Coventry Carol program

Christmas morning 11 a.m. London time, or 3:30 p.m. CST in Aberdeen, SD, a BBC Radio 4 program will look at (and listen to) the Coventry Carol. Part of the program will include discussion of parts of the following column. I originally wanted to call it Herod the Great and Post-Christmas Depression, but editors were sticklers for keeping "and" and "the" out of headlines then, and without those crucial words, the headline would be unintelligible. I settled for Can Death Obliterate Christmas? Ask Herod. The column was published Dec. 23, 2001 in the Aberdeen American News.

My name, Donna Marmorstein, is listed as Donna Marmestein on the BBC promo page. So much for glory, but I'm sure the program will be wonderful and there will be varied perspectives on the mysterious carol.

Christmas Spirit all month long

Christmas spirit all month long

 If Gray Thursday and Black Friday set the pace for the Christmas season, it’s going to be a rough ride. Some years, especially when Thanksgiving and Christmas are close together, it seems like Christmas itself gets trampled in the rush to get things done.

 The very heart of Christmas can become like a flattened Black Friday shopper out in the cold parking lot of life.

 To prevent the scurry and hurry of the season from destroying what counts, it helps to focus on the charitable center, the Bob Cratchit cheer, the ho ho ho and the Holy, Holy, Holy. Will we end up in frustration, mummified in wrapping paper and wearing a scowl? Or will we shine with inner peace and candlelight glow?

 Here is a list of 25 ways to keep Christmas in perspective and help go for the glow:

 1. Hum carols throughout the day.

 2. Bell-ringers you come across? Visit them twice: once when entering the store and again when exiting. Make sure you smile and say hello. If a bell-ringer looks cold, bring back hot cocoa.

 3. Buy an extra pair of stretchy gloves and hand them out to a gloveless person walking along the road on a very cold day.

 4. Attach jingle bells to your shoe laces or boot zippers.

 5. Put money in a pop machine and let someone have a little complimentary Christmas sparkle.

 6. Even though you don’t have time, attend a holiday concert.

 7. Fill a mug with candy canes or Christmas goodies and take it to a business office. If you can find a place with a grumpy clerk or receptionist, all the better. 

 8. Fill an old mp3 player with Christmas songs, buy an inexpensive set of earbuds or headphones and find someone who would appreciate the sounds of the season.

 9. Hang a candy cane on the handlebars of a bike parked in a public place.

 10. Shovel your neighbor’s walk. When you are done, tie a ribbon on the mailbox or lamp post.

 11. Print out free coloring pages online and carry them with you, along with a couple of red and green crayons. Next time you hear a crying child in a waiting room, ask the parents if you may give the child the pages and crayons.

 12. Purchase or make a nice, unbreakable Christmas ornament and present it in a small, shiny gift bag, to a harried store clerk.

 13. Double a tip and leave it -- with a Christmas card -- for the server at a restaurant.

 14. Send a Christmas card to an almost-forgotten friend or a teacher from years past.

 15. Tie a festive ribbon onto the zipper of your child’s backpack.

 16. If you see a struggling shopper in a grocery store parking lot, offer to help unload groceries and return the cart.

 17. Diffuse arguments wherever you find them by asking about favorite holiday dishes or movies.

 18. If you order pizza on a busy day, give the driver a candy cane with the tip.

 19. Bring a poinsettia to someone grieving at Christmas time. Make sure to visit a while before leaving.

 20. Invite someone who needs company to watch a Christmas classic with you. Pop popcorn.

Too Much Information

Too much information

    A friend’s mom left her senior living facility and moved into an apartment because of “too much information.”  She said residents conversed only on two topics:  health problems and neglectful children.

  After the third colonoscopy conversation, I can see that she might be ready to move out.

   “Too much information” has become a popular catchphrase to use when conversations become too gross, too personal or too uncomfortable.

  A friend describes ancient gallbladder surgery and goes into detail about the incision? Too much information!

 A relative gives mushy particulars about intimacy with her boyfriend? Too much information!

  Someone tweets on bodily functions? #TooMuchInformation.

  We can now listen to Justin Bieber, while watching Dr. Who, while reading Jane Austen and playing Halo IV. Why we’d want to, I don’t know. But we can.

  Recently, I tried to watch my son’s college concert online. Though I could hear the music (Handel’s Messiah) I could not get a clear picture.  A “low bandwidth” warning popped up. Too much information at once clogged and slowed the connection.

  The choir was broken into horizontal lines of constantly-moving squares. We could almost make out Michael. Was that his forehead?

  Foreheads of tenors slid left while their chins moved right. Occasionally, a clear picture emerged, but then the squares shifted again.

