Christmas Mystery

Digital red numerals displayed 12:23 a.m. on the car's dash.  Christmas Eve had passed; it was already early morning of Christmas Day.

I was alone.  My husband, the Christmas grampa-elf, had stayed behind to help our son assemble a last-minute ping pong table for the grandkids. As I drove through pelting rain down narrow country roads toward home, a radio choir sang a rousing version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” while my wiper-blades drummed an offbeat accompaniment. Occasional illuminated farmhouses, their multi-colored lights and dangling white icicles twinkling through my raindrop-studded windshield, brightened the inky darkness to cheer me on.

My route included passage through one of the quaint villages common to this area. This one, like many others, has remained virtually unchanged for decades, a tribute to timelessness in an otherwise swiftly changing world. 

Not another soul was in sight as I approached the village’s one-and-only stoplight.  The tiny “business area” with its antiquated streetlights - black wrought iron posts topped with sculpted glass globes radiating calm, soft light - seemed mystical and almost other-worldish in the misted night. Large wreaths studded with smaller muted white lights framed the glowing light fixtures, each one trimmed with a wide red bow dangling like the carefully sculpted fringe of a royal robe.

I stopped at the blinking red traffic light out of habit rather than need.  Empty streets in every direction proved I was alone and without competing traffic.  I dared inch forward to the middle of the intersection, and for a few magical seconds parked there with carols blaring on the radio, soaking up the surrounding solitude with its inspiring, bright but non-glittery simplicity: the mystery of light penetrating darkness. 

* * *

Fast-forward a couple of days. As I write this, Christmas Day has come and gone.  The wild-rice-and-cranberry-stuffed Cornish hens have been consumed.  Unwrapped gifts are put away.  My mother’s hand-knitted stockings hang limp from the mantel, their annual duty accomplished.

And I’m left pondering.

In North America, Christmas is a time when our “inalienable rights” to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” come marching to the fore. We love the holiday season with its lavish decorations, extensive gifts, and sumptuous food.  We easily justify whatever expense is incurred in the process of celebration.  “It’s about Jesus,” we nobly remind ourselves in sincere moments, ones we carefully knead into larger lumps of sticky opulence (if you’re a yeast baker this image might be easier to grasp).

When I step back objectively, the pieces fit.  The modern American “reformed” culture in large part reflects the convictions of the Age of Enlightenment (1650’s-1780’s) in Western Europe. This was a time to challenge the authority of existing institutions (including religious ones), a time to elevate man’s control.  Tolerance sounded great.  So did science.  Who cared what governed human life for hundreds of years before that time? Go for the gusto of happiness!  Minimize suffering and sacrifice! Mankind should be the focus, with God tucked safely in a back pocket as a source of human benefit, or at the very least an assurance that we’re not bereft in the event of calamity. 

Perhaps you think I’m crazy or overly harsh. But consider this: it is possible to lose track of living the mysterious life God intended - a sacred life for and with Him, a life of loving Him for His own sake and not our own. If so, our grandiose, self-serving lives become small and paltry compared to the modest but mysteriously fulfilling life He intends for us.

Today’s modern Western approach to life paradoxically denies the way of human wellbeing recognized in the Eastern church for hundreds of years: all of life is sacred.  ALL is a very big word, and yet the early church fathers knew this to be true.  They declared the sacraments to be “sacred mysteries,” giving place to the fact that we are subject to higher realities that we can understand.  Most sacraments have been redefined and watered down in our 21^st century experience, or even discarded, although they still function with fervency in the experience of some Christ-followers…if, that is, you know where to look. 

Can we grasp that our own everyday physical human experience before a holy God is also holy, that our expectation (inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness) is skewed, and that we are intended to mysteriously flourish in the midst of suffering and sacrifice as well as divine joy?  Testimonies to this abound…again, if you know where to look.

In the developed Western world, we who praise the intellect think of spiritual mysteries as puzzles to be solved.  They may sometimes seem incomprehensible, and therefore not worth our time if we can’t come to a rational conclusion.  We believe we are masters of our own lives, even (*gasp*) masters of Christmas!  However, in a counter-cultural return to “the way it used to be,” it is possible to discover and assimilate into a rich, empowering mystery that is beyond us, and yet one that can most profoundly define and heal us.

Such thoughts prevailed as Christmas Day 2014 began in the tiny village intersection, as I sat surrounded by soft torches that brightened the obscurity of a very deep, dark night with tender provision.  The lonely but profound moment leant practical expression to an ancient expression of Christianity with roots tapping the first century, one that still thrives today within our dark culture of self-absorption.  I thought of how I’ve vicariously witnessed testimonies - how this faith discipline illumines the heart like a vintage streetlight faithfully guiding the way through rainy nights in obscure places with inexplicable but transcendent light. And how I’ve watched with awe as soul-wounded individuals have been mysteriously transformed by inner strength that cannot be explained, only known by those who live it.

It is the mystery of Christmas, the fullness of the mystery of Christ.