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Not that I’m in a Bah Humbug kind of mood, but Christmas has lost some of its luster.
Wait! Hear me out, says the women who hasn’t - and probably won’t - deck the halls of the Schindler casa this year. (In my defense, the miniature Husker-themed tree stays up year round, so one room is decorated.)
I like Christmas, the story of peace, joy and love brought to the world with the birth of Jesus. Listening to the story of his miraculous entrance in the world gives me hope and makes me realize how precious life is.
I like spending the holiday with family and loved ones, relaxing and reminiscing. It’s a reminder of unconditional love and sacrifice.
These things bring a sense of much-needed peace that isn’t always present in this crazy roller coaster ride called life.
More and more, though, during the holiday season, I am transported to one of Dr. Harwick’s English classes at Hastings College, where he introduced a Lawrence Ferlinghetti poem, penned in 1958, that still resonates.
“Christ Climbed Down” examines the commercialized version of Christmas and how we misconstrue the reason for the season. If you’re not familiar with the poem, Ferlinghetti wrote:
Christ climbed down
from his bare tree this year
and ran away to where
there were no rootless Christmas trees
hung with candycanes and breakable stars
Christ climbed down
from his bare tree this year
and ran away to where
there were no gilded Christmas trees
and no tinsel Christmas trees
and no tinfoil Christmas trees
and no pink plastic Christmas trees
and no gold Christmas trees
and no black Christmas trees
and no powder blue Christmas trees
hung with electric candles
and encircled by tin electric trains
and clever cornball relatives
Christ climbed down
from his bare tree this year
and ran away to where
no intrepid Bible salesmen
covered the territory
in two-tone Cadillacs
and where no Sears Roebuck creches
complete with plastic babe in manger
arrived by parcel post
the babe by special delivery
and where no televised wise men
praised the Lord Calvert Whiskey
Christ climbed down
from his bare tree this year
and ran away to where
no fat hand-shaking stranger
in a red flannel suit
and a fake white beard
went around passing himself off
as some sort of North Pole saint
crossing the desert to Bethlehem
Pennsylvania
in a Volkswagen sled
drawn by rollicking Adirondack reindeer
with German names
and bearing sacks of humble gifts
from Saks Fifth Avenue
for everybody's imagined Christ child
Christ climbed down
from his bare tree this year
and ran away to where
no Bing Crosby carollers
groaned of a white Christmas
and where no Radio City angels
ice skated wingless
thru a winter wonderland
into a jingle-bell heaven
daily at 8:30
with midnight Mass matinees
Christ climbed down
from his bare tree this year
and softly stole away into
some anonymous Mary's womb again
where in the darkest night
of everybody's anonymous soul
He awaits again
an unimaginable and impossibly
immaculate reconception
the very craziest
of second comings
Like Ferlinghetti, I do not like how commercialized the season has become, how many have lost sight of the true meaning of Christmas. I don’t want to stroll through stores at the end of July and be reminded there are only 21 more shopping Saturdays until Christmas.
Sometimes, I feel like Charlie Brown: Does anyone know what Christmas is all about? Cue Linus and Luke 2, 8-12.
My hope is everyone experiences the true joy of that holy night, lessons in living and giving and loving, without the stress of creating a picture-perfect illusion that graces social media.
In our imperfections, may he bring love’s pure light to you this season.
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