I’m not a big fan of Christmas to begin with. It’s the time of year when the pretence of the church is accepted and adopted by secular society. No longer can people like me escape the shallow pandering and platitudes which work to water down the Christian Faith by escaping into the general population. No. It hounds us through November and December with “Happy Holidays,” and “Season’s Greeting,” and the occasional, courageous, “Merry Christmas.” Peace on earth, but not necessarily to those on whom His favor rests.
Yet, the thing that really gets me this year is the birthday party. Disciples of Jesus talk about celebrating Jesus, but the church services we attend feel as drab and traditional as any other Sunday. The Choir does their Cantata. The Congregation sits patiently waiting for the continental breakfast in the Fellowship Hall. We talk about the joy of the season, but too few of us are smiling. A pastor on the radio did a broadcast from his church in England where the liturgy talked—in language no human being would use—about “accepting with joy the gift of Christ in anticipation for the day he would return as our judge…” His tone sounded line one reading something grand that didn’t speak to the heart. The congregation, when they responded in unison to a reading, didn’t sound completely awake.
And you know what it reminded me of? The parties in those old classic slasher films. The parties where everyone pretends to be having a good time because the script calls for it. They guy with the guitar leading songs around the campfire. The girls holding a beer and singing along. They’re all smiling, because they’re being paid to smile. The parties were always lame, lame enough that a serial killer jumping out of the nearby woods wouldn’t ruin the party as much as liven things up.
It kind of makes me want to run up and down the aisles of the local churches with a hockey mask and machete yelling, “Hey, guess what! The world is seriously messed up and on its way down the tubes to hell. It’s so messed up that whenever anyone tries to impede the progress of said world down the crapper, some outspoken activist stands up and insists they have the right to be flushed!”
I’d pause here for dramatic effect, then say, “But God loved us so much that He sent His only Son down into those tubes so we could have the option of swimming against the flow. And when that gift arrived, it wasn’t announced to the great, well dressed, churchy types. It was announced to the lowest form of life available—shepherds, who were regarded the same way we view the homeless drug addicts and prostitutes. Jesus was announced to the shit of the world, because He came to save the world from its own manure pile.”
Again, I would pause. Most believers aren’t accustomed to hearing the word shit in church. In fact, most of them would be more offended that I said shit, than they would be that people are going to hell unimpeded.
Then, I would say, “You guys can sit here and party like there’s a serial killer in the woods if you want to. Smile at the lame music, drink the beer of self-righteousness, and then act surprised when the guy covered in other people’s blood shows up. But I’d rather celebrate as though the greatest King ever came to humble men in humble means; an act that the bogeyman can’t handle. Why party like there’s no tomorrow when we can rejoice in being given a future?”
You’re right. Dumb idea. But as I think about the kind of Birthday party my Savior would throw for Himself—or prefer to have thrown—I’m left with the opinion that traditional Christmas isn’t it. He wasn’t about popularity. He wasn’t about pretence. Christmas bling is anathema to Christ.
Don’t get me wrong. I do wish everyone a Merry Christmas. I just wish the celebration of something so amazing was a party worth attending.
Friday, December 25, 2009
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