.
Purity of conscience is one thing–and I don't hold abstinence against any believer–but elevating matters of individual conscience to spiritual mandate is quite another thing.
By outlawing Christmas trees, we set ourselves up as arbiters of conscience; no matter how subtle that arbitration might have been.
And in so doing, we deprived ourselves of our humanity. Because despite all our high-flying rhetoric and soaring spirituality, we are quite human. Something inside us cries out for the ritual, the texture, the smell, the songs.
Some of us hold feasts and some of us fast. I don't think one is better than the other. Just different.
Was Jesus only the ascetic fasting in the desert? Or was He also the the convivial party guest who turned water into wine?
It seems that if we intend to mitigate a spiritually meaningful Christmas, we must combine the fasting with the feasting. There is a time for reflection, quietude, examination of conscience.
And there is also a time for exuberant rejoicing.
I plan on doing both.
How about you?
