Mysterioso

Sophie proclaims her Auntie Claus. And really, that is the word not just for his fabulous sister but for Santa Claus, too. So many mysteries–how does that elevator get from a New York City penthouse to the North Pole? What exactly does Auntie do from Halloween to Valentine’s Day? Santa declares he couldn’t be ready for Christmas without her help but we don’t see her in the mailroom. Is she sequestered in package wrapping, where Sopia never quite makes it? Does she set up headquarters in the residence, attending to Santa’s red coat and black boots? Is she a thought partner for Santa as he goes over his lists and makes toy decisions? Perhaps she’s responsible for sleigh upgrades and recalls. It’s a mystery.

Santa Claus himself is even more of a mystery. How old is he? Who were his and Auntie’s parents? How did he train for his position? What are the physics and astrophysics and quantum physics of his Christmas Eve delivery route? And what about the chimneys? Would he, in this litigious age, be able to defend each of his naughty and nice designations? (Or is the list just an urban legend with no basis in reality?) How does he read all the letters from children in so many countries? Maybe Auntie Claus is his language coach and translator. Or perhaps simply holding the letters magically transmits the wishes to his mind (and the unwritten wishes directly to his heart). Do he and Auntie Claus go on an extended sibling vacation from December 26 to February 13, to debrief the season just ended, but mostly to rest and relax and reminisce? It’s a mystery.

But most mysterioso of all is Christmas itself, and the fact that we celebrate it at all.

I mean, it is a mess of traditions and lore and myth from a handful of disparate religious and cultural origins. Roman, Norse, Druid, Celtic, Christian. One faith co-opting the date from others, and layering new meanings upon rituals from more ancient people. Puritan attempts to stamp out the debauchery of Christmas met with little success. 19th century Unitarians advocated for the celebration of Christmas as a domestic holiday, focused on family and children. Commercialism was introduced to mix at the same time, and over the past nearly two centuries has increased exponentially. With climate change ever more central in our consciousness, the choice between artificial trees and real trees–harvested or in a pot with root ball intact– is a challenge, while wrapping paper is decidedly not eco-friendly. But opening a reusable gift bag just doesn’t have the sensory pleasure of unwrapping a package. Rising postage rates and the digital overtake of the universe have all but done away with Christmas cards. Air travel is at best a hassle and at worst a nightmare of epic proportions–and also not eco-friendly. Millions around the globe are displaced, without adequate housing or food or medical care, living under oppressive regimes, and/or in constant and continual danger of violence of warfare, bigotry, or intimate partner abuse. Far from last, far from least, the fake war on Christmas alone is almost enough to signal the death knell of this holiday–not because anyone is really attacking Christmas, but because who wants to enter wholeheartedly into a season while being sniped at from all directions for forgetting the (Christian) reason for the season or forgetting the (not Christian) origins of the season or spending too much money or not enough or spending it on the wrong things? Bah humbug!

Not everyone celebrates Christmas, of course. Not everyone in the world. Not everyone in this country. Not everyone in our own community, and perhaps not everyone in some of our families. But lots of people do celebrate Christmas. Many, many, more people celebrate Christmas than should do so by any logical measure, beyond any stretch of the imagination. Christians, and pagans, and atheists, and humanists, and Unitarian Universalists, too! So what is it about this holiday that we can explain away and rationally dissect and complain into oblivion that makes us persist in engaging with it? What transforms all of the mess I just recited and more from a mere date on the calendar into a holy day?

If we had had church last week, you would have heard me say, “It’s not dark because it’s Christmas; it’s Christmas because it’s dark.” That’s part of the solution to the mystery of the holiness of Christmas–that in the darkest part of the year we need light, and why not make it sparkly, and multi-colored, and extravagant, and musical while we’re at it? But that’s only here in the northern hemisphere. And Christmas is holy in the southern hemisphere, too, where it arrives in the lightest, brightest part of the year.

I don’t think the mystery of Christmas’s persistance is really very mysterious at all. I think Christmas is holy and retains its hold on our spirits mostly because of the baby. The baby who was Miracle embodied in flesh–as all babies are. The baby who was as Love embodied in flesh–as all babies are. The baby who was welcomed by an astonishing array of visitors who recognized Miracle and Love embodied in infant flesh–as all babies should be welcomed. The baby of whom a powerful, revolutionary future was foretold. The baby who wasn’t born in late December, just as most babies are not born in late December.

I’ve said a time or three in recent months that concentrated doses and intense practice of spiritual attitudes and habits at holiday time both fill us up for the year ahead and condition our hearts and our minds, making it a bit easier and a bit more automatic to access and express and live into those attitudes and habits throughout the year. In times such as we’re currently living, practicing joy and goodwill is particularly vital, and perhaps it would be enough if that’s all we carried with us when 2023 gives way to 2024. But the beating heart and breathing soul of this holiday, this holy time, Christmas, lies in recognizing that we put too much on that baby–the one we say was born on Christmas Day. In realizing that we make that baby too special. In awakening to the stupefying knowledge that that baby, most properly understood, stands in for all babies–each born as the possibility of revolutionary love, peace making power. And therefore apprehending in a new and raw way that the potential of this holy time is unleashed only when we hail each birth a miracle, a wonder, a mystery waiting to unfold and transform the world–and needing all our gifts of gold and adoration and attention to make it so..

In the end, what’s really mysterioso about Christmas, is our human capacity to crave light, and bah humbug excesses and theological collisions and mall traffic, and yearn for the birth–all at one time, all in one heart. How blessed we are that wise ones through the ages have assured us ‘in all nights there is light’ (Pádraig Ó Tuama), and ‘each night a child is born is a holy night’ (Sophia Lyon Fahs), and

When the song of the angels is stilled, When the star in the sky is gone, When the kings and princes are home, When the shepherds are back with their flock, The work of Christmas begins:

To find the lost,

To heal the broken,

To feed the hungry,

To release the prisoner,

To rebuild the nations,

To bring peace among others,

To make music in the heart. (Howard Thurman).

May their words guide us as the holy night descends and the holy day dawns tomorrow and all the tomorrow to come. Amen.