Christmas: Gettin' My God On

Nativity scene from the 14^th Century

During the 1960s, TV pundits started the practice of assembling on talk shows to grade the year just ending—good, bad, or in between—as though the calendar were a student taking a pass/fail exam.

I remember they gave a grade of fail to 1968 as being especially awful—the murders of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy; the Chicago riots; the ongoing Vietnam bloodbath; and the rise of a dark groundling, Richard Nixon, a brilliant but desperately and deeply unqualified man to be occupying the Oval Office.

I don’t listen to pundits much anymore—even the ones I supposedly agree with—but I know they still gather, like flies on old meat.

This year, 2012, isn’t looking too good in my memory banks, either. I could review my experience of it here and now—Best Surgery, Best Long Mysterious Illness--but most of you who have been coming here know enough of it. Moreover, next to what the people in places like Newton, Connecticut, and Karachi, Pakistan are going through, it really wasn’t much. I remain more fortunate, more blessed than many, maybe most.

I’m trying to get in the Christmas Spirit as I understand it. But it’s hard. (And what do we mean by the Christmas Spirit, anyway?) It’s hard after what’s happened, but certain changes that have been taking place in me over the years have led me to see things differently.

Nowadays, I prefer Christmas in its old meaning as opposed to the one that I grew up with in a strict secular household. As I grow older, I find material things are losing their “thinginess.” Like a good dutiful Baby Boomer, I’ve accumulated my share of “stuff” these past Certain Number of Years. “He Who Dies with the Most Toys Wins!” is a motto of our age.

I now simply feel stuffed. The sharp edges of my toys cut into my inner stomach lining. Even my most valued books, my ridiculously large collection of Ennio Morricone scores, among the only things I cherish, seem trivial. I can only hope they wind up in the caring hands of someone who cares about them as much as I once did.

Nowadays, I’m more concerned about accumulating experiences: of events and happenings, whether it’s watching horse race, or a hike to a high mountain meadow or standing in a soft Autumn rainstorm in Vermont, inhaling the loamy air, feeling like I was home again.

What I really remember most about my childhood Christmases is not the toys, but being home.

In the last year and a half, I’ve taken to spending Sunday mornings at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Oakland. I could say I just go there for it’s fabulous music program (in the way we used to say we bought Playboy  for the interviews and Hustler to defend Larry Flynt’s free speech rights) . . . but that would be a mite disingenuous, wouldn’t it?

The why of this is too large a matter to explain deeply in this space. As a writer, I’m always made sorely aware of the limits of language to explain the ultimate truth of anything. Words attach well to things, less so to the world beyond things.

Likely, my Sundays at St. Paul’s—“getting your God on,” as a friend of mine put it the other night--did not cure me per se, but they brought solace to both Elizabeth and I at a time when we badly needed it. And someday, maybe tomorrow, we’ll need it again.

I will say this and leave it there: I do not want to live in a Cold, Dead Meaningless Universe. If that makes me a sniveling coward, well then . . . whaaaa . . . I want my teddy!

As many of you might know, Christmas history is a tale of tangled roots, a weave of Roman Saturnalia and Christian folk tales about the birth of Jesus Christ. (Christ’s exact birthdate remains a mystery, though there is an interesting astronomical theory, using the Star of Bethlehem as a marker, that estimates He may been born in the Spring, possibly in March or April.)

To the literal-minded, the lack of a precise birthdate means Christmas is a fake, tinsel through and through. But despite the historical inaccuracy, its placement seems poetically, spiritually right—in the bleak midwinter (one of my favorite hymns), at the turning of the Solstice, when all seems darkest, three wandering strangers find a small light of hope: in a bug-infested, shit-strewn manger, surrounded by gamy, rutting animal life, a bastard is born, a bastard who changes the world in a way not seen before and seldom since. Whose light is somehow still with us.

To my fellow Christians, a Merry Christmas. To the rest of my friends, from across the spectrum of belief, however you see Life, Happy Holidays and be safe!

Copyright 2012 by Thomas Burchfield

Thomas Burchfield has recently completed his 1920s gangster thriller Butchertown. He can be friended on Facebook, followed on Twitter, and read at Goodreads. You can also join his e-mail list via tbdeluxe [at] sbcglobal [dot] net. He lives in Northern California with his wife, Elizabeth.

