On Christ and the Fat Man

So, Christmas.

I've come to think of it as two different holidays on the same day. One I term Giftmas; this is the one most people seem to celebrate, extolling a pantheon composed of Frosty the Snowman, myriad reindeer, and in place of Zeus, old St. Nick himself. The other I hope to really celebrate myself one day: the yearly special commemoration of the Incarnation.

I've probably taken both of them more seriously this year than any before; the former because I actually sort of almost have some money right now, and the latter because I'm starting to actually care about the One responsible outside of what I want Him to do for me.

In the past, I've sort of dismissed the seasonal decriers of the materialism and commercialism our society associates with this holiday; but this year, I've all but joined their chant. It's been almost disgusting to me this year, to sit in the traffic, to sell the useless junk spawned by Santa's half of the holiday. Experience warns me against condemning the mass giving of gifts outright, and so I'm having a hard time figuring out where exactly to draw the line; but for a certainty, the whole spirit of the thing is for the most part wrong. To give gifts to close friends and family members as a part of celebration is one thing; picking something up at the last minute for a fourth cousin you forgot existed is another.

I don't know. I'd probably best be silent on the matter, lest I be embarassed later, when hopefully I shall be wiser. But we're missing out on so much! What gift could eclipse the opportunity to spend a whole month contemplating and waiting, as it were, for the Incarnation of the Christ with everyone else who believes on Him? And there's so much to be contemplated!

I think the general conception of the Nativity Scene is quite misleading. I personally have lived almost my whole life with a picture of a sweet little baby in a perfectly sized trough full of neatly arranged hay, attended by an adoring woman, men with staves, and various farm animals. But how far it must be from the actual event! A barn is no place to give birth to a child; a manger no place to lay him. It was desperate, like a birth in a city at war--and fitting, because it marked the beginning of an invasion. The Incarnation was a raid on enemy territory (I forget who said it first); the King that hell had thought to depose had come back to relcaim his throne in the hearts and minds of men.

I don't know what exactly I'm trying to say, except that we're missing the point. I'm missing the point. God entered His own creation--it's the most important thing that has ever happened; the turning point of the drama of the history of all creation, and I've barely thought of it on the day set aside to remember it.

I know I've said nothing new; but then, there's nothing new under the sun; and this is all just stuff I've been thinking about a lot lately. I don't know yet how best to reconcile Giftmas with Christmas (or, rather, to conform the former to the latter), but I still hope to do a better job of it next year.

I wish all four of the people who will read this a (belated and very disjointed) merry Christmas.