CHRISTMAS. Who Are We? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 12.25.22

There are too many wonderful images from many traditions of faith for this Holy Days season. I am sharing some of my own—ones that have personal, and perhaps universal, meaning. They are not literal representations as photographs of God or Christ, or Buddha, or any saint, or Mary Virgin, but they all do sparkle with Joy and Love and Wonder— icons that reflect the Holy. 

Here is a young boy who has discovered the sheer exhilaration of summer sand and sun in Cancun—in the midst of the bleak mid-winter.  

Here are two female pugs, Jaelee and Olive, all duded up in their pink finery ready for something special. They know something’s up, because there is a large egregious tree in their house decorated, including one of their familiar piddle pads around its base. They won’t lift a small leg to pee on this special tree. 

Here is a creation of grandeur. A great and grand Sycamore with a man dwarfed at the base of its massive trunk. 

Here is a traditionally comedic scene that takes place in many Christian parishes all over the world. This one shows some children doing a nativity play, “He Comes From The Glory” at their primary school in England. One little angel could be ruining it with her shouting her lines, or she could be making it real.  (I remember a pageant in which the child who was to be Joseph looked out, noticed there was a whole congregation and fled the scene as fast as he could run! Mary of course stayed calm to tend the wee newborn.)  

 Here is a highly symbolic, traditional and new, seasonal scenario: Creche scene full of oddballs. 

This scene was created from scraps and bits gathered from around the house, costing not a cent. Oddly of one mind all at once, this motley crew of onlookers have assembled from near and far to pay attention to something new in their midst. 

A single scraggly poor shepherd on solo duty for five sheep made of hardened clay and clothed against inclement weather with mink cut from the late, haughty and unpopular Auntie’s stole. 

A crib made of discarded matchsticks

A cloth Mama Mary already smitten with this kid who looks female to me, Papa Joseph in green burlap and looking masterfully terrified, feathery angels, singing from songbooks resting on Q-tipped arms. And a baby with a head of long dark hair, a silly grin, no halo. Hovering latecomers x 3, just in from the East offering expensive gifts, and risking what could be a very UNwise investment without consulting their brokers. This kid’ll make good for sure.   

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All we have to do is love one another—no matter who or when or why.  Do you have any idea how hard love is? It is the hardest thing in the world to grasp, feel, follow, embody, sustain and repeat. It is also exquisitely delicate, and ultimately valuable. MERRY, TOO.    

2021.01.03 A STORY. AN IMAGE. A SONG.

The Christmas season lasts for a mere twelve days, but that’s silly really, because Christmas is whenever, however, wherever there is awe, splendor and wonder.

A STORY
    Once a man told me a Christmas story I never forget. His father had told him and he told me. It was Christmas Eve and my friend’s father was a boy of about eight in bed very sick with chronic bronchitis. The doctor had been giving him Sulpha. It was the 1940s and the miracle of Penicillin had not yet hit the market. The doctor told the parents that he didn’t think he could pull the boy through this bout.
    The boy’s parents felt helpless and frantic. Suddenly the boy’s father couldn’t stand sitting idle. He jumped up, put on his heavy overcoat, hat, and a muffler against the winter cold, then left their small New York City apartment, being careful not to slam the door. This father had a plan.      

He trudged along the snow-filled city streets where he knew he’d find what he was looking for a few city blocks off on the corner. Yes, there was the scruffy old Santa Claus, all dressed in red, with the scraggly white beard covered with bits of the soup he’d slurped earlier, liquor on his breath, and a bell in his hand. He stood next to a pot on a tripod with a sign on it reading Salvation Army. Santa rang his little bell and called out, Merry Christmas—over and over. People passed by and popped coins into his pot.
    The father approached this Santa, pulled out a small wad of cash, pressed it into Santa’s mitten, whispered something in his ear, turned and walked off the way he’d come. Santa followed. The dad led Santa back to the apartment and into the bedroom of his sick little son. The parents propped their son up a bit. Santa stood at the foot of the bed, rang his little bell and said Merry Christmas. HO. HO. HO.
    The son got well soon. The parents were jubilant. This Santa Claus belched and rang his bell.

Who knows what Christmas really is? Who knows what salvation really is? Who know what a miracle is?
 

AN IMAGE

    The image above is of the little Christmas array we have outside our apartment door.  Ollie the Otter has hopped down from his usual perch to make room for the manger scene, the creche. If you look closely to the left on the floor you will see a three-humped camel (a dromedary) carrying three “Royals” one on each hump, their crowns askew. It’s been a rough desert journey eastward through many nights with only the light of one bright star, seeming to be close but always elusive. Luckily, these three, one a female, are gifted astrologers.
    They will arrive on January 6 to place luxury gifts at the foot of this newborn babe whom they believe offers hope for a just new kingdom, one free of tyranny and deception, one that promises peace, PEACE.

A SONG.

Everyone everywhere always needs a theme song. Here's mine. The lyrics are by songwriter, author, and comedian, Katie Goodman, daughter of Ellen Goodman, Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist and a favorite of mine. This song has been and will continue to be my theme song—including that old unexcised "u".  It is very base, maybe a little arch, and not traditionally christmassy. But it’s Christmas!
    I didn’t fuck this up.
    You probably didn’t fuck this up.
    We didn’t fuck this up.
    So let’s all un-fuck this up.

We can together unscramble our world, our politics, our economy, our social compact, our spirituality and more for the sake of our planet and all living things.

Will we?
   

    

2012.30.12 Mary, Joseph, and Santa Claus

In a neighboring town in a Boston suburb we saw a creche set-up, effulgent with strings of lights, strung about on hapless trees. Creche figures stood tall, gathered in a threesome: Mary, Joseph and Santa.

The sight amused and teased me. The first temptation was to scoff and scorn such cheap excess.  The second was to lament the way the religious meaning of Christmas has been all but lost. And the third was to wonder if Santa was an image of Divinity, of Christ.

In important ways Santa is a christ figure.   In equally important ways,  Santa falls short, because the old elf's generosity and love has conditions (naughty and nice lists.)  But.....Godde's love in Christ offers unconditional love.

Christmas is surrounded by other holy day traditions with similar meanings. Hannukah is a celebration of liberation for the Jewish people, ancient and modern. The day after Christmas, Kwanzaa is celebrated. It’s a pan-African celebration of “first fruits”—all the best offerings and gifts coming together in a celebration of shared life. Kwanzaa started during the Black Freedom Movement in the United States in1966, but has ancient roots in Egypt.

All these days honor the mystery of the human spirit. Religious interpretations attribute a portion of that mysterious expansive spirit to God working within human strength, empowering us to go beyond our limits for love, liberation, and generosity.

Kwanzaa’s founder, Dr. Maulana Karenga, chose to make the holiday cultural rather than religious, so that people of all faiths could gather to celebrate.

American culture right now has more Santa-awareness than Christ-awareness. Christmas has become more holly day than holy day,  a day more cultural than religious.

Some Christians rue this as religious loss, but I wonder if it’s gain?