The Twelve Joys of Christmas #5: The Joy of Witness

The Twelve Joys of Christmas #5: 

The Joy of Witness

If I weren't going to publish a very special meditation on the Joy of Song, a really significant part of Christmas, I would go on and on right now about some of the great songs of Christmas. Not that there aren't bad ones; there are plenty of bad ones. Some of them are bad from the start; some are just "bad" from continually being sung  by people who can't sing them well--"O Holy Night" stands out as my go-to example. 

But my my, there are some wonderful songs related to Christmas. As I said, more on that another day. For now, I just want to talk about one of my favorites. "Go Tell It on the Mountain." Not a Christmas carol, as such, "Go Tell" is an African-American spiritual which can be traced back to as early as 1865. 

And it focuses on what I want to focus on tonight, what the ancient texts focus on and what the nativity creche up front in Our Lady of Guadalupe Church in Austin focuses on: witness. 

Specifically the witness of the angels to the shepherds on the mountain. Which led to the witness of the shepherds over the hills and everywhere. As with other major themes of the Christmas story, witness is a thread woven in early and late to the fabric of the narrative, a key part of the imaginative presentation and reception in history of the birth of Jesus. 

To celebrate Christmas, if it includes hearing the readings and singing the songs and visiting the creche and exchanging gifts (and so on), is to become part of a larger, longer witness to the significance of the child and his message. 

Of course, in our culture, "celebrating Christmas" might look rather tame, except for the occasional argument over just how heathenish it is to greet someone with "Happy Holiday." But in other cultures throughout history, and even today, acknowledging the significance of Christmas might be a very dangerous act indeed. 

So you really ought to have yourself an angel up near the top of your creche (how you get them to hang suspended in the firmament is up to you). And you really really need to have an assortment of certain poor shepherds (in Texas, cow-wranglers are allowed). 

Because this little story of the birth of a child opens out with those shepherds into a much larger story of a new kingdom with a new version of who's who and what's what and why it all matters anyway. 

Some times I think the word kingdom freaks us out just enough to shut our ears to that aspect of the story, preferring to concentrate instead on the cute baby and that wide-eyed cow. I know I tend to go that way. 

But maybe we can understand kingdom better by thinking of it as the reign or rule of heaven. The kingdom of heaven (or the kingdom of Jesus) is more the realm of a certain consciousness than of a certain space. It is a place where a new rule has come, is coming, will come, ought to come (depending upon where we are in the story). And I'm not just playing language games when I suggest that it might help us to think of the new rule as world in which we live by new rules. 

The angels tell the shepherds about it. "Give glory to God" "Peace on earth and good will toward all people."  Something dramatic is happening. And you need to know about it, not just know about it, but experience it. More than that, you need to become the tellers, the witnesses.

We aren't that big into witness these days I think. Stepping on toes. Pointing folks in a direction they might not want to look (or walk). When I was young Jesus Freak, we used to walk around handing out Jesus Freak material and saying things like, "Jesus loves you and I love you." 

Then, I'd bump into some really pretty hippy, and I'd get all tongue-tied and just keep on walking. I tried though. Barefoot. That was the righteous way to witness back then.

But the shepherds witnessed not only by speaking but by going. When the angels said that a Savior was born, and that the child was born in Bethlehem (lying in a manger and wrapped in cloth), they "hurried to see." Well, first, according to the song, "the shepherds feared and trembled," but after that, they hurried. And then, St. Luke writes, "when they had seen him, they spread the word about what had been told them." And, he adds, "all were amazed."

I don't know if they bumped into any pretty hippies and, therefore, had trouble with delivering the message. But I'm guessing that maybe the smile on their faces and the crazy look in their eyes said as much as any words. They were shepherds. They weren't, we assume, skilled orators or persuasive rhetoricians. They heard, they saw, they told. They did what they could. They tried. 

One of the problems we have with witness is the emphasis these days on the fact that every attempt to "interfere" (the case is  loaded in advance by diction) with someone else's life journey is a kind of abuse. Our cultural ethos, as strict as any ten commandments ever were, declares: everyone has a right to his or her choices, without our butting in. 

