Happy Holidays or Merry Christmas?

The recent flap over Starbucks coffee cups seems like a good occasion to drag out my blog from almost exactly one year ago today. Just about then...

...I was reorganizing our entertainment center when we returned from nineteen months in Las Vegas. I found our collection of Christmas DVDs—movies, TV specials, concerts, etc.

The one on top was a copy of a 1955 Jo Stafford Album. The title song, “Happy Holiday,” was Irving Berlin’s 1942 classic that everybody loves. The second DVD was the 1942 Bing Crosby/Fred Astaire movie, “Holiday Inn,” in which that Irving Berlin classic was introduced. It’s a perennial favorite, along with “It’s a Good Life!”, “Miracle of 34^th Street,” “White Christmas” and—you can finish the list.

In the same box was our collection of Christmas cards dating back who knows how long. We keep them for decorations and gift wrapping. “Season’s Greetings,” is among the most common phrases on the covers of the several dozen cards in that stack.

Call me a “Christmas Freak.” I love just about everything about it, and in the last couple of years I’ve even been able to endure the crowds at the malls without uttering a single “Bah!” or “Humbug!” And the joyful anticipation doesn’t follow a calendar. For me it begins about the time the leaves start turning.

I think I love it because in my personal history it’s always been the “Most Wonderful Time of the Year”—with cousins and “Granny” either spending the holidays with us or us with them. I associate Christmas with family, presents, wonderful food, beautiful music, beautiful decorations and the beautiful story that holds it all together.

The story is paramount. No matter what else happens or doesn’t happen during Advent and the Twelve Days of Christmas that follow, I’m never distracted from the awareness of that beautiful story. It’s always with me, thanks to the foundation laid in my family—a foundation that included regular participation in the Body of Christ. No matter what symbol is displayed, or when or where, I am reminded that Christmas is about the birth of Jesus, and that through that birth, “God is with us!”

Apparently—and sadly—some are unable to avoid the distractions. Those same phrases that for over a half-century elicited happy smiles, warm feelings and even hugs have more recently become “fighting words” to some people.

A few years ago someone suggested that it would be more “inclusive” to use the phrase, “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”, to acknowledgment that not everyone is Christian and to demonstrate respect for their religious freedom—the same respect we expect and demand for our own religious freedom.

Religious freedom, like every other freedom, must be extended to all, or no one is free, for if freedom can be taken from one, it can be taken from all. Further, religious freedom includes the freedom from having others’ religious faiths inflicted upon us.

The intention was to find ways to include people of other faiths—or at least not to exclude them—in the public celebrations of Christian holidays. Nothing has ever been intended or suggested that would limit religious celebrations shared among family and friends and within specific communities of faith.

But the good old American autonomy that built this nation raises its head (unnecessarily in this case) and asserts, “Nobody’s gonna’ tell me what to do.”

I haven’t experienced the slightest infringement of any rights. I am free to say, “Merry Christmas” any time I choose, and as far as I know you are free to do the same. Nor do I feel anything has been forced upon me if others choose to say, “Happy Holidays” in deference to the religious freedom of those who don’t share their convictions. Indeed, I don’t feel “Happy Holidays” is a condescension at all. That phrase is still a “warm fuzzy” that triggers deep nostalgia and reminds me that Jesus was born.

At what point did “inclusiveness” become bad? At what point did inclusiveness become a liberal conspiracy to take away anyone’s right to say, “Merry Christmas?” At what point did respect for someone who is different from me become a concession to some evil plot to undermine truth? And at what point did the melting pot mentality[1] engraved on the Statue of Liberty morph into intolerance and disrespect for diversity?

As Christians, we are called to share of our faith; and there are effective ways, ineffective ways and counterproductive ways to do so. In the last third of the 20^th century we saw the counterproductive result when too many mainstream churches shied away from face-to-face witnessing at all.

