As I sit before the window seeing gloomy skies and rain - again - I remember the melancholy my father increasingly fell into on Christmas Eve. When I noted this to my mother one year, she said he was remembering all those times and people now gone. For him, Christmas Eve had become something of a wake, made worse, I suppose, by us younger people singing and carrying on.
I understand this better now with my own heavy weight of years, but the question remains - why was my father's sadness at its worst on Christmas Eve? Sure, there were those early years when he must have gone to see the tree (in the Depression in the city, did those many poor even have trees?), or at least something festive where Santa (again, his parents were of a tough breed - was there anything festive in their cold-water flat?) would leave presents - at least an orange - the next day. There would be his memories of a more prosperous life, when friends would come around to drink and sing, and also of those lonely years he spent on Guam in WWII, where all he could do was dream that he would make it home someday - and of his friends who would not. There would be memories of Mom and Dad, of his childhood dog, of the first kids born as he jumped into the post-War hustle of hope and anxiety for a better life. There would be all these things, and Christmas, I suppose, served as a neural nexus, a link with all his life that had gone before, because it is supposed to be a time of love and cheer. And when those people and times that had been loved vanish with time, Christmas Eve would then become the perfect time for sad nostalgic remembrance.
We all know this; it is a classic American time of melancholy, but I think something more was and is going on. Christmas Eve is not only a time for parties, for friends and family to gather and remake bonds that, however faulty they may be, fill our lives; it is also, for Christians, supposed to be a time of good cheer because the beginning of the end of woeful ignorance is supposed to be near. We believe, after all, that God came down on Earth this one fantastic time to relieve humans of their separation from God, and to issue in paradise, either here on Earth, or shortly afterwards in heaven, or both. "But how," the cynic might ask, "is that workin' our for ya'?" Could it be that Christmas Eve is also a time to ponder how paradise has not, and probably will not, come in our lifetime on earth? How dreams have failed? How life brings more disappointment than fulfillment, and then drives the final nail in with ill health, old age and death?
Last night I was (almost) forced to watch the Republican debate because a friend who did not have cable wanted to see it, and I acquiesced. It was much better than expected and was worthy, in balance, of my time. Still, it was (as it should be) nothing but the scrum of politics - where the hopeful candidates tell us how bad we have it, or at least how insufficient life now is, and how much better off we will be with them in the driver's seat. But we know we won't be that much better off, at least not on a large scale, and most of us also know that no politician of any party will ever bring us happiness, let alone joy and fulfillment. That task is, and always has been, our own. And most of us find that we are as incapable of bringing that about as the politicians. It is why we invest so much hope in them, even though we know that we will be disappointed. We simply have to hope.
And that, I think, is the deeper reason for Christmas Eve melancholy. Who more than the son of God could bring us what we need? After feeling hope for so many years, could anything be more natural than to give up as life's end closes in and we have not found that golden ring, that magical key to happiness and fulfillment? It is promised every year, and every year is not delivered. The luster is lost to despair, as most two term presidents discover, for neither the son of Man, nor political Man, ever seems to deliver on their promises.
In the latest book I have been reading, and have not finished because of Christmas season chores (and a political debate), psychiatrist Gerald May (Will and Spirit) tells us that all of us have "peak" experiences - ecstatic union - but we generally sublimate them because the ego is terrified of losing its lofty position as the only thing that is US. But this ego, as important as it is, knows deep down that it is peripheral to Being. To sublimate is, by definition, not to forget, but to hide. But union is the ultimate joy; it is the exact gift that God promised through Christ (or other ways in other religions), and it has been delivered. We simply do not want to recognize it out of fear. We want it and need it desperately, but as long as the Ego is king, and not God, we will make up our own temporal version of paradise - of fame, success, love - that can never be adequate, for we know from our hidden experiences that there is something more - much more.
That "much more" is the promise of Christmas. It is its loss, through our own doing, that we mourn most when melancholy strikes on Christmas Eve, because it is then that we are most reminded of what we can have but cannot endure, through our own fear. But it is there. The promise has been kept. And it is for us to find our way back to it.