Someone preaching at me the other day about how wrong it is to preach at anyone, was getting all worked about it until I just whispered (alright, I never whisper), "have you never heard of an inter . . . vention?" I knew in fact that she had, for she had been part of many, on both sides and for good reasons. And with good consequences. 

In some cases, pointing out possible alternatives, the new rules for example, is not abusive, it is a challenge to abuse. 

Certainly that was the case of the witness of Wilberforce in England, who interpreted the new rules to mean the end of slavery.

Certainly the witness of Thomas Becket, who died on this day in 1170 for opposing his former friend, King Henry II, was meant, at least, as a challenge to abusive power. As was the witness of Thomas More towards another Henry. As was the witness of Kayla Mueller to her Isis captors, eventually her murderers. 

Of course, the last three examples point out something I have suppressed so far in this reflection. The word witness and the word martyr are the same work in the New Testament. Ouch.

I apologize for that. The shepherds, though, we assume, returned to their mountain, their sheep, their families, their previously mundane lives with a super-charged sense of significance. 

Those who heard, the ancient text says,  were amazed. Actually, the story itself is rather amazing. Some of you, I'm sure (as well as me some of the time), would say, sarcastically, rather unbelievable. The point for now though is that the amazing quality of the Christmas story is not based on the amazing abilities of those who tell it, who witness to it, who participate in it. It is experienced as amazing, especially by those who recognize their need for the amazing love embedded (literally) in the Christmas event. 

Not that shepherds are never amazing. When I was on the Camino, I was walking somewhere up on a mountain in Spain and all of a sudden there was . . . a shepherd, like out of . . . the world of shepherds. And sheep. True story. He was from the Middle East. That whole thing was amazing. 

Anyway, I've got some lovely little navidads (nativity scenes from Mexico and Central America) that I like to give away to people I like to give things to. They are humble little works of art. They are nothing THAT special. They were not commissioned by Pope Leo the Lion or anything. To me, though, they are amazing. 

They are amazing because they embody or at least reflect the good words from the good old song, "Down in a lonely manger/ Our humble Christ was born/ And God sent us salvation/ That blessed Christmas morn." Lowly, humble, fearful. Still, they hurried. The wise men, kings perhaps, got a star and, using their bad-ass trigonometry skills, figured things out (I will save that for another Joy; the Joy of Trigonometry). The shepherds got a song and a big light. They were stunned. But they finally got it moving. And once they got in gear, the world hasn't been the same. 

Oh, there have been lots of problems with the people who say they follow the new rules and lots of problems, for sure, with what folks call "witness." You've heard of Bad Santa. There's also plenty of Bad Witness. There is also bad food, bad parents, bad Elvis costumes, and bad social critics. That's why bad functions so well as an adjective. It covers a multitude of nouns.  But it's a huge and naughty illogical leap to blame a thesaurus of nouns for one adjective. We do that. A lot. It's a sneaky rhetorical device. And like some but not all rhetorical devices, it's bad.

But I'm not blaming the shepherds. Especially in their Central American peasant outfits in the navidad sitting on Missy's cool antique table. 

We can all agree that witness is prone to abuse (the risk of being a noun in this valley of tears). Let's also agree about what a great song "Go Tell It on the Mountain" is. 

And we can agree how bound up Christmas is with the fact that participating in it means witnessing to  some profoundly significant changes. A new ruler. New rules. Oh, and what's this? The lowly manger with poor shepherds and some very cute animals has become the . . .  center of the universe? And this story, some people discover, amazingly, can change their lives. Their worlds.

Perhaps we can retrace our steps. Or follow in theirs. It's an amazing story and we are in it.  

Let's start simply. By listening for the song. And being afraid. We can all do that much.

  




  

The Twelve Joys of Christmas #4: Weeping

(detail from Giotto's Massacre of the Innocents)

The Twelve Joys of Christmas #4: Weeping

A friend recently said that "tears are good, they make you real." I'm chewing on that (if you know me, you know that it is my wont to chew on nuggets of wisdom or at least interesting groups of human words which MAY yet prove to be wisdom once thoroughly chewed). 

Today, December 28 is, to me, a very important part of the Christmas season (which runs from Christmas Day to Epiphany, not from Halloween or Thanksgiving to Christmas Day). Because it is the feast or memorial day of the "Holy Innocents." 