  Despite the information overload, words from The Messiah broke through the slow connection in clear, crisp and strong refrains.

  The libretto included information passed down through the ages: not only from Handel in 1742, but from Old Testament prophet Isaiah around 700 B.C.

  “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulder and his name shall be called wonderful, counselor, the mighty God, the everlasting father, the prince of peace.”

  Isaiah’s information was not always wanted in his time. He wrote uncomfortable words about the direction of his nation. He condemned the popular practice of idolatry. He lambasted child-killing, gross financial exploitation and widespread injustice.

  His information made people uncomfortable. Seven hundred years later the message itself was still not always wanted. Though welcomed by shepherds, by senior citizens in the temple, by wise men “traversing afar,” the good news of a savior coming to reign was sometimes greeted with the response: “Too much information!”

  King Herod tried to stamp out the message early. Other tyrants followed suit. Even church leaders had a part in snuffing out Christmas joy.

  Now, we still hear complaints about too much information.

  Really! Must we hear about Mary and Joseph and Bethlehem? Can’t we just contain Christmas to those secular themes that don’t offend anyone? Reindeer and mistletoe?

   Too many school music programs bypass words of wonder and instead opt for cheap, easily forgotten songs about how cute children’s greed is.

  City councils, schools, businesses and organizations get nervous when the message of Christmas shines out.  We want to coat Christmas in secular glitz. Insulate it. Contain it.

  The good news is too confrontational and too demanding, to be allowed free reign. Quick, smother it!

  Thing is, it won’t stay contained. It was meant to waft freely over starry skies and settle like snowflakes on a waiting world. Attempts to silence a not so silent night prove futile.

  People keep telling it on the mountain; proclaiming it with angelic hosts; singing in exultation; telling the great, glad tidings; rejoicing with heart and soul and voice. Weary souls rejoice; raise their songs on high; proclaim Messiah’s birth.

  And why not? There can never really be too much information when it comes to the good news of Christmas.

 

Returning unwanted gift might not mean comfort and joy

   Roy got up at 6:30 the day after Christmas so he could beat the crowds and get to the gift return counter as early as possible.

  When he arrived at the store parking lot, he was surprised at the number of shoppers with the same idea. He parked, grabbed his unwanted gift and made for the return counter.

   Quite a few shoppers had arrived ahead of him, but that was okay; standing in line would allow him to think about what to buy with his refund.

   For Christmas, he’d really wanted the shiatsu massager with iPod dock and mug warmer, but no one thought to give it to him. Maybe he could have it after all.

   Standing in line, he was cold. The return counter stood near the front door, and cold air rushed in. His neck ached from looking over and around heads to see the gift return clerks.

   He heard the exchanges at the counter:

   “Do you have a receipt?”

   “No.”

   Well, who did have a receipt for a Christmas present, an item someone else bought for you?

   “What is the reason for the return?” a clerk asked one woman.

   “It’s too big.”

   He heard other voices give different reasons for their returns:

   “It’s too tight.”

   “It doesn’t match.”

   “I have too much of this already.”

   “It wasn’t what I was expecting.”

   Knowing others were unhappy with their gifts made Roy feel better about returning his. He wasn’t the only one disappointed in Christmas. And it wasn’t that he had anything against his father for giving him an unwanted gift. He just knew he could do better, so here he was.

   He began to dream about his neck being massaged with the shiatsu massager, while sipping cocoa and listening to Norah Jones on his iPod. His feet began to thaw as he thought of it all.

   Up ahead was a small commotion.

   “I don’t care if it’s an uneven exchange,” said a man. “I don’t want this gift. I want Guitar Hero.”

   Roy noticed how unhappy the returners were. They scowled and muttered. Some kept glancing at their watches as if to signal the clerks that they were important, and in a hurry and needing attention.

   Before long, only one customer stood ahead of him.

   “Good,” he thought. Soon he would be able to discover whether he had enough to buy his shiatsu massager. Then he saw an ad for a Wii and began weighing its merits against those of the massager.

   Whatever he decided, he would have to come up with a reason for his return. He looked down at his plain, simple gift and sighed. It was too big and too small. It didn’t fit his lifestyle. It was too tight, very constricting at times. It didn’t match his way of doing things. He had too much of it already, or, if not too much, more than he felt comfortable with. And it certainly wasn’t what he was expecting. He was expecting something fun or comfortable or entertaining or profitable.

   Roy looked down dejectedly at his gift. He didn’t want this baby, nor this manger.

   The baby started to cry as Roy approached the clerk. And then he noticed the other customers. They all, too, held babies in mangers and were giving reasons they needed to exchange them for something else.