Christmas should not be a time of sadness, then, but of renewed energy; it is, after all, the time when the sun has passed its nadir and is returning with more light. Chirstmas might best be seen as a reminder, not of past times and of dreams gone, but of the dream to find, and this time, to keep. Despair is one thing; a holy task, to find our own grail, is another. It is our most rewarding and most difficult quest. Christmas reminds us that God is willing to find a way for us, if we recognize the calling that is hidden in our melancholy. FK
I understand this better now with my own heavy weight of years, but the question remains - why was my father's sadness at its worst on Christmas Eve? Sure, there were those early years when he must have gone to see the tree (in the Depression in the city, did those many poor even have trees?), or at least something festive where Santa (again, his parents were of a tough breed - was there anything festive in their cold-water flat?) would leave presents - at least an orange - the next day. There would be his memories of a more prosperous life, when friends would come around to drink and sing, and also of those lonely years he spent on Guam in WWII, where all he could do was dream that he would make it home someday - and of his friends who would not. There would be memories of Mom and Dad, of his childhood dog, of the first kids born as he jumped into the post-War hustle of hope and anxiety for a better life. There would be all these things, and Christmas, I suppose, served as a neural nexus, a link with all his life that had gone before, because it is supposed to be a time of love and cheer. And when those people and times that had been loved vanish with time, Christmas Eve would then become the perfect time for sad nostalgic remembrance.
We all know this; it is a classic American time of melancholy, but I think something more was and is going on. Christmas Eve is not only a time for parties, for friends and family to gather and remake bonds that, however faulty they may be, fill our lives; it is also, for Christians, supposed to be a time of good cheer because the beginning of the end of woeful ignorance is supposed to be near. We believe, after all, that God came down on Earth this one fantastic time to relieve humans of their separation from God, and to issue in paradise, either here on Earth, or shortly afterwards in heaven, or both. "But how," the cynic might ask, "is that workin' our for ya'?" Could it be that Christmas Eve is also a time to ponder how paradise has not, and probably will not, come in our lifetime on earth? How dreams have failed? How life brings more disappointment than fulfillment, and then drives the final nail in with ill health, old age and death?
Last night I was (almost) forced to watch the Republican debate because a friend who did not have cable wanted to see it, and I acquiesced. It was much better than expected and was worthy, in balance, of my time. Still, it was (as it should be) nothing but the scrum of politics - where the hopeful candidates tell us how bad we have it, or at least how insufficient life now is, and how much better off we will be with them in the driver's seat. But we know we won't be that much better off, at least not on a large scale, and most of us also know that no politician of any party will ever bring us happiness, let alone joy and fulfillment. That task is, and always has been, our own. And most of us find that we are as incapable of bringing that about as the politicians. It is why we invest so much hope in them, even though we know that we will be disappointed. We simply have to hope.
And that, I think, is the deeper reason for Christmas Eve melancholy. Who more than the son of God could bring us what we need? After feeling hope for so many years, could anything be more natural than to give up as life's end closes in and we have not found that golden ring, that magical key to happiness and fulfillment? It is promised every year, and every year is not delivered. The luster is lost to despair, as most two term presidents discover, for neither the son of Man, nor political Man, ever seems to deliver on their promises.
In the latest book I have been reading, and have not finished because of Christmas season chores (and a political debate), psychiatrist Gerald May (Will and Spirit) tells us that all of us have "peak" experiences - ecstatic union - but we generally sublimate them because the ego is terrified of losing its lofty position as the only thing that is US. But this ego, as important as it is, knows deep down that it is peripheral to Being. To sublimate is, by definition, not to forget, but to hide. But union is the ultimate joy; it is the exact gift that God promised through Christ (or other ways in other religions), and it has been delivered. We simply do not want to recognize it out of fear. We want it and need it desperately, but as long as the Ego is king, and not God, we will make up our own temporal version of paradise - of fame, success, love - that can never be adequate, for we know from our hidden experiences that there is something more - much more.
That "much more" is the promise of Christmas. It is its loss, through our own doing, that we mourn most when melancholy strikes on Christmas Eve, because it is then that we are most reminded of what we can have but cannot endure, through our own fear. But it is there. The promise has been kept. And it is for us to find our way back to it.
Christmas should not be a time of sadness, then, but of renewed energy; it is, after all, the time when the sun has passed its nadir and is returning with more light. Chirstmas might best be seen as a reminder, not of past times and of dreams gone, but of the dream to find, and this time, to keep. Despair is one thing; a holy task, to find our own grail, is another. It is our most rewarding and most difficult quest. Christmas reminds us that God is willing to find a way for us, if we recognize the calling that is hidden in our melancholy. FK
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