On the other hand, in more recent years much of what is called witnessing is confrontational and does more harm than good. After all, Christianity is an invitational faith, not a coercive one. Jesus said, “If I am lifted up I will draw all people to me.” Too much of what is called witnessing today pushes people away.

So, I will continue to look for ways to make my witness effective, without trampling the rights and freedoms of those who don’t share it. And if my life is being lived such that others don’t know and respect me as a Christian unless I say, “Merry Christmas,” then my witness lacks integrity and credibility. And I have absolutely no need to inflict my faith vocabulary upon those with other faiths or no faith, and thereby run the risk of alienating them from any possibility of witnessing effectively to them in the future.

That leaves me with more than abundant opportunity within my family, my circle of friends and my community of faith—and in the yard decorations in front of my home—to say, “Merry Christmas!”

And that’s the way I see it through the flawed glass that is my world view.

Together in the Walk,

Jim

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[1] Give me your tired, your poor, 

Your huddled masses, yearning to breath free, 
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore, 
Send these, the homeless, tempest tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

~ Emma Lazarus

Jesus in a ’57 Chevy

Luke 2:6-7 (KJV) And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. ⁷And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

"...no room for them in the inn." How many sermons have been launched from those six words? This month you’ve likely seen at least one TV special or old movie—maybe even heard a sermon—about the Innkeeper of Bethlehem. Literature isn’t always kind to him.

He’s usually portrayed as insensitive and preoccupied with exploiting the tax season for huge profits.

At the other extreme he’s a kindly old man, overworked by the crowds, yet patient and gentle in manner. Moved to compas­sion by this young woman, obviously exhausted from her journey, he lets the Holy Couple stay in his private, nice, clean, warm, comfortable stable. And the stable is so romanticized I'm ready to check in for a weekend of R&R, myself.

Have you ever been in a stable?

Neither version is biblical. The major character isn’t even mentioned in the bibli­cal story. For all we know, Joseph never saw an innkeeper. He may have heard talk on the street that the inn was full, and on his own found a cave for shelter. We don’t know.

Still, tradition says the innkeeper should have made special allowances because the Son of God was about to be born.

Why didn't he give them his room? I’ve heard that.

But behind the traditions are assumptions based on our memories—our understandings. We know he was the Son of God; why couldn’t they see it? The clear impli­cation is, "we'd have done it better!"

I wonder.

What might have happened had God waited until 2014 to send Christ? How would we receive Him?

I see a neat little shed on the lawn of the "Beth Israel" synagogue (chosen because it's next to the Interstate. Traffic can flow smoothly, with easy access). I can see the preparations now: neon angels hung from a tall superstructure… risers built behind the shed... the Mormon Tabernacle Choir arriving by charter jet from Salt Lake City, and the Philharmonic from New York.

Then the big night comes: huge crowds; traffic backed up for miles down the Interstate; traffic cops with long, red traffic-wands; searchlights sweeping the clouds; the Goodyear blimp overhead...

All three networks plus CNN and FOX: Meredith Viera, Matt Laur and Al Roker…

And headlines the next day: The New York Times: "A Savior is Born!" The Wall Street Journal would report the Dow up.

And Jean Dixon's column would read:

"He shall be great, and shall be called

       the Son of the Most High;

and the Lord God will give to him

       the chair of the Oval Office,

and he shall reign over the house of Lincoln forever;

And of his kingdom there shall be no end."

It’s not really as ridiculous as it may sound. In every culture, in every age, there’s some kind of Messianic expecta­tion. Isn’t that what we’re looking for in our President and in our military leadership in these post-9/11 days: a Messiah—some heroic savior to overthrow the evil reign of terrorism—for us?

Victims of tyrants and dictators hope for a savior—a charismatic, military hero—who will overthrow the bonds of their captivity.

Victims of unemployment hope for a savior in the form of an employer or a strong labor leader.

Victims of spiraling inflation look for a savior who will write tax reforms favoring their particular socio/economic level.

And in each case, over time, expectations become dramatic and spectacular.

