Today we recognize the holy-yet-homely nature of the uncreated God who was born as a baby in a food trough, surrounded by his adopted people. Yesterday's reflection mentioned that in Christ, God--who defies our imagination and categories--became human. This means, we said, that as Jesus Christ, he entered into our human traditions, adopting them as well as reforming them. He sanctifies our feasts and fasts, and hallows them from within.
At the same time, he prevents tradition from referring, emptily, to itself alone. The "meaning" of Christmas cannot be merely "Christmas," and if there is one weakness in Dickens' A Christmas Carol (and the thousands of Christmas specials that are its ill-formed offspring), it is that Christmas becomes self-referential, and therefore potentially idolatrous and meaningless. There have, of course, been many (often heterodox) Christian traditions that refuse to celebrate Christmas, from the Puritans to the Jehovah's witnesses. Before dismissing these with a roll of the eye and wave of the hand, as modern-day Scrooges, we need to concede that they have a point. Christ came to redeem, but also to chasten, and one of his favorite subjects to criticize was tradition for its own sake. He pointed out that tradition can sometimes blind us to the very salvation it supposedly leads us to, and it can even perpetuate injustice in the name of God.
And yet. Jesus drank and ate, and "desired greatly" to celebrate Passover with his friends and family. His first miracle turned water to wine at a wedding. He was labeled a glutton and a drunkard by those who hoped to save themselves through negation and asceticism. The celebrations in his own honor, likewise, were often imperfect. Yet he did not refuse the riotous regal honors paid him by the crowd who welcomed him into Jerusalem with palm fronds (though they were insincere), or the children and fishermen who ran to him (though they were immature), or the anointing of the woman at Bethany (though she was disgraced). He received and delighted in every imperfect homage, perceiving within them that echo of the Father's eternal word to him: "This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased."
Yet if he is so honored by us, if he is so loved by the Father, if praise to him as King really is his due, then his judgment on our feasts and fasts, and still more of our selfishness and hypocrisy, is likewise his right and due. There is no joy in his homeliness without a recognition of, even a trembling before, his highness. We invite him to our homes at Christmas, yet he will not be domesticated. We often love the first coming of Christ--because it seems to make no demands on us--yet grow uncomfortable with the idea of his second coming, in full authority, to call us to account. Yet we must balance our affinity for the supposedly meek and mild baby in the manger with Yeats' line (if wrenched out of context): "A Terrible Beauty is Born this Day." Fearing judgment, we often prefer to keep this terrible beauty at a distance, refusing to risk our very selves, and thus we miss the greatest miracle of all: Our own birth into true life, and true love. As John puts it: Whoever confesses that Jesus is the Son of God, God abides in him, and he in God. So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him." It is in that place of communion with the Father and Son that we hear the same echo, now addressed to us, calling us beloved children of God. He comes again, today and at the end of time, in judgment. But he also invites us to his Life, to his Feast, at Christmas and every day.
At the same time, he prevents tradition from referring, emptily, to itself alone. The "meaning" of Christmas cannot be merely "Christmas," and if there is one weakness in Dickens' A Christmas Carol (and the thousands of Christmas specials that are its ill-formed offspring), it is that Christmas becomes self-referential, and therefore potentially idolatrous and meaningless. There have, of course, been many (often heterodox) Christian traditions that refuse to celebrate Christmas, from the Puritans to the Jehovah's witnesses. Before dismissing these with a roll of the eye and wave of the hand, as modern-day Scrooges, we need to concede that they have a point. Christ came to redeem, but also to chasten, and one of his favorite subjects to criticize was tradition for its own sake. He pointed out that tradition can sometimes blind us to the very salvation it supposedly leads us to, and it can even perpetuate injustice in the name of God.
And yet. Jesus drank and ate, and "desired greatly" to celebrate Passover with his friends and family. His first miracle turned water to wine at a wedding. He was labeled a glutton and a drunkard by those who hoped to save themselves through negation and asceticism. The celebrations in his own honor, likewise, were often imperfect. Yet he did not refuse the riotous regal honors paid him by the crowd who welcomed him into Jerusalem with palm fronds (though they were insincere), or the children and fishermen who ran to him (though they were immature), or the anointing of the woman at Bethany (though she was disgraced). He received and delighted in every imperfect homage, perceiving within them that echo of the Father's eternal word to him: "This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased."
Yet if he is so honored by us, if he is so loved by the Father, if praise to him as King really is his due, then his judgment on our feasts and fasts, and still more of our selfishness and hypocrisy, is likewise his right and due. There is no joy in his homeliness without a recognition of, even a trembling before, his highness. We invite him to our homes at Christmas, yet he will not be domesticated. We often love the first coming of Christ--because it seems to make no demands on us--yet grow uncomfortable with the idea of his second coming, in full authority, to call us to account. Yet we must balance our affinity for the supposedly meek and mild baby in the manger with Yeats' line (if wrenched out of context): "A Terrible Beauty is Born this Day." Fearing judgment, we often prefer to keep this terrible beauty at a distance, refusing to risk our very selves, and thus we miss the greatest miracle of all: Our own birth into true life, and true love. As John puts it: Whoever confesses that Jesus is the Son of God, God abides in him, and he in God. So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him." It is in that place of communion with the Father and Son that we hear the same echo, now addressed to us, calling us beloved children of God. He comes again, today and at the end of time, in judgment. But he also invites us to his Life, to his Feast, at Christmas and every day.
