When the Christmas tree hurts
For the past few years, I’ve not enjoyed our Christmas tree. As soon as the holiday is over, I’ve been eager to take it down.
I’m not a Christmas grinch. I love the season dearly, and Christmas trees have always been magical to me. But over the past 25 years, we have amassed a mishmash of ornaments—stuff my kids have made, stuff from organizations I have loved, stuff other people have given us—until nearly every object hanging on a branch is pregnant with relational memories.
Like so many of you who are waiting for God to work out solutions, I’m in a weird, liminal space this year. A lot of those old, sentimental objects hurt to see. They jolt me back to memories of years when things were simpler and felt more naturally hopeful. They evoke the suffocating weight of my own mistakes. They remind me of a time when certain heroes hadn’t betrayed certain causes. As I unwrap decorations, I feel the “Ahhhh-ohhh” shift from warmth to grief as my instinctive tenderness toward institutions I cared about turns to sorrow that they’ve now fallen to leaders I mistrust.
Certain bobs of plastic and wood burn in my hand now. Seeing them amid the emotional intensity of Christmas requires intense soul labor—sifting through knee-jerk appeals for God to work miracles and disappointment—as I cling to truths that I believe by faith.
Maybe this is why blog posts poo-pooing materialism never hit the heart of my Christmas problem. I don’t buy too much stuff. I know hardly anyone who does. In fact, most of the spending I see done around Christmas is actually an act of courage and faith—purchases made by people who have been hurt until hope is difficult. They stare straight into all the trouble telling them God is dead or indifferent, reject the animal routines of “necessities only,” and invest in a crazy, lavish metaphor promising that some morning we will wake up giddy and clear, surrounded by abundance.
At times, spending is grace toward those who have wounded you. At times it is an expression of commitment to a soul that has forgotten its own name. It is often a declaration of love and hope made beneath all those painful ornaments. If this is waste, it is holy waste, pouring perfume on the feet of Christ. Maybe it is something different for you, but this is what it is to me.
And now that the presents are done, now that the tree hangs heavy with so many surgical reminders that “all is not well,” the molten heart of the metaphor is left—the true narrative takes its turn to fight the darkness. Because the first object to hang on a tree, full failures and disappointments, was a Savior.
Two thousand years ago, God’s family was devastated by bad choices and betrayals. The innocence of childhood had been traded for darkness. In His great hands, God held every monument heavy with regret and sorrow—and so he gave a lavish gift, a baby who would grow to a man, open his arms wide, and make an offer to every broken heart: “Hang that pain on me. I will take it for you.”
Two thousand years ago, angels blasted wide the dark, hopeless sky...
Two thousand years ago, Mary buried her nose into the intoxicating softness of Christ’s baby hair and inhaled the newborn smell of the hope of all humanity...
Two thousand years ago, weary old Anna and Simeon, those simpletons who believed against the odds, felt their ancient hearts pound to finally see what had only been fool’s hope...
Two thousand years ago, scholars stumbled through a low door and found the kicking, cooing, barfing, pooping answer to a sign in the sky—these images mean everything to me now.
I get so frustrated with jokes about liturgical adherence this time of year. Few things wear me out like classist reminders that there are proper ways and times for Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany. Peanut butter then jelly. Jelly then peanut butter. Do it however you like; I don’t want to see those silly arguments because I don’t think stories work this way inside real people very often.
When we are lonely, we rejoice in the fraternal appearance of Samwise; when we are tired, we rejoice in the deep rest of Rivendell; when we are overwhelmed, we rejoice in the shining blast of Gandalf riding over the hill. Our souls call out for those moments, and the stories revive our hope. Likewise, the heart of the Annunciation may come to me on the last day of Epiphany as I’m taking down the most difficult ornament on the tree. So be it. The wounded aren’t particular. The hungry aren’t picky.
I want you to feel this freedom, too. It’s not too late to allow any single part of the Christmas story to work in you. In this stillness and silence, as you to bear the weight of your tree, as all the hubbub is subsiding, recline into the narrative whispers of your Storyteller.
And know you aren’t alone. Don’t worry over the posts of religious critics reminding you to listen to this hymn here, or to feel this-or-that because it is this-or-that day. Those folks may be in a less intense stages of life, with margin to manage and control that you don’t have right now. For the hurting—the whole narrative of Christmas surrounds you in this moment. At the center of that narrative is a Christ who held the sorrows that threaten you in himself, willingly enduring your pain as he hung there. He’s got this.
Your grief will come in bits as you touch those memories, but the narratives of Christmas will come to you as well. Little bits and pieces of the Christmas story—disjointed and out of order—not a train schedule but a worn, weighted quilt surrounding you. Hold those ornaments that burn with me. Believe with me. Pray with me. You’re not the only one.
Sing “Oh Come, Oh Come, Emmanuel” with this one. Sing, “Joy to the World! The Lord is Come!” with that one. Let it be messy. Let it be honest. God sees us and our process. And he loved you enough to divide heaven and heart to come walk with you, even as you take down ornaments that hold the weight of your whole world inside them.
