Another holiday in the mid-west

It's sometime after 2AM on Christmas day; I had settled myself down for a long winter's nap and slept through mythical midnight when all the world's animals are said to talk. I awoke thinking about Christmas and all its trimmings, of the celebratory and the more pagan kind.

I am ambivalent about Christmas. I understand the history and the religious celebration, I enjoy scouring for gifts and celebrating with my family. But I've never quite been able to wrap my brain around the idea of an all-powerful and all-loving God needing to impregnate a virgin, father a son-god, have his son-god be sacrificed for the sins of humankind, and receive bodily resurrection in fulfillment of ancient scriptures. The whole theology reeks to me of ancient (pagan?) belief and ritual, and I wonder why God would still exert its god-energy in a process so alien to modern humanity. I fully understand Jesus' teachings, which seem a pretty good way for those of us of historically western cultures to understand and fulfill our relationship to God, to others, and to the planet. I know what is understood of the historical Jesus and of how the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament became holy word through political process. I've even experienced my own communion with what I understand as "God," and God's creation. I just can't buy the ancient theology in a 21st century context. I can't honestly pledge a creed that asks me to believe such things. And, to push this ambivalence a little farther, I still consider myself a "person of faith."

Last night my sister and I (sans niece-lets) went to partake in what has become our blended family's Christmas Eve ritual. We drove the meandering country roads to my step-sister's and brother-in law's rural home, where as usual we parked by the barn and were greeted by their amiable chocolate-colored giant Schnauzer, who led us to the mud-room where we shed our coats and were offered our first glass of wine. There we met up with nine other members of our extended family for an unintendedly international feast of pork roast, ham, (with cranberry and/or raisin sauce!) broccoli salad, spinach salad (I have to admit I was a little e-coli wary), mushroom risotto, bread, and mac & cheese.

Adhering to our after-dinner ritual, we all repaired to the living room to sit around a wood fire watching bubble lights percolate on the Christmas tree and share gifts with one another. The present-giving is kind of a mass melee; not at all the sedate one-gift-at-a-time reverence my family-of-origin practiced. But there's something joyful about the ripping of paper and ribbons, the exclamations for welcome gifts and calls of thanks, and the general family hubbub of it all.

Again, as custom, once my brother-in-law has imbibed the appropriate level of liquid influence, he is persuaded to get out his guitar, grab another one for me, and together we lead the group in a mayhem of Christmas carols, country songs, and hillbilly standards. My brother-in-law keeps turning to me and asking me to sing, but before I can settle on a song he's off on another one, "The Tennessee Waltz," or "It's a Hard Time to Leave me Lucille," or the beautiful Appalachian version of "Barbara Allen." It's a good time straight out of Dickens with wine and whiskey and apple dumplings and special songs for the little ones.

Every once in a while, in deference to my father as acknowledged patriarch, my brother-in-law pulls out an old Irish standard from his repertoire, and my side of the family's genealogical history flows musically backwards towards the Celts with "Danny Boy," and "The Rose of Tralee," (during which no one can remember all the words).

Finally the whiskey has its say, and in a brief moment, ancient ambivalence rises to greet the solstice. The older generation offers a chivalrous veneration to my father and one of the younger members of our family, not understanding the history or the "code" of this offer, speaks a simple truth of modernity, immediately sparking the ire of his elder male relatives. It is truly a breathtaking moment, to hear the quick anger of my brothers-in-law, the incredulous response of my nephew, and to witness the bewilderment on my father's face-- the light had turned dark so suddenly. It was all over in a moment-- the guitar was made to sing a country riff, and the celebration proceeded on--like all families, we have endured much more than this.

This is a mystical time of year when day and night become equal. When harvest is gathered and thanks is given, and we offer veneration to our gods, our ancestors, and our fathers and mothers. When libations are made to whatever gods we believe in to keep our families safe, to help us through the longest night. The worlds' religions past and present celebrate the grace of yet one more year's survival and another spring to come. There is no "war on Christmas" -- the spirit of Christmas and its religious companions will long outlast any contemporary soothe-sayer's "war." This world, which in Tony Kushner's words has "gotten so terribly, terribly old," holds us in its arms and offers us up to Heaven.