Silent Night

It is an arduous undertaking to remove oneself from expectations surrounding the holidays. Christmas alone is rife with tradition and presupposition. Though holidays have been sensationalized and ravished by consumerism, there still persists within us a connection to the essence of the major days of celebration throughout the year.

As the holiday season approaches, I’ve noticed within my own self a yearning and frustration, like a deep unsettling. Perplexity is born from a mingling of excitement and vexation.

Alongside my wife, I strolled into a department store (with a red target as its logo) this past week, and perceived a palpable portion of panic from the populous. Too much alliteration? Okay, it felt frenetic. Oof, always alliterating (I can’t stop—please, send help). I even remarked to my wife the sense I was getting—the frantic pursuit of procuring perfect presents was collectively emanating from the crowd of faces darting this way and that.

I don’t like shopping. And I like it even less during Christmas time. (I’m getting off track and will save this tirade for another day.)

Despite the joy of giving and all that, I think there’s obligation baked into the tradition of Christmas. We don’t want to disappoint others, and we, ourselves, don’t want to be disappointed. Well, you can’t be disappointed if you don’t have expectations.

There it is: expect nothing, and save yourself from heartache.

(Only kidding)

Here’s the thing: we’re highly conditioned to expect certain things. Christmas was something I looked forward to all year as a kid. Much of the euphoria arose from the anticipation itself—one magical day perpetually looming in the future. Boy, I’ll tell you, the year my parents surprised me and my siblings with a Nintendo 64 on Christmas morning was a high point in life I will forever seek to replicate (“ravished by consumerism”—I know, I know).

Anyway, there’s a tension that arises within me surrounding the holidays. Maybe it’s this dissonance between the nostalgia of Christmases past and the sometimes harsh reality of life as an adult. It is this discontentment—a longing for the past; a hope for a better future—that too often has taken me out of the present.

Christmas as a child was simple. Back when I thought my parents knew everything, didn’t have to worry about gas prices, and had minimal responsibility—surely, those were the “good times.” If I ponder for a moment longer, the red lenses shatter, and I remember how imperfect life was even then.

Maybe part of the huge draw around the holidays is the fantasy—a time to escape into a world of bliss and splendor.

Fantasy and pretend are not necessarily aberrant indulgences for children. As an adult, we ought to get a little curious about from what we are trying to flee. Christmas didn’t save us from pain back then, and it’s not going to save us now (I’m meaning the secularized version of Christmas).

Maybe a healthy view of Christmas, and holidays in general, is one of surrender. Of course, it helps to remember what the true meaning is—you know, why it’s a holiday in the first place. We can hope for pleasant family interactions, eliciting unparalleled joy through our thoughtful giving of gifts, and sparse traffic as we travel. Perhaps, some expectations are met. Others, perhaps not. And maybe that’s okay. Our oft-fractured and dysfunctional families can’t cook up a “perfect” Christmas.

Holidays can be fraught with grief—annual reminders of a friend or family member’s passing, a trauma, a disappointment. As such, maybe Christmas is something you want to avoid entirely. There’s just too much pain weaved in. Maybe you crave a new fantasy to save you from this seasonal nightmare.

Either way, it takes courage to see what is. To yield to the present, and remained anchored in reality, can take a novel kind of strength. But we need not rely on our feeble human efforts. Our Heavenly Father knows our deepest yearnings for which we might not even have language. He welcomes us in the joy, anxiety, and everything in between that comes with this time of year. Immanuel—God is with us, remaining constant and reliable, even while the world gets whipped into a froth.

Maybe this year, we can quiet the noise and distraction overburdening our hearts as we submit to the here and now. Lean into the safety and security of God’s embrace. Let it be a silent night within your soul.