Into those same kinds of expectations Jesus was born. Israel was a nation in chains. Rome had a chokehold on their politics and economy, and even though Jews sat in seats of government, they were, either paid-off defectors, or scared-stiff figureheads. Nothing was more important than the overthrow of the "Roman dogs."

The Ameri­can colo­nists had similar feelings toward King George’s “taxation-without-representation."

But Israel's longing for Messiah was deepened by a memory. There was a time when David and Solomon sat on the throne and every nation in the world tipped its hat when it walked by. And in the center of Israel's life was the Temple—that great edifice: gold-plated, cedar-lined, and draped with rich tapestries.

That memory had fueled hope for fifteen generations; and that hope carried images of shining armor, polished sword, and the thundering hoof beats of a great white horse.

WHEN MESSIAH COMES! A hero. And the prophets fueled the fire.

A beggar clutches his rags in some dark alley. “When Messiah comes” there’ll be no more hunger; no more homelessness.

A young woman sobs in her pillow. “When Messiah comes” there’ll be no more Roman soldiers raping and pillaging.

“When Messiah comes.”

And he came. And it wasn't as they expected. And so “he was despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief," (Isaiah 53:3 KJV) no hero, at all; because Messiah was not about their expectations. Nor is He about ours.

I think it might happen more like this, if God had waited until 2014: Picture a middle-aged desk clerk in a small motel in a county-seat town (the "NO-TELL" motel. The "c" is burned out in the flashing "No Va ancy" sign.)

It's about 10:45 in the evening, and the desk clerk is watching a Jay Leno rerun. He hears gravel crunching on the driveway, and a 1957 Chevy stops outside. The left headlight’s out, and the left front fender has patches of body putty and primer.

A man in overalls gets out to inquire about a room. He speaks with a heavy Spanish accent (a refugee from El Salvador). He’s found work in a nearby town, and has come to the county seat to check in with immigration and register his new address.

His wife stays in the car. She’s obviously close to delivering a child. Dressed in a clean, plain, faded dress, she’s exhausted from the day's trip, and the drive back would be just too much for her; so they’ve decided to get a room and stay overnight.

There are no rooms available; but the clerk says they can sleep on a rollaway bed in the linen storage closet. It’s small, but clean and warm, and there's a sink where they can wash up. They can use the toilet in the lobby.

He quotes a price, and the young refugee pulls out a worn wallet and counts out several bills, figuring the unfamiliar currency in his head.

That night her baby is born. She wraps him in a motel towel, and lays him in a laundry hamper.

Early the next morning, the clerk notices a bunch of kids around the linen room door—delivery boys for the morning paper, all excited about something. He runs them off, and looks in to find Maria, José, and el niño, Jesus.

The clerk asks them to leave; afraid the health depart­ment might hear about this and close him down. So, José fashions a bed in the back seat of the '57 Chevy, and they drive off.

I don’t know. Maybe this image gives you problems, too. Mary and Joseph should be more middle class and white—more like us. They'd drive at least a 2012 mini-van, and stay at the Holiday Inn. And they'd call an ambulance and check-in to the hospital, using their "Blue Cross" card.

And what about the shepherds and the angels and the star? Who'd ever notice something as obscure as that?

But, maybe that’s the point. You see, the story’s not about our expectations; it's about the power of God: the power that can take what, by our standards and expectations is nothing, and make out of it the salvation of the world!

I don't find it at all curious that the innkeeper of Bethle­hem didn't pay special attention to Joseph and Mary. What amazes me—amazes me—is that ANYBODY EVER recognized this refugee baby as the Son of God. And yet, for two millen­nia he has been declared "Savior of the World;"  "Lord of the Church." For two thousand years he has reigned in the hearts of people everywhere.

If you need a miracle, if you need a sign, if you need a reason to follow him, what more can you ask than that?

That’s how I see it through the flawed glass that is my world vie.

Together in the Walk,

Jim