Bear with a Christian’s sarcastic perception of the non-believer’s “Christmas”:
It’s that calm notion again. Can you sense it? That time of the year when culture itself cuddles with you and wraps you up in a treacherously blanket of imagined innocence and of white peace within. The month for mindfulness and picturesque afterthought. Photo albums, as some call them. That one and only time of the year when red isn’t a dangerous colour, but rather a sign of a baby born king and the exchange of humankind’s guilt for innocence — so they believe that one day of the year. The snow is descending from heaven like small angles singing praises to the king that was born two millennia ago. Peacefully all mankind sits back singing hymns along with the heavenly descenders. Children’s plays are created and acted out to the honour and glory of the old, sacred infant. Even the adults, having abandoned the unpleasant myths long ago, now lean back and hum along as the children sing, finding the good ol’ stories more attractive and believable than they have done throughout the whole preceding year. Oh the bliss — that sweet, sweet taste of wonderland perhaps not being fairytale after all. Even to such an extant does mankind relax that people find courage enough to visit their deceased ones, creating local traffic jams on every graveyard in town. The ding dong jingle bells resound over all the earth — an imaginary king is born — and nicely dressed men and women leave their houses to supernatural care for a few hours while they as gathered families flock to the churches to hear it all about their protecters — virgin st. Mary, baby king Jesus and the later St. Claus — all preached so gently and graciously. That good ol’ story of hope yonder. A tear rolls down on mothers cheek and even dad is moved to the brim of what his pride can take as their children act on stage. The whole world is in motion as Bach’s Christmas Oratorium is blasted in the cathedrals of the big cities and the local churches fills with chanting sweet carols. Oh, how life-giving and hopeful. How lovely and pleasant a time of hope! After church, sweet Christmas lasts a little longer. Just a little longer it is. Then, when the blessed imagination that nobody believes in is all over, mankind goes home again, strengthened, each one of them into the dark new year, forgetting about it all til next time.
Christmas is here again. Oh how sweet the emptiness — how wicked the blessed bliss of deception.
Another year has passed with obscure swiftness. It is hard not to get a bit philosophical at the end of things.We were discussing the contents of Christmas in the family this otherday, realising all over again how immensely empty it all should be for most people. I mean; I don’t object to people enjoying themselves and taking the heaviest of winter weeks off to relax. By no means! I am just a tiny little bit confused and perplexed to find my atheist friends lining up for church. May I suggest you keep your children out of the spider web of Christmas carol lies if you don’t believe the content therein? That you don’t sing praises to a two millennia old baby king found worthy of no further honour and glory than that of being shared with a fantasy figure like Santa Claus? And do I utter this hard critic because I don’t believe in Jesus as the Christ that he is? On the contrary. Rather precisely because I am one of those who do. But I do not believe in Santa Claus (and never would I let my children into believing on such silliness). Neither do I believe in the integrity of an atheist singing “Silent night”.