festivus

On an episode of Seinfeld that aired in the early 90’s, the characters invented a holiday for those who don’t celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanza.  It’s called Festivus and its slogan is, “Festivus. For the rest of us.” 

Festivus is symbolized by an undecorated aluminum pole, rather than a Christmas tree or menorah.  It features traditions like The Airing of Grievances, a ceremony in which you tell everyone how they’ve disappointed you over the past year. 

And after dinner, there are Feats of Strength, where you attempt physical feats that seem impossible to show how strong you are.

After the Seinfeld episode aired, some people actually started celebrating Festivus on December 23rd. 

It’s funny to think about such an unorthodox celebration, but I like Christmas too much to ever give it up.  Most years, after the Thanksgiving table is cleared, I’m one of the first to sprint for the Christmas music, lights, and decorations.  I figured out a long time ago that breaking out the festivities on Thanksgiving night allows for the longest possible enjoyment of the Christmas season. 

But two years ago, Christmas was different.  I was still reeling from my diagnosis and catastrophic surgery.  One of my closest friends, Lauren, was dying of lung cancer and in spite of my Ivy League degree in medical science, I couldn’t do anything to save her.  I was a pastor’s kid, but in spite of all my eloquent prayers for her recovery, God was taking her away.  The world was fast approaching a season of celebrating peace and joy and love and hope, and I could barely muster the interest or the energy to get out of bed.  

I felt like a child must feel when they’re told Santa Claus doesn’t exist — he’s made up, a story grown ups tell children to get them to behave 364 days a year.  I felt that way about the Christmas story of Jesus coming to give the world peace and hope.  It  felt like an illusion, made up, like a fairy tale.  A story preachers tell parishoners to get them to behave and go to church and give their tithes and live in denial of the real pain going on in the world 364 days a year.

The Christmas story seemed too optimistic to be historically accurate; it read more like hopeful children’s literature.  And my response to the gushing glow of the holiday season was “Bah, humbug.” 

One afternoon  in early December I met one of my friends for coffee.  “Do you have all your Christmas decorations up?” she asked.  “I know how much you love Christmas.”

“Loved,” I corrected her.  Tears brimmed behind my lower lids as I saw the stark contrast of how much joy I used to have, and how cynical and sad I was now.  Paradise was lost. The puppet had strings.  The emperor had no clothes. 

I walked home in the snow, and when I got to my apartment, I decided to celebrate Christmas against my will.  Maybe if I went through the old, familiar motions, the old emotions would follow.  It didn’t work.  Nothing I tried to do to cheer myself up or “get in the Christmas spirit” worked.

I think a lot of the world feels that way.  Christmas seems like a biblical fairy tale with talking sheep, singing angels, wise shepherds, and even wiser wise men.  It seems like a setting for a moralizing Dickens tale, complete with a converted Scrooge and a beneficent Tiny Tim proclaiming God’s blessing on everyone.  Christmas is a warm backdrop for a truce in the trenches during World War II.

But look around you now, and Christmas is nowhere to be found.  You don’t have to look far.  Just take this year, for example, when a Wal-Mart employee was trampled to death the day after Thanksgiving when an agitated crowd surged through open doors to start the Christmas shopping season.  Tourists in Mumbai were terrorized and murdered.  Thousands are dying of cholera in Zimbabwe, and medical staff who took to the streets to protest the lack of government funding for their clinics were clubbed and beaten by police. 

Christmas may have come to the world 2000 years ago, but now?  Look around you.  No, Virginia, there’s no Santa Claus.  There’s no baby Jesus sleeping silently in a manger.  There’s only Festivus.  For the disenchanted rest of us.

Right?

That’s what I thought…until I had an epiphany that Christmas two years ago while I was studying the strand of lights above my window, that appeared blurry through my tears. 

In the first chapter of John, the author describes Jesus as the Light of the World.  John writes, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.”

I mulled that image over in my mind.  Jesus was the light, sent into the darkness.  If the world wasn’t dark, we wouldn’t need light.  If the world wasn’t full of despair, we wouldn’t need hope.  If there was no sadness, what would be the use of joy?  If there was no conflict on this planet, why would we need the Prince of Peace?  All the disillusions I was holding as a grudge against God served not to discredit, but to prove the veracity of the Christmas message.  All of this pain I was experiencing was the explanation for Christmas.  This pain, these tears, this sadness, all of these were why He came. 

But no sooner had I answered that question than a new one arose:  if He came to light up this world, why are we still stumbling over hate and sadness in the dark?

I think C.S. Lewis answered this question when he pointed out, ” If I find in myself desires which nothing in this earth can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.” 

The ultimate purpose of Jesus being born on earth was not to give us a reason to buy presents and go sledding and drink hot chocolate and sing advent carols, but to become the substitute for us so we could be made right with God. 

He didn’t come to make this world the perfect place – just look around you or glance at the headlines and you’ll quickly see how true this is.  Instead, He came to provide us free passage out of this world, so we can spend eternity in the place and with the God we were made for. 

It’s the best kind of story – the kind that’s true, where the King slays the dragon, and His subjects live happily ever after. 

It’s infinite love.

It’s the naked emperor, clothed.

It’s Paradise Found. 

Forever.