What does that mean? 

It means it is the day that most Christians in the world for many centuries now have set aside to remember the babies slaughtered in Bethlehem by King Herod's soldiers when they were looking for the child Jesus. 

Let that soak in. If you dare. Sorry, if we dare. The fourth day of Christmas. When somebody's true love gave him or her four calling birds. That's the day we remember a massacre of innocent children. If we chose to do so. Of course we don't have to choose to remember or reflect. Liturgy suggests that we should. It nudges us to open our hearts to this terrifying part of the Christmas story. 

It is a very strange event to highlight, to memorialize, as part of this season of joy (a word we often equate with cheer and general good feelings). I can hear y'all all the way down here in Austin: Way to chill our bliss Ben Camino (and church universal)! Just when we are all getting excited and feeling good about the gift of Christmas (even as we return many of the gifts of Christmas), we are supposed to spend some time thinking about the horrific massacre of innocent children by a corrupt political regime? Can't we just stay tuned in to our Christmas high for another day or two (at least until the first hangover of the New Year)? 

No. Not really. I am here, as always, to state the painfully obvious, just as the placement of this sorrowful day of remembrance smack dab in the first week of Christmas does. The coming of Christ, the reason for the season according to Bud's Carwash, like pretty much every other moment of human history (I mean the stuff that creatures do in time), was laced with sorrow, put folks at risk, was touched by unthinkable grief. 

Think about it. Being born (labor pains), working (labor pains), parenting, family, friendship, love (more pain, pain, pain, pain). If you squint your eyes a bit, all you can see is the loss, the wounds, the bitter sorrow, from which we would be completely free if we just didn't "be" (Hamlet said a few things about this).

If you care about things, especially people, you will feel some very deep loss, you will feel like your guts have been ripped out, you will weep (if you're lucky), you may scream and wail, you may feel that your life is completely empty and numb at the core. You may stand in a patch of sunlight in a frozen field and wonder why in the hell you even ever cared about being alive. Or cared about someone else. 

Of course, if you don't care about things, especially people, life is still going to be hard. 

But I am addressing those who care. 

The heart of the story of the massacre of the children in Bethlehem is not the baby boys, nor is it the soldiers, or even nasty King Herod. The focus, the emphasis, is on the mothers. Who raised a wail of sorrow of biblical proportions, literally. 

In the Gospel according to Saint Matthew, their sorrow and weeping is linked with a passage from the Old Testament prophet Jeremiah (fittingly enough, sometimes called "the weeping prophet"). "Then what was said through the prophet Jeremiah was fulfilled: 'A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.'"

I have always had a very deep emotional response to that phrase "refusing to be comforted, because they (the babies, the lovely things worth our love and our tears) are no more." Wait, refusing to be comforted. Well that sounds just downright unChristian, doesn't it? I mean, to every thing there is a season, right? God shall wipe away all our tears, right? 

Yeah, but . . . I wasn't taking about those verses. There is a joy in comfort, no doubt. That's another joy well worth writing about. But there is a joy (not the cheery kind), a profound gift for suffering humanity, in tears, in weeping, even in refusing to be comforted. 

In the traditions that grew up around this story, and there were many, the mothers didn't just weep. They also fought back like bloody hell against Herod's soldiers with the weapons at their disposal--pots, pans, distaffs, and bitter, biting words. This tradition was worked into the famous medieval biblical plays, known in the England as the "mystery plays," so much so that it was pretty much obligatory for any complete "cycle" of plays (starting from the creation of the world or the fall of the angels to the final judgement) to include a big play about this story. And it was probably the single play with the most female characters in all medieval drama (although they were played by men). 

It is from one of those plays that the famous Coventry Carol comes, a lullaby of a Bethlehem mother to her murdered son. I have a link to a version of that at the end of this reflection. 

It is also clear from that song, and from many other sources, that the massacre of the innocents was to serve as a reminder that our lives, while open to great joy (such as the coming of Jesus or any baby for that matter), are always touched with death, loss, and grieving. Maybe the animals in the manger could look dumbly upon the loss of a calf or a lamb (maybe I say), but such is not the lot of the poor banished children of Eve. 