   Those babies began to cry a little, too, and pretty soon a soft, low cry reverberated through the whole store.

   It was hard returning Christmas, but Roy knew that sometimes Christmas just wasn’t enough.

  

It helps to know what Christmas looks like

    I spent 30 minutes helping my son search for a blue folder containing sheet music. After turning the house upside down, my son finally remembered that the music wasn't in a folder at all, but in a plain manila envelope.

   I had passed it dozens of times because I didn't really know what I was looking for.

   In another fruitless search, my daughter agreed to pick up some blue replacement bulbs for an outdoor strand of Christmas lights. I wasn't sure the size: C-7? C-9? The bulbs didn't say. The cord didn't say. I tried describing them. A little bigger than my thumb. My daughter searched thoroughly and returned with C-7s – too small. They were smaller than my thumb, but larger than hers.
   Searching for an overdue book is similar. What are we looking for? A red hardback about the size of a thick novel, someone says. No luck. A week later we find it: a tall, thin, blue paperback. We really didn't know what we were looking for.

   Too many times, after searching, I've found DVDs in the wrong case; it's disappointing to find Bing Crosby when I'm expecting Laurence Olivier. And when Hamlet turns up in a White Christmas DVD case, my kids are similarly miffed.
   Christmas sometimes seems like that kind of fruitless hunt. I don't do Black Friday, but earlier I tried to find a robotic cat featured in a store ad at a great price. I looked down every aisle. It wasn't there. I finally had to ask.
   "No. We're not getting those, and there's no rain check. But you can use this coupon online."
   I went online. The item was not listed for purchase, with or without the coupon. Fruitless!

   It's also a fruitless search, sometimes, finding where you stored the special wreath, or the ornament Grandma gave you 3 years ago. And didn't you tuck away bargain Christmas cards somewhere?
   I wonder if Christmas seemed like a fruitless hunt to the wise men. They traversed field and fountain, moor and mountain, following yonder star. Then, the only thing they found was a little kid and some pretty ragged-looking guardians. I bet if they'd used a GPS, they might have called the manufacturer's 800 number at that point. Or skimmed the online reviews.

   This kid is a king? Next time we'll use the deluxe, super, mega telescope!
   When the Christ-child grew up, others looked at him like he was some kind of wrong item, too. The Pharisees kept saying, "No, this can't be the Christ. The cover's wrong. This guy's from Galilee, and the Messiah's supposed to be from Bethlehem." 

   Even John the Baptist wondered if he'd been part of a fruitless search. Sitting in a Roman prison, soon to have his head cut off, John likely puzzled over why the messianic deliverer was sermonizing on the mount and not overthrowing Rome.
   "Are you the One who should come -- or should we be looking for another?" he asked.
   We're all out "looking for another" Christmas. 

    Is Christmas about God zapping Himself into a certain location (+31° 40' 53.16", +35° 12' 0.70") on the earth at a specific point in history, to save the earth's people from themselves, or do we look for another, another kind of Christmas?

    If we're always searching for "the real meaning of Christmas" we don't know what we are looking for, and likely as not, we're in for a big let down, kind of like finding the Chipmunk's Christmas CD in a Handel's Messiah case.

   Time to stop useless searching and let Christmas find us.

Gluing together the Roman Empire for Christmas

    I don’t decorate. I have enough trouble keeping up with essentials. Right now, in a feeble attempt to decorate for Christmas, half a red garland hangs on our house, in lopsided mockery of décor.

   No tree this year. You can’t imagine the time saved by not putting up a tree!

   Decoration, I figure, is for people of leisure or taste.

   Once, when visiting a home goods store on vacation, I admired the dainty, orderly and splashy looking items and saw what I was missing: a whole array of things to dust. But among the vases, pots, table linens and candles stood something different: a bust of Caesar Augustus.

   What, I wondered, was this doing here? But there it was and at a very reasonable price, too. Imagine owning an emperor for thirty bucks! Since my husband Art teaches Roman history, what could be a better accessory than the head of a Roman emperor?

   I mailed it home, carefully wrapped, and it made it without breaking. The bust sat regally in our living room -- among the clutter and laundry, books and dirty socks. The kids would dress Augustus in hats, sunglasses or earphones. After about three months, my husband took him to school to use in a class.

  He then placed him in a gym bag in his office. Augustus remained in that bag on a chair. Weeks passed. One day, Art needed the chair for a student, forgot what was in the bag and tossed the bag to the floor. The early fall of the Roman Empire ensued.

   The way Art described the shattering of Augustus, I assumed the bust was a permanent “bust,” but months later, the gym bag and ruins of Augustus came home, and I saw that he was in four large pieces, a little more than a triumvirate!

