I love Christmas, always have. But I sometimes
wonder how much we love Christmas. I have noticed as I’ve grown older that
Christmas seems to have lost much of its specialness. Could that be a natural
part of growing up? I’m not sure, I mean, I was the guy who wore Santa Hats to
classes while a seminary student (in my late 30’s and early 40’s) and even in
the pulpit a time or two during the last 16 years. My family has always done
its best to celebrate the day and the season with as much happiness and joy
that we could, even when things seemed rather bleak economically, which has
been often. That’s gotten harder to do as the years have gone by, especially
with my health issues (I’m not allowed to climb ladders or get on the roof to
hang lights any longer) and the fact that my kids have gotten to the age where
they are moving away and establishing their lives in other places (what was
once a busy, noisy house of eight is now a much quieter house of four). I will forever miss those crazy, hectic times
but I also cherish the special moments that we have now.
But that’s not what I’m talking about. Our culture
seems to be making a mockery of much of the season, but especially the idea of
the Christ Child as the Prince of Peace and the concepts of comfort and joy. We
seem to have lost sight of the personal aspects of the story of the Christ
Child. Anyone who doesn’t believe me only has to visit any store during this
time of year. A smiling cashier or waitress is a rare person, and one who
probably hasn’t worked too long that day. Survey the lines at any Wal-Mart and
you will notice that they don’t seem to be bursting with Christian cheer or
charity.
But there are glimpses of hope. Very recently my
birth mother called me with what has to be considered discouraging news at the
least. I won’t belabor you with the sordid details but suffice it to say that
she and I have a very troubled past and only in the last two or three years
have been able to begin to piece together some semblance of a relationship.
Regardless, she called to tell me that her cancer is
no longer in check. Her cancer has manifested itself in three different parts
of her body and she has been turned over to hospice for the last stages of her
life. I haven’t seen her since 1990 and we speak only occasionally. To be
honest, I have a difficult time giving her what she needs from me. Her news
couldn’t have come at a worse time for me (as if my time and life were somehow
more important than hers), but she has acknowledged her sickness and is
preparing herself for her last days.
Somewhere in the last twenty-six years my mother
converted to Catholicism and seems to have a strong faith. That faith is what
she clings to know. You see, part of her cancer is in her liver, and liver
cancer is painful and hateful and quick. What was a two year prognosis just a
short time before is now two months; two pain filled hateful months know that
nothing can be done.
As a minister, I am supposed to know exactly what to
do in this kind of situation, both by training and experience. But none of that
prepares you for the gut-punch that happens when it hits so close to home. The
fact that my mother and I were and have been estranged for forty years is not
important. She needs me and I am beginning to understand that I need her too. I
called her this morning (the trip has been impossible before now, but I shall
find a way) with the intention of gathering more information and encouraging
her as best I could. My words were polished and empathic...my understanding of
her condition was deep and my experience gave me the proper sense of timing, of
what and when to say just the right things.
But my words rang hollow in my heart and my ears, as
I’m sure they did in hers. We talked quietly, but there was a strength and
confidence in her words that was absent in mine. You see, my mother knew just
where she was and what was happening and she was at peace with it all. Her
peace, according to her, came from Jesus...the knowledge that she had given her
life to Him and that He had forgiven and received her into His family.
Friends, my mother knows real comfort and joy. I have often told my congregations/youth
groups through the years that joy is living in the confidence that God is in
control and that He keeps His word. But somewhere in the last two years I had
begun to lose sight of those words and the God who is the source of all true
hope.
And it took a woman with only two months to live to
wake me up from my spiritual slumber.
Maybe it’s time to put away the rush, the pressure,
the foo-foo of Christmas and take a long look at a dirty cattle stall, a tired
young family and the shepherds, filthy from their flocks, who came at angelic
invitation.
Where has the Christmas spirit gone? Where is our
comfort and joy? I want to tell you that we’ve lost it in all our cute Facebook
posts and Jesus- light. The truth is that the manger is powerless without the
cross and the empty tomb. Our comfort and our joy are to be found in the
perfect life of God’s perfect Son who died for us and rose again so that we
might one day be with Him.
Like I believe my mother will be soon.
Merry Christmas
