A Christmas Reflection
We approach the close of this year shrouded in cynicism, even in pessimism. The glowing myth of the ever-brighter future has been all but extinguished in our collective imagination. Existential dread — far from unwarranted — grips the American psyche.
And indeed: as we stare out the windows of our homes, what unfolds in view down the bleak road of the future?
Consolidation of unmitigated power in the hands of the few ultra-wealthy. The body politic twisted and warped beyond recognition. The imminent collapse of the middle class. The deepening peril of life at the margins of society. New and strange diseases crawling toward us from the refuse of our overindulgence. A tortured planet roaring revenge, preparing to wage a righteous war on us. We who were once its gardener and are now its pillager.
On this side of the window pane, the dark specter of isolation crowds out the light, creeping from the corners of homes and minds, until the flame of joy sputters and gasps. And here we sit, reeling.
It is in this context that we have reached the Christmas season, as we Christians herald joy to the world with a tired song that feels muted and deadened, as if shouted weakly into brackish water.
We are not the first to live in such times. We might travel back to the Cold War. Or to the World Wars. Or to the Great Depression. There, we would find fear. Disillusionment. Despair.
We would find it in every century.
We would find it in Roman-occupied Palestine two thousand years ago. Wealth belonged to a favored few, usually those in bed with the empire, which squeezed more than 50% of people’s mostly agrarian livelihoods out from them in ruthless tax campaigns. Nine out of ten people lived at or below the subsistence level. Tuberculosis and leprosy stalked through cities and villages unchecked. People prayed in whispers for a leader, for a king.
As the Christmas story goes, it was here, in this beleaguered province at the edge of Roman rule, that All That is Good in the Universe would demonstrate unflinching solidarity with humanity.
‘You are not alone.’
Instead of a princeling: a baby born to an impoverished family.
Instead of a king’s royal trappings: the rough robes of a carpenter.
Instead of a conquering horde: a ragtag band of twelve miscreants.
Instead of the battlefield: thousands upon thousands gathering across the Palestinian hills to hear him speak.
Instead of a war cry of revolt: a message of goodwill, of peace, of radical forgiveness, of the worth of every human, of a profound and unshakeable hope.
Instead of governmental overthrow and capture of his capital city: a criminal’s death on the outskirts of Jerusalem. Forgiveness murmured with final breaths.
It wasn’t the answer that anyone wanted.
And then the moment that the Universe threw back its head and laughed.
Instead of death: life.
Do you see the audacity, the absurdity?
Emmanuel. ‘God with us.’
It is an absurdity that jams the gears, rips us away from the system. It sweeps us out of the clutches of lustful power and wraps us in dignity.
It says, ‘there is another way.’
Not out of suffering but through it.
“You are not alone. You were never alone.’
Is it any wonder that the message set the world on fire?
This is the story I needed this year.
You do not have to believe this story for the paradox lodged at its heart to ring true. It is a mechanism that you have seen at work in a hundred histories and in a hundred hearts: the bone-crushing strength of vulnerability, the kingdom-toppling power of humility. It is, in fact, the power of dissent, of fearlessness, of ‘do-your-worst.’ It is the set jaw of the political prisoner, the fire in the eye of the martyr.
It is the holy pride of the human who is free, even in chains.
This Christmas, the chains feel heavy. I feel the grip of empire.
And this ground I walk, stark and gray, is holy.
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For unto us a child is born
Unto us a son is given.
Isaiah 9:6
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December 2020
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