(First published as a community column in The Huntsville Times on December 14, 2008)There's something about this "Most Wonderful Time of the Year" that brings out the inner party animal in all of us.
Our ancient pagan ancestors noticed the lengthening evening shadows during the winter solstice and probably felt the cold shiver of mortality. Oh well, they thought, might as well light the fire, roast some meat and have ourselves a shindig.
The early Christians saw the Romans celebrating Saturnalia and said, "Hey, why not?" Hence, the birthday of Baby Jesus was born.
The urge to put on our dancing shoes and kick up our heels in the face of death is apparently hardwired into our lower brains.
I get my share of warm fuzzies when I recollect my Virginia Christmas memories: rich, heart-unfriendly food, tightly-packed family scrums, evergreens festooned with large (and hot!), multicolored lights, and most importantly it seemed, the presents. In 1972, I even received the coveted "official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle, with a compass in the stock," and, no, I didn't shoot my eye out.
But for the most part, my early Christmases were more like X'ed-out-mases. I grew up in a denomination which followed a strict creed of no smokin', no drinkin', no cussin', no dancin' and—God help us—no whoopee-makin' prior to wedlock. Spittin' was allowed, but only in emergencies.
When it came to holidays, we tried our best to ignore the religious element in them. While others zigged, we zagged. We sang "Silent Night" in April and "Low in the Grave He Lay" in December.
We wanted more than anything to set ourselves apart from "those other religious people." We ignored Advent altogether, and at Christmas we tiptoed around the manger as if the Baby Jesus Himself was taking a nap.
But most of us still honored the general "good cheer" of the season with merrymaking and good works. We celebrated the old Roman Saturnalia without even knowing it.
I'm not saying this to be mean—I cherish my roots. But in retrospect, that particular part does seem a little silly.
My father apparently thought so, too. He was the full time song leader and an elder at our church; someone who would presumably toe the party line.
But come Christmas, his inner party animal tugged hard at the leash. He delighted in being a little mischievous, and with a twinkle in his eye, he always led a few Christmas hymns in—gasp!—December.
This didn't sit well with Mrs. "Book, Chapter and Verse" on the back row. I'm not sure which Dad enjoyed more, the hymns themselves or watching Church Lady's face turn redder than Santa's suit.
Well, the partridge doesn't fall far from the pear tree. As the sun sits low and still, I, too, start craving my annual Baby Jesus fix and channeling my inner party animal, just like Dad.
I'll be making the rounds among my brethren in "those other churches" again this year. So hang those greens, polish that altar rail and strike up the "Hallelujah Chorus." Hark ye Baptists, Methodists, Presbyterians and Episcopalians; I'm coming to a pew near you soon.
And if it's "your" pew, don't fret—you'll get it back come January.
Jesus in a crèche or on a cross. The Word in a book or etched in panels of kaleidoscopic glass. Welch's grape juice or the Real Stuff. It makes no difference to me; it's all good.
Well, the Real Stuff is actually better.
Those evening shadows are getting longer now, but I can clearly see the bottom line: I am one sad sack o' bones. God knows I need Jesus any which way I can get Him.
By the way, thanks to all of you for reading my column this year and for your kind words of encouragement.
On Christmas Eve last year, John Ehinger called and told me that I'd be a community columnist for 2008. Thanks, Huntsville Times. It was one of the best Christmas presents I ever received—almost as good as that official Red Ryder air rifle. Almost.
©2008 Dr. Michael Brown/20/40-Something. All Rights Reserved.
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