Reflections on Christmas

By Tony Barker

 

Whatever happened to Christmas? It's still on Dec. 25, but something seems different. And after some thought, I see that the holiday is still the same -- but the times have changed. The holiday is no different -- but the people who celebrate it are.

 

To my chagrin, Christmas is no longer the holiday I remember as a child. There was a time when each snowfall placed a new blanket of freshness upon the earth. Sub-zero temperatures were little more than challenging adventures of youthful endurance. Staying indoors while school was out was unthinkable -- there were snowmen to bring to life, steep slopes down which to sled and mighty forts to defend against myriad enemies. We didn't think then about such things as travel advisories or wind-chill factors. Each Christmas season was a glorious new experience -- not a cessation of life but a new life into itself -- more than just a waiting period between fall's splendor and the miracle renewal of spring.

 

Then there was Christmas at the old house. There was a time when on Christmas Eve the only lights would be those on the tree, yet no house was ever as brighter as the entire family gathered around the evergreen. Mom would sing Dutch carols and Dad would read "The Night before Christmas" followed by the Nativity story from Luke's Gospel. There was, as I remember, only a small space heater in the corner of the room, but no house was ever warmer as it was filled with the love and unity of the family.

 

The family -- all the aunts, uncles and cousins --would gather at Grandmother's. Grandma would prepare a sumptuous Christmas feast and no one could possibly eat enough to please her. She would then preside over the exchange of gifts, and no queen was ever as regal. Everyone would catch up on the news -- both tears and joy -- of the past year before going their separate ways, taking a little of each other as they went.

 

But was really made Christmas special was the walk to the midnight services. I saw it not as a hardship but a tradition. We would journey from our home to the church on the opposite side of town. To be sure of getting a seat, we would have to leave around 11 p.m. -- just as the newscaster was reporting "breaking news" of an unidentified flying object leaving the North Pole. We would first go through the neighborhood admiring the neighbors' decorations. There were no prizes then for the best lit dwelling, but every home seemed to be a reflection of the Light that we were told had come into the world that night.

 

Then we would go through the business district. Back then every building was occupied by a prosperous merchant and we would window shop -- wondering which of the array of gifts on display we would find under our tree in the morning. Over the main street would be a star composed of about two dozen lights. The town would light one bulb each day prior to Christmas. That evening the entire star would be lit.

 

Finally we would arrive at the church, the cross atop its spire symbolically rising above all else in the community below. No matter how early we would manage to arrive, the church would already be half full with people in silent meditation. The ushers would have to place folding chairs in the aisles so everyone could have a seat. To my knowledge, they never turned anyone away.

 

The bells would then ring for the start of the service. The white-robed pastor would again tell the amazing story of Mary and Joseph, the shepherds, the angels and, of course, the Christ Child. No matter how many times we had heard the story before, it was always as though it was the first time, as though we were in Bethlehem on that first Christmas to hear the Good News that never grows old. With the hymns too, even though we had sung them year after year, each time the singing seemed to be louder and stronger as though the very choir of Heaven was joining in the glad refrain.

 

Then the walk home. We children were positive that if we kept a sharp lookout we just might catch a fleeting glimpse of that unidentified flying object from the North Pole landing on someone's rooftop. But all we ever saw were the stars shining in the clear night air and the moonlight reflecting on the snow. We reluctantly went to bed only to awaken, what must have seemed to our parents mere moments later, anxious to see what Santa had left. The milk and cookies were gone so he had indeed been there. And everyone had their heart's desire -- even the faithful family dog.

 

Whatever happened to Christmas? Sometimes it seems reduced to only a memory. The old home is gone, replaced by a bypass that cuts the journey to the church to a matter of moments. The star over the main street has long since been replaced by more glittering decorations despite the fact that many storefronts are now empty. Grandmother, parents and aunts have gone to be with the Lord, and the scattered cousins are now celebrating Christmas all across the country. The church is still there and the ushers still turn no one away. But I've heard that nowadays it seems they don't need to. The Christmas I knew as a child is gone forever.

 

Or is it? Christmas is about the birth of Jesus Christ who, we are told, "is the same yesterday, today and forever." And Jesus said we must become like little children to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Perhaps it is not Christmas that has changed, but my once childlike faith. And I find myself wishing that I could once again see Christmas, and Christ, through the eyes the child I once was.