A Truce in the War on Christmas

The Boy Scouts at the Christmas tree lot have been well trained. The instant we arrive, a cute kid bounces out to greet us and give a quick orientation. “We’ve got a sale today,” he says, brightly (this kid’s got a great future in business). “All those trees over there are only five dollars!”

I glance at the five dollar trees. I think they look like Charlie Brown trees. My husband grins at me, undoubtedly remembering a two dollar Christmas tree we bought at the last minute when we were impoverished grad students. I look back toward the nicer, bigger, not-on-sale trees. “Let’s go look at those first,” he says.

The helpful Boy Scout salesman follows us, starts pulling out candidate trees from the line up, holding them erect for inspection, giving each a well practiced shake. Every single one of them has something wrong with it–a lop side, a big bald space between the top branches and the lower ones. I, the reluctant tree buyer, start sounding petulant. “I don’t like any of these.” The kid rolls his eyes; my husband winks at him and they both grin in the brotherhood of boys.

I am thinking about all the hassle the tree will bring. It will be hoisted up the stairs. Then there were will be the annual tag-team wrestling match: me and my husband versus the tree and the stand. Finally, the tree will submit itself to being decorated. Ornaments will be placed: some dating way back, evoking memories of other less happy times with a different husband, the one I’m trying to forgive and, at last, forget.

The kid’s voice calls me back to the present moment. “Hey, what about this one?” He’s got the perfect tree. No kidding. “I love this tree! I want this one!” He and my husband grin at each other again. This whole tree buying thing is mostly his idea. Although the one year that I managed to procrastinate us into a no-tree Christmas, the whole holiday was just a bit too bare.

We stuff the tree into this truck and head home.

###

The tree is unusually perfect. It’s quite round and symmetrical. The trunk is nicely slender and the wrestling match is canceled when the tree and stand forfeit. We string the lights, which all work on the first try. His job done, my dearly beloved plops down on the couch to watch Monday Night Football while I decorate.

At the end of the process, I hold up the Christmas angel. My husband places her on the top of tree and I step back to admire the effect.

The angel was made in China. I imagine a tiny little Chinese woman who took fabric, dampened with starch, to mold the folds into glorious swirls and puddles. What was she thinking about when she created this vision of loveliness? Probably not Christmas. No, I imagine she was thinking about how many bazillion of these angels she had to dress before she could go home that day. Her idea of Christmas probably doesn’t include angels or baby Jesus or lovingly decorated trees. To her, it’s probably more like goo covered fingers and plastic dolls dressed up to resemble somebody’s idea of a heavenly being.

###

People say there’s a war on Christmas. We can’t say “Merry Christmas,” without checking religious credentials first. Maybe it’s safer, they say, to just wish people “Happy Holidays!” That way, nobody gets offended.

In last week’s homily, Deacon Chris talked about this. “If there is a war on Christmas,” he said,  “Christmas has won—corporate Christmas, consumerist Christmas. … Let’s keep Christ out of Christmas. That Christmas. That phony Christmas. Because He already is.”

The true Christmas hasn’t happened yet anyway, he reminded us; it’s Advent, the waiting time. And we are waiting for a birth. Christ is carried in watery darkness.

###

My Christmas tree is dying. It’s been cut down and even though I’ll water it carefully for the next two weeks, its life is over. I crush its needles between my fingers and inhale the fragrance.

I look at the angel and think about that nameless woman and her starch covered hands. “This is the true temple not some big, spectacular building, but the body of this young woman.”

“This solstice,” Deacon Chris said, “let’s each of us sit in a room, in the early evening, and watch the light fade away. Let’s each of us sit and watch the darkness come. And the next day, in the morning, let’s sit in that room again. Let’s just sit there, quietly, with Mary, and ponder what this greeting means.”

In unplug the multicolored lights. I imagine Mary. I whisper her ‘yes’ in the darkness.