On my visit to Israel/Palestine, my tour group visited many sites purported to be actual locations of biblical events. The places of Jesus’ birth, death, and resurrection are each marked by a church built over the site. Putting aside my skepticism that these are the actual historical sites, I was struck by the pageantry and pomp of these places.
The reality of a simple, stone, two-roomed first century home attached to a barn-stable is hard to imagine amid all the gilt and crystal and damask of the Church of the Nativity. I understand that believers throughout the centuries have felt compelled to honor this humble spot with majesty. But where is the simple country girl, the trusting husband, and the baby? Can we find them beneath the velvet and silver and golden tassels, and amid the hoards of people pushing forward to see, to touch, and to kiss the place?
I admit that I had a hard time feeling holy and reverent and in awe when I was there. Nothing I saw matched my childhood visions or my grown-up studies of the reality of that birth. Had I been able to approach the place alone, in meditation, I might have had a better experience.
What’s on the surface rarely matches what lies beneath.
Enough has already been written about the commercialization of Christmas for me to add anything new. Where is the girl, the husband, and the baby in all of the glitz and jangle and spending?
And what about the facade of Christmas cheer in which we cloak ourselves? All is calm. All is bright. Ha! Churning beneath the facade is our actual reality. Maybe if we just believe in the story we tell ourselves—that we are feeling all the joy of the holiday—it will be our reality.
At Christmas, or any time, maybe you are the picture of calm composure, but peeling back that superficial layer would reveal the heap of anxiety that is your reality. We don’t want the world to see that we are a mess. We wear a mask and hide behind “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?” It’s our protective shell, our armor that shields us from probing questions.
But that tender underbelly skin cannot be hidden forever, not to ourselves in any event. You can tell yourself, “I’m fine” for only so long. Maybe you even believe it for a season. But it will always catch up with you. Usually when you don’t expect it. A song on the radio. A line of poetry. A particular flower. An anniversary.
Pow! Right in the gut. All your defenses fall, and you’re suddenly a puddle of emotions.
It is certainly painful to feel all the hurt, despair, anxiety, and anger. But pushing it down isn’t the answer. It will surface eventually, sometimes as a physical symptom. Sometimes as an explosion of pent-up emotions. And heaven help the persons that are in the line of fire of that eruption.
Be honest. How are you really feeling? Answer to yourself first, but maybe then to a trusted friend or family member. It’s hard to be vulnerable, especially in this season when expectations of jolliness are so high. Because it may actually be a mix of things you’re feeling. Reality isn’t always black or white. The twang of sadness is part of the whole. The core of a sweet apple is bitter.
Look beneath the brocaded cloth that covers the gilded table, laden with dripping candles. Lift the cover and look. There, wearing a diaper, with spit up and drool on his belly, cooing or crying, lies a perfect infant, with satin, golden skin and gleaming black curls. It’s all there.