A Plate of Fudge, a Bowl of Chili and Thou . . .

 

Because he was scrubby and dirty they took him in . . .

And because he was so dirty,  they named him “Harry.”

This Christmas, act like a Christian.

Uh-uhhh, I didn’t say be a Christian, your kneecaps squashed on a cold hard floor, your hands steepled, eyes rolled in gooey piety. No prayers at all are always better than insincere ones.

I mean act with grace, openness, generosity, tolerance, forgiveness. Pull in your teeth and claws for once, just for awhile (yeah, I know it’s hard).  I have supped full of rage and here, a little self-denial is called for.

Christianity may not have been precisely first with the ideas mentioned above, but it was the first to synthesize them into a general philosophy in western civilization, a stance toward life, the world, society and the lonely individual that runs like subtle wine through so much that even most fundamentalist atheists pay inadvertent tribute to them (and bless Christopher Hitchens’ peppery serrated soul; I hope he’s enjoying a Nice Surprise about now.)

A digression: if you read the Four Gospels (especially the three "synoptic" gospels: Matthew, Mark and Luke) you will find, among very very few rich and powerful people;  the vast majority of characters are grubby peasants, bent-backed farmers, battered whores, criminal low-lifes and drunken bums; and when rich folk are mentioned, it is not in complimentary fashion.

You will also learn that Jesus was neither sulfurous fire-spitting Pat Robertson nor a boring Nice White Guy from Minnesota who looks just like Willem Dafoe.

Not only that . . . they called him a BASTARD!

Now I’ve always loved Christmas, a stand offensive to anhedonics (who would be bummed out if I took the opposite tack anyway: “You’re just pandering to me, you phony.”).

But like many, I loathe the insulting heretical Über-Capitalist’s Holiday; a miserable, moneyed tyranny, supported by Fox News propaganda, where WalMart is the True Church; where even Ebenezer Scrooge looks heroically wise and monkish in his self-denial. All the color is a mere fig leaf for a desperate materialism. It’s Target we kneel and pray to.

If you really want to rebel against Christmas, to avoid both the trap of Wal-Mart and the barrenness of Scrooge (as these Christians do), try the following:

Be a cheapskate. Instead of buying that $200 Popeil potato masher, even if it is for the person you love most in the world (the damn thing will just break after they slice off their fingers anyway), instead buy your Someone their favorite food, drink or even a charming little what not; something that will bring more than temporary delight, that will carve deeper than an electric carving knife. A book would be nice.


Or, if they're a real friend, like this guy, you can send them a holiday card loaded with the most vile, spectacular and funniest insults your imagination can conjure. (Thirty years going and he still loves me for it.)

Another friend of ours from a certain somewhere tells us he and his family go dirt cheap on gifts; so cheap that the first question they ask on receipt is “How much did it cost?” Instead, they blow their budget on the best food and the best drink and bury their faces in the dining room table. I find this deeply appealing (and screw the Health Nazis; they’re nearly as bad as WalMart). There’s a companionship in sharing food and sparkling conversation that the complete DVD set of Buffy the Vampire Slayer can never capture.

Another thing to do: If you happen to go outside (this is the Internet Age after all), store some of your cash in a convenient pocket. Then, if you run into a needy person, give some to them, with no conditions and no questions. Loyal readers of Bay Area columnist Jon Carroll know this as the “Untied Way.” He recommends $20 bills . . . but any amount will do. And throw in a smile.

That really could be you hovering over that gutter someday. It was once almost me.

Then stop by your favorite drinking establishment, coffeehouse, or tavern, and buy a round for one or everyone (difficult for me this year, as I’m on extremely limited alcohol intake, doctor’s orders.)

In other words, try and keep it simple, as simple as a Bethlehem manger of sweet legend, though maybe a little warmer.

Sometimes a plate of fudge, a bowl of chili and thou is all I need.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and see you all in the New 2012.

(re-edited 12/19/11)

Copyright 2011 by Thomas Burchfield

Photo by Author

Thomas Burchfield has recently completed his 1920s gangster thriller Butchertown. He can be friended on Facebook, followed on Twitter, and read at Goodreads. You can also join his e-mail list via tbdeluxe [at] sbcglobal [dot] net. He lives in Northern California with his wife, Elizabeth.