When I was 5 years old, I learned the “truth” about Santa Clause. I use the word truth in quotations because, despite all evidence to the contrary, there is some part deep within me that would love to believe that there is a jolly, magical man that loves us all so much that he flies across the world in one night, to bring us gifts, based on our good deeds. It seems like a fantastic concept, and I like to believe that it is real.
A discussion about the merits of children’s belief in Santa Clause aside, I am thankful for having a mother that wanted her children to know the true meaning of Christmas. I grew up understanding that Christmas was a celebration of Jesus’ birth. I never questioned it. I read the Christmas story in my bible every December (usually in both Matthew and Luke, if I didn’t have too much homework that month and could swing it), went to church every Christmas Eve, and made sure that I never asked for anything too extravagant so as to avoid becoming plagued by the looming consumerism of the season.
Despite my efforts, I remember often being left feeling like something wasn’t completely right. Even amidst a Christ-filled Christmas, there was always this sense of not being happy enough. And the problem was (and continues to be) that something would always go wrong. Someone doesn’t like a gift, someone gets stuck in a snowstorm and can’t make it to family Christmas, or (as has become a family tradition for the Carrol’s), someone makes a horribly inappropriate comment at the wrong time and “ruins Christmas”. Inevitably, despite our best efforts, not everything will be perfect, lovely, and beautiful. Even at Christmas. Even amidst the celebration of the saviour of the world.
This year, I watched The Nativity Story and it made me think. I know the story well. I have known it well since I was a child. But I know it within the context of children’s pageants and manger scenes and Christmas carols. Things that make the story seem magical. But, as I watched this film, I began to think of how the whole scenario would have felt to experience first-hand. It was more than a story. Mary was a real young girl. She was poor and living in an absolutely oppressive situation. And, she became pregnant without having a husband - which was less than acceptable for her time. When you think about the reality of how it all played out - a 13-year old in labour, in a stable, after having walked for days and days with her fiancé, to pay taxes that they couldn’t afford, to their oppressors - it must have felt far less than magical at the time. It probably felt like an absolutely impossible situation.
The reality is that God’s people at that time desperately needed a saviour. Not so that they could have a beautiful, Norman Rockwell celebration, but because they were living in a world where things weren’t right. God sent them a saviour - in His own way. Which is why we celebrate.
Not because everything in our lives has been made perfect. But because, most often, our lives are quite the opposite. So, if our celebration of Christ’s birth is flawed, or there isn’t enough money for the gifts we wanted to purchase, or someone we love is missing, or if someone says something inappropriate….then we can be reminded of why He came.
And that, more than attempting to have a perfect celebration, in an imperfect world, resonates with me.