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Christmas...And The Beat Goes On
November 2000
The maroon velvet curtains
parted revealing 30 glittering Christmas trees, each one really
a child behind cardboard greenery, a circle cut out for their
shining face to smile through. The program set the scene at Santa's
private tree lot, where each tree vied for attention as Santa
and his wife in matching outfit looked for the perfect Christmas
tree.
"Pick
me, pick me," they chorused, as the six-year-old, white-bearded,
red-suited man said, "Ho, ho, ho. Hold on a minute. That's not
what Christmas is all about."
A
little girl ... I mean, a scrawny little tree ... told Santa and
the rest of us that "Christmas is caring, Christmas is sharing,"
and her sweet voice could bring tears to the eyes of old Scrooge,
himself. Naturally, she was the tree the Clauses carried off to
the strains of "Oh, Christmas tree, Oh, Christmas tree, how lovely
art thou branches."
The
tree has its place in Christmas lore. Its origin may even go back
to medieval times when plays were used to teach lessons in Bible
history. In those days, most people couldn't read and the paradise
play, which showed the creation of man and the fall of Adam and
Eve from the Garden of Eden was performed every year on December
24.
Performing
the play, however, created a slight problem. Obviously, an apple
tree was needed but apple trees do not bear fruit in winter, so
a substitution was made. An evergreen was hung with shiny, tempting,
apples and used instead to demonstrate the fall from grace and
the loss of Eden.
Other
decorated-tree legends involve St. Boniface or Martin Luther,
while some were told about woodsmen felling trees with ax or fist
... all for the honor and glory. I've heard stories of branches
being pulled into foxholes, trimmed with cellophane from cigarette
packages, and instantly providing the joy and spirit intended.
Today, the tree sends the same message and the legends live.
Although
he goes by other names around the world, we know him in America
as Santa Claus. Most of us keep him alive just as if the jolly,
fat-bellied, red-suited, fly-by-night, bearded legend with a sleigh
full of toys really walked among us. He once did, you know.
Around
the year 300, a young priest named Nicholas was inspired to go
to the home of a rich and prominent man who fell into extreme
poverty. Because of the uncertainty of life in those times, the
man decided his only recourse was to turn away from God and sell
his daughters into prostitution, turning his house into a brothel.
He
was not an evil man but he was desperate. As the story goes, Nicholas
heard of his plight, and went secretly to the man's house, carrying
a bag full of gold -- let's say a pack on his back -- and tossed
it over the window sill as they slept.
Overjoyed,
the man now had a dowry for the first daughter and married her
off. The same good fortune came to him in the same way until all
three daughters were married and his own fortune changed. Nicholas,
known to us now as St. Nicholas, performed works like this in
secret to escape vain, human glory, thus setting the precedent.
This
legend, based on a real man, prompted secret gift-giving around
the world. On Christmas Eve in America, children could expect
to wake up to stockings filled with treasures or find brightly
wrapped presents under the tree. Here was surely the inspiration
for Clement Moore's poem, "A Visit from St. Nicholas," more familiar
to us as "'Twas the night before Christmas." We embraced this
visualization of St. Nicholas and it is he we see on every street
corner for six weeks each year. We know exactly who he is and
he is real for all of us.
In
his famous editorial in The New York Sun, answering Virginia O'Hanlon's
question, "Please tell me if there is a Santa Claus," Francis
P. Church answered, "Yes." He said, "He exists as certainly as
love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they
abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy." So,
yes, there is Santa Claus, there are bright lights and glimmering
trees. There are sing-a-long pageants, cash registers going badda-bing,
badda-bing, online shopping sites and televised shopping networks.
We sing songs of celebration that take us all back to our childhoods.
No matter the climate, we sing about Frosty the Snowman, sleighbells
ringing, dream of a White Christmas and Grandma getting run over
by a reindeer.
Times
have changed since I ran to see what was in my stocking (oranges,
apples, walnuts) and my children ran to see what was in theirs
(oranges, apples, walnuts, candy canes, toys small enough to fit).
My grandchildren now run to see what Santa leaves for them (candy
canes, video games, beanie babies, audiocassettes, miniature cars).
Every child, from my mother getting a ball of taffy in 1899 to
the toddler in our midst today, is getting what is exactly right
for the child and the times.
And
some children will spend Christmas Eve at one parent's home and
Christmas Day at the other's. That's exactly right for that child
and the times in which we all live. The design of the celebration
changes with an honoring nod to the past and a healthy approach
to what's new; and now, here it comes, ready or not.
On
the surface, it's all Christmas trees, Christmas carols, Christmas
dinner, Christmas stockings, Christmas presents, Christmas parties
and so many things bright and beautiful. And, just think, it's
all commemorating one single event.
Considering
the wisdom that comes out of the mouths of babes, I keep waiting
for some rosy-cheeked cherub to say, "Why do we call it Christmas?
What does that mean?"
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