My wish for the world, for my country, for my community, for my family is a moment, an hour, a day, if you can manage it, of rest, of peace, of freedom from whatever troubles our hearts.
Saying Merry Christmas doesn’t work for me. It feels radical. Perhaps even more so than saying the f word. It’s not the current effort at banishing exclusivity that makes it hard for me. If you want to spread merriness and if you want to call this time of year Christmas that’s perfectly fine with me.
I struggle to get my tongue around Merry Christmas because it was forbidden in the world I lived in until I was in my late 30s. In our sense of otherness saying Merry Christmas was not only banal it was pagan, anti-Jesus and anti the one and only true God.
You don’t easily get over those sorts of prohibitions.
It was forbidden as a way to denote our exclusivity from the “world”. We, my family and the tiny church we belonged to, were not of the world. Shunning pagan holidays such as Christmas was one way we could demonstrate our faith. We shunned a lot of other things as well but there was no better way to drum up a conversation about the “truth” (that’s how we identified people—you were either in the truth—that was us—or out of the truth—that was everyone else) than to explain to people why we didn’t believe in celebrating Christmas.
Shunning all things Christmas was also a way my family and church instilled in me as a child that I was different. I was chosen. No Christmas carols, no Christmas concerts, no Christmas trees or bells or garlands, no letters after Christmas thanking someone for a Christmas present and absolutely no Merry Christmases. That meant I had to tell my teachers that I wasn’t allowed to colour Christmas trees or pictures of the manger. The teacher told the class the Christmas pictures were against my religion. In grade three there was another girl who was also given alternative pictures to colour. The teacher told us it was because she was Jewish.
The Christmas restrictions forced me, from the time I was a little girl, to publicly confess my difference. I don’t remember fighting with my parents about it or even wishing I could join in the Christmas celebrations. Strange as it sounds I just accepted that my world was different. And yes, I know what you are thinking, I thought it was better. Our exclusivity didn’t just make us different it made us better (another topic for another blog…but after leaving the church distinguishing between difference and betterness was the hardest thing to figure out.)
In grade seven I remember pleading with my parents to allow me to sing in the Christmas concert. It was 1967 and I was a precocious girl—old before my time. I “just had to” go to the concert because my best friend, Karen, had stolen cigarettes from her father and some grade eight boys were going to be hanging around after the concert. Tony, a boy with long hair who read his father’s Playboy magazines would be waiting for us outside.
My parents gave in. They said yes.
I was the youngest of five children. I’m sure they were tired and bored with arguing with us by the time I became a teenager. As a result I won a lot of arguments my older siblings lost.
I was almost quivering with anticipation. But I had to sing the Christmas carols first.
I remember balancing on a bench, standing almost dead center in the choir. I looked out at the auditorium. Everyone’s parents were there except mine. I think I was thankful.
When the pianist played the preamble to O Christmas tree I didn’t know what to do. I had only pretended to sing the words in choir practice but now there I was. It felt like everyone’s eyes were on me. I couldn’t keep my lips closed. If I lip-synced my friends who surrounded me would know. They would hear. Nothing. The words to O Christmas tree were a mouthful. They got stuck in my throat. Silver Bells, Jingle Bells and Sleigh ride were easier. I was able to get through Oh Come all Ye Faithful and even Silent Night but I knew what was coming. The classic Christmas concert wrap up tune. We Wish You a Merry Christmas. It was almost too much for my inexperienced, unsophisticated twelve-year-old self. Maybe I’m being a bit dramatic but I think it felt as bad as if I had been standing on the stage shouting “F*!k, F*!k, F*!k.”
That was fifty-six years ago. It’s been more than 30 years since I’ve attended the church. At most Christmas events I still feel like a bit of an outsider.
I’ve spent the past decades unpacking the debilitating idea that because you believe something you need to demonstrate your uniqueness and prove your rightness to the world. I’m uneasy with loud displays of identity and positional exceptionalism. The harder the lines we draw the closer we get to the problem of ‘different than’ being confused with ‘better than’. I am currently appalled at how righteously people defend beliefs as ludicrous as some of the ones I was taught as a child.
This holiday season I am enjoying singing songs like Imagine, Let it be and Give Peace a Chance. The words feel more soothing and there’s joy in that. Maybe they could replace O Little Town of Bethlehem and Little Drummer Boy and become our new holiday anthems.