It is also a reminder that the child who survived, the boy who lived, also would shortly (for what are thirty years or so to those who love?) be facing his own slaughter. Or, rather, those who loved him would be facing it, including his own mother. Including his special friend, John, who called himself "the disciple whom Jesus loved." 

But this is Christmas, and we are talking about joy. As I said the other night, when riffing on baby ducks falling/jumping from trees, we are also trying to work towards an impressionistic definition of love, that which we can't always explain but find more necessary than bread or water to our survival. 

Tears, generally, are not seen as a thing of joy. As a gift. Not generally, I said. But sometimes they are. 

I went through a year of crying several years ago. I would teach in sunglasses sometimes. I would walk into a friend's office, shut the door, and weep. That wasn't neat. But it was necessary. I am glad now I was able to do it. I felt "real," in the wise words of my friend. Felt like a human being. 

I know that it's easy for us to say that things are "fine," when they obviously are not because, after all, we can't always be living in the full emotion of our sorrow. And yet. And yet. The key word there is always. It's true that we can't always let ourselves touch the raw nerve of our grief, but if we never do, if sometimes we do not,  I'm afraid we are missing a very profound, necessary, and under-appreciated human "joy." 

We are creatures who love. Who care. This is our glory.  

We are creatures who lose everything (or so it feels). This is our great grief. 

We are creatures who lament. This too is a kind of glory. 

It is almost impossible to excuse ourselves from the first three of those human activities. To excuse ourselves from the fourth is, well, inexcusable. 

My dear sister has lost three unborn children. Twice by miscarriage and once by ectopic pregnancy. She was telling me about the happy day going for the first ultrasound only to find out that the pregnancy was ectopic. There were no funerals, no pictures, no nothing. Nothing but loss. And tears. 
 

"Did you cry?"

"Yea, I really thought I was going to die. I really didn't think I would make it. I cried a long time. And still do."

I know she was crying about it tonight again when I told her what I was writing about.

Lost hopes, lost dreams, lost loves, lost children, lost youth, lost innocence, lost opportunities. The loss/lost list is long. No religion worth its claim to wisdom claims to take away our vulnerability to loss or our need to weep and lament. 

Christ came in joy, although perhaps with some tears of labor pains (not sure on the theology of all that). Thirty or so years later, and I'm sure it seemed like thirty days to his mother, he was betrayed, shamed, tortured, and executed. A medieval tradition of Mary's epic weeping, called the Planctus, grew out of our attempts to relate that story to our story. 

At least in terms of the Christmas traditions, just a few days after the joyful birth, soldiers descended on Bethlehem and wiped out (or tried to) the population of young male children. Medieval persons, especially mothers, knew about loss. Infant mortality was high. There was no penicillin. Life was vulnerable, giving life was always a risk. 

IF you were ever going to celebrate joy, such as the joy of Christmas, you knew, in your gut, that it was mixed with the "thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to" (Hamlet). 

Obviously, our lives too are at risk. And the lives of those we love. Further afield (or perhaps not that far), real innocents are still being massacred. Pick your location, Syria being the most obvious. In our own nation, the cries of Black Lives Matter are, at least in some cases, voices of resistance raise againt the powers that would kill our children.

The story of holy innocents is, of course, a call for our attention, our care, our action to protect or try to protect, just as those mothers did in the mystery plays. Not just a call to cry.

Tears can be an excuse. Some people can become addicted to a kind of shallow grieving for every new daily tragedy reported on Facebook, rather than a deep concern which includes grieving, but may not end there.

Yet there is finally no completely adequate political solution to the problem of our loss and grief. It is warp and woof of this risky gift we call being human. 

The feast of Holy Innocents points us to the strangest, perhaps, of the Joys of Christmas. The Joy of weeping. The healthy, appropriate response to a world of hurt from hearts who love, who care, who lose. It's the risk that we're taking every time we love. It's not the opposite of smiling; it's the complement. It signals something that, I think, links us to Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and those dear mothers of so long ago. 

It's a sign that we love deeply enough to hurt like that. 

Here is a lovely performance of the Coventry Carol.

The name of the group is Anúna.