   In no time, with ordinary Elmer’s, I had restored the Roman Empire, and Augustus now sits on a dining room counter next to our crèche, with only a prominent jaw line to show for his travails.

  Augustus is the one Roman emperor mentioned in the Christmas story, with his plan to tax all the world, so I figure it’s appropriate for him to loom over the stable.

   We don’t know much about this tax plan except it was typical of bureaucracy, forcing people like Joseph to go out of their way, at much inconvenience, for nothing.

   From what the resident historian tells me, Augustus tried to unify Rome by encouraging emperor worship. So the people worshiped their emperor.

  Meanwhile, another god/king slipped into the empire quietly one Christmas night. This one, though, was King of Kings and Lord of Lords; though weak and small, he came as God of all, into a little town in the far corner of the empire.

  Years later, when the Christ-child grew up, he was trapped when asked whether it was right to pay taxes to oppressive Rome. If he said to pay, he was taking the side of oppressors. If he said not to pay, he could be in danger of treason charges.

     He asked his critics to show him a coin.

    “Whose image is this?” he asked.

   “Caesar’s,” they told him.

    “Render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and to God what belongs to God.”

    The saying has lasted more than two thousand years, and stands as a good rule, even for Christmas today.

   When our tax forms arrive –- as they will pretty soon – that saying could serve as a prompt not only to remember what we owe Uncle Sam, but what we owe God, too.

Breaking Christmas, but not beyond repair

Everything about Christmas is fragile, especially at a
2-year-old's eye level.

Shiny gold and red ornaments. Tapered candles. The
special crystal and glassware and dishes. Candy canes.
Colored lights.

All the Christmas paraphernalia cries out to be
inspected more closely, touched, handled and
experienced fully.

But they can break - so, no.

They sparkle, shine, tempt, invite. But - no! Too
fragile. Keep your hands away. No, no, no.

Laurie, 2, stands on tiptoe, gazing in toddler
adoration at ceramic Nativity figures.

"Could I play with the breakable people?" she asks.

Shepherd, angel and wise men are simply "the breakable
people." It's sad, but that is her name for them.

She has heard the Christmas story and knows "Away in a
Manger." She wants more. She wants to move closer, to
see firsthand the scene of the Nativity, to touch the
jeweled turban of Wise Man No. 1, to feel the glazed
wool of a sheep.

She also wants to know more about that "Lord Jesus"
she only hears about in stories and songs, the little
curious figure in a manger.

Do I tell her, "No! Too breakable. Stay away"? After
all, when her brother was her age, he threw the baby,
manger and all, across the room once. Do I reinforce
the idea that holy things are beyond reach, available
only for special classes to approach?

Though I don't want her to think of clay figurines as
idols, I also don't want her to think of God as some
cold, distant deity - untouchable, unavailable.

The last thing I want is for her to come away from
Christmas viewing God as unapproachable, an impersonal
force beyond the stars, or concerned only that she
doesn't break the rules. She should know that when
this God came, he brought the stars and the heavens
with Him.

I allow her to climb onto a chair for a better view of
the breakable people, against my impulse to preserve a
reasonably nice creche scene. She murmurs in toddler
tones to the cow. A wise man clinks against Joseph. I
cringe and resume washing dishes.

Laurie speaks gently to and for the breakable people.
In a few minutes, though, I see a guilty child
clutching Melchior and chattering about "pieces."

The wise man is intact, but I soon discover that a
shepherd's head is missing. We search.

The decapitated shepherd stands next to Mary, waiting
for his head. A pretty good place to be if your head
is missing. It has rolled a distance beyond the table,
and Laurie finds it.

"Can you fix this?" she asks. When you are 2, all
things can be fixed.

I glue head on body. In half an hour the shepherd
rejoins his party with only a ruffled hat to show for
his ordeal.

That problem solved, Laurie again peers into the
stable. "Lord Jesus is breakable," she observes.

I want to tell her that the figures are not idols,
that this baby is not "Lord Jesus," that the real Lord
Jesus is not breakable.

But I am stopped at the last point.

The real Lord Jesus was, in fact, very breakable.

One big reason for Bethlehem was for God to become
breakable on purpose.

He was not only breakable; He was broken.

This is my body, broken for you.

Broken for us and with us. We are the truly breakable
people. Always shattering ourselves and others, while
pretending we don't need glue.

We break away from what we know is right, crack into
sharp slivers, all the time pointing out the fractures
we notice in others, denying the severity of our own
splintered condition.

Lord Jesus wants to calmly apply red glue that hardens
clear.

Christmas breaks because only when it does can any
life at all be restored.

Broken for you.

But it's only Easter that provides the glue.

Donna Marmorstein 2002