Every year, as December rolls
around, I discover that I am living in two very different Christmas worlds.
It’s not subtle. It’s not quiet. It’s not something you ease into like a warm
mug of cocoa. No, this is more like being pulled in two directions by shepherds
and elves at the same time.
On one side, I have my beloved,
deeply Catholic colleagues. These dear souls, true Advent gladiators, have the
spiritual discipline of monks and the liturgical precision of Swiss
watchmakers. They remind me that Advent is a sacred season of waiting. A time
for quiet reflection, intentional prayer, and an empty manger that stays empty
until the clock strikes Christmas Eve.
On the other hand? The world I live
in. The world where the first Christmas tree goes up at Target before Halloween
candy has even been marked down. The world where radio stations switch to “All
Christmas All the Time” before Thanksgiving dinner is served. In a world where
Santa appears in malls, parades, grocery stores, and children’s dreams with the
persistence of glitter, once he shows up, he’s everywhere.
And then there’s me. Standing in
the middle and trying not to step on the Baby Jesus.
Trying not to offend the Santa crowd and trying to survive the whole thing with
a shred of dignity. Now, let me be very clear: I am not omitting the Baby
Jesus. I am not rewriting salvation history. I am not starting a theological
rebellion in the school hallways. I place the baby in the manger, sometimes
before December 24. And you would think this tiny porcelain infant nestled in a
bed of hay was a liturgical crime.
One year, I casually set up the
nativity at home while Christmas music played. I placed Mary, Joseph, the
shepherds, the stable animals, and yes, the baby. A while later, a well-meaning
Catholic friend visited. She walked in, saw the nativity, froze, and whispered,
as if I were holding contraband, The baby Jesus doesn’t go in yet.” You
know the tone someone uses when they see a toddler holding scissors? It was that tone.
Meanwhile, in the Other World, while
one world polices my manger timeline, the other side is asking entirely
different questions: “Do you have Santa pictures yet?” “Are you done shopping?”
“When are you putting up your tree?”
I can’t win.
If I stay Advent-focused, the
secular side thinks I’m a joyless monk. If I lean into lights and Santa décor,
the religious side thinks I’m spiritually distracted. And if I try to do both? Well,
then everyone has something to say.
So, here’s the truth: I love both worlds.
I love the quiet, reverent, candle-lit waiting of Advent. I love the twinkling,
glittering, hot-chocolate-fueled chaos of Christmastime. I love the ancient
prophecy of Isaiah. I love the smell of a Christmas tree (even if mine plugs
into the wall). I love O Come, O Come Emmanuel. I love Bing Crosby.
I can hold both. My heart has room
for Bethlehem and the North Pole. I think most people do, too; they don’t
always admit it.
One of my favorite contradictions is
Bing & Bowie. If anyone doubts that these two worlds can coexist, I
always point them to my favorite Christmas song of all time: the Bing
Crosby–David Bowie duet of The Little Drummer Boy / Peace on Earth. I
mean, come on, if those two could pull it off, surely the rest of us
can. On paper, it shouldn’t work: a crooner from the golden age of Hollywood
standing in a living room singing next to glam-rock royalty? One singing a
traditional, spiritually soaked carol, the other layering in a brand-new,
secular plea for peace? And yet somehow, the whole thing becomes this oddly
perfect harmony; two styles, two worlds, two traditions blending into something
timeless. The sacred and the secular didn’t cancel each other out; they created
a classic that still gives me goosebumps every single year. If Bing and Bowie
taught us anything, it’s that Christmas has always had room for more than one
voice.
One more contradiction. Every
year, I faithfully remind students: Advent is a season of preparation. You know, the ol' Jesus is the reason for the season. Then I
go home, put on something cerebral, like The Grinch, pour some spiked eggnog into
a Clarke Griswald reindeer mug, and stare lovingly at the Christmas tree that
has been up long enough to qualify for residency.
Somewhere, a liturgical purist
feels a disturbance in the force. The Season Is Big Enough for Both
Worlds. Maybe we don’t have to choose. Perhaps the quiet mystery of the
Incarnation and the childlike wonder of Santa aren’t competing in a zero-sum
match. Maybe it’s okay that my heart leaps at the Savior’s birth and smiles
when someone rings a Salvation Army bell in a Santa hat.
The whole season, the sacred
and the secular, has always been about preparing room. Room for Hope. Room for Joy.
Room for Mystery. Room for Laughter. Room for that strange tension of living in
two worlds at once.
So, this year, I’m embracing it all. The Advent wreath and the Christmas lights.
The empty manger and the decorative tree. The solemn waiting and the sugary cookies.
The prayerful hush and the reindeer chaos.
Because I don’t believe the world
needs less joy. I don’t think the world needs less beauty. And I certainly
don’t feel a jolly man in a red suit threatens Jesus.
I’m choosing to live somewhere
between Bethlehem and the North Pole, where the heart is big enough to hold
both the miracle and the magic.
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