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| Under the Bethlehem Christmas tree |
I am not overwhelmingly Christian nor do I wish to put a
stop to people enjoying the Christmas festivities – my wife and I are already
planning our Christmas, wrapping presents, buying in a few bottles of wine and
the rest. But I have to say I did feel that the Church of the Nativity, where
Christmas allegedly began deserved better than baubles, bangles, beads, tinsel
and turkey. Is there no where in the world that can remain “sacred” – whatever
that means – has all to be sacrificed at the altar of commerce and the contemporary
imperative to have a good day, chill out and party?
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| Just as Jesus remembered it on that first Christmas! |
I do not deny that perhaps other great religions may have
the same situations; I am sure, for example, that the millions of pilgrims who
attend the Hajj at Mecca each year also bring their various forms of enjoyment
and commercialisation to the event, for after all, the event and the venue is,
like Bethlehem, a reminder of the central core and, at the same time, celebration
of their faith. I believe too, it was probably always thus – one only needs to read Chaucer’s
Canterbury Tales to know that even in medieval times pilgrims
went on their journeys to holy shrines for a variety of reasons and on their
journeys often displayed anything but
Christian ideals! But having said that what I saw on TV: Christmas Trees,
people dressed in Santa Claus outfits, plastic “statues” of Rudolph the Red
Nosed Reindeer and the rest all seemed at the best incongruous and at the worst
totally inappropriate. It seemed a sad and profane mix of sacred belief with pagan
tradition, cheap modern commercialism and the general mood of modern society to
reduce all to its lowest level – the “cutification” of everything into Disney
type characters, soft cuddly toys, “onesies” and pretty in pink dresses.
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| Is this a reverential pilgrimage and a sacred venue - or simply a commercialised party? |
Of course, we see this increasingly each year – the
Christmas commercial hype seems to ever more take over the Christmas story, our
TV scheduling shows a decline in programmes with any kind of religious base in
favour of programmes that will “entertain”, our shopping centres increasingly
gear their year around the Christmas excess with sales beginning on December 26th.
and elves, fairies, reindeer and
jolly white bearded men decorate our homes, front gardens and high streets
where once seraphim, cherubim, kings, shepherds and angels heralded the season.
And, as I saw last night, even at the place where it all began the elves and
fairies appear to have taken over where the stable is thought to have been.
Perhaps it has escaped the good folk of Bethlehem (and indeed the rest of the
world) that somewhere in the Bible I seem to remember that Jesus threw out the
money changers and their like from the temple:
What would Jesus have thought of Bethlehem and commercialism around the church built on the spot where he was supposedly born, I wonder?
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| Giotto's depiction of Jesus expelling the money changers |
"And Jesus went
into the temple of God, and cast out all them that sold and bought in the
temple, and overthrew the tables of the moneychangers, and the seats of them
that sold doves, And said unto them, It is written, My house shall be called
the house of prayer; but ye have made it a den of thieves.
(Matthew 21:12–13).
(Matthew 21:12–13).
What would Jesus have thought of Bethlehem and commercialism around the church built on the spot where he was supposedly born, I wonder?
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| When you go to Bethlehem at Christmas you must have a balloon and a Santa hat after all |
In this context it is perhaps good to occasionally remind
oneself of the simplicity and non-commercial aspects of the Christmas tradition
– not from any overwhelming Christian faith but simply because we celebrate
Christmas, in whatever form we perceive it, largely because of its basis upon
the Christmas story which reputedly began in Bethlehem about 2000 years ago. At
that time, allegedly, a woman gave birth to a baby in a stable. There was no
Christmas trees, not Rudolph, no Santa, no tinsel or turkey, no partying, no
excess of alcohol or chocolate – just a dark stable and probably a good deal of
poverty. Without that beginning there would be no Santa or Rudolph or turkey –
it is good to remember that.
A poem by Clive Sansom which I often used at school puts it
well, I think:
The Innkeeper’s Wife
I love this byre.
Shadows are kindly here.
The light is flecked with travelling stars of dust,
So quiet it seems after the inn-clamour,
Scraping of fiddles and the stamping feet.
Only the cows, each in her patient box,
Turn their slow eyes,
Their slowly rhythmic mouths.
As we and the sunlight enter.
‘That is the stall,
Carpenter. You see it’s too far gone
For patching or repatching. My husband made it,
And he’s been gone these dozen years and more…’
Strange how this lifeless thing, this degraded wood
Split from the tree and nailed and crucified
To make a wall, outlives the mastering hand
That struck it down......my husband's warm firm hand.
‘No, strip every board, let the fire take them
And make a new beginning. Too many memories lurk
Like worms in this old wood. That piece you’re holding –
That patch of grain with the giant’s thumbprint –
I stared at it a full hour when my husband died:
Its grooves are down in my mind. And that board there
Baring its knot-hole like a missing jig-saw –
And I remember another hand along its rim.
No, not my husband’s and why I should remember
I cannot say.
It was a night in winter.
Our house was full, tight-packed as salted herrings –
So full, they said, we had to hold our breaths
To close the door and shut the night-air out!
And then two travellers came. They stood outside
Across the threshold, half in the ring of light
And half beyond it. I would have let them in
Despite the crowding – the woman was past her time –
But I’d no mind to argue with my husband,
The flagon in my hand and half the inn
Still clamouring for wine. But when trade slackened,
And when all our guests had sung themselves to bed
Or told the floor their troubles, I came out here
Where he had lodged them. The man was standing
As you are now, his hand smoothing that board –
He was a carpenter, I heard them say.
She rested on the straw, and on her arm
A child was lying. None of your crease-faced brats
Squalling their lungs out. Just lying there
As calm as a new-dropped calf – his eyes wide open,
And gazing round as if the world he saw
In the chaff-strewn light of the stable lantern
Was something beautiful and new and strange.
Ah well, he’ll have learnt different now, I reckon,
Wherever he is. And why I should recall
A scene like that, when times I would remember
Have passed beyond reliving, I cannot think.
It’s a trick you’re served by old possessions:
They have their memories too – too many memories.
Well, I must go in. There are meals to serve.
Join us there, Carpenter, when you’ve had enough
Of cattle-company. The world is a sad place,
But wine and music blunt the truth of it.
The light is flecked with travelling stars of dust,
So quiet it seems after the inn-clamour,
Scraping of fiddles and the stamping feet.
Only the cows, each in her patient box,
Turn their slow eyes,
Their slowly rhythmic mouths.
As we and the sunlight enter.
‘That is the stall,
Carpenter. You see it’s too far gone
For patching or repatching. My husband made it,
And he’s been gone these dozen years and more…’
Strange how this lifeless thing, this degraded wood
Split from the tree and nailed and crucified
To make a wall, outlives the mastering hand
That struck it down......my husband's warm firm hand.
‘No, strip every board, let the fire take them
And make a new beginning. Too many memories lurk
Like worms in this old wood. That piece you’re holding –
That patch of grain with the giant’s thumbprint –
I stared at it a full hour when my husband died:
Its grooves are down in my mind. And that board there
Baring its knot-hole like a missing jig-saw –
And I remember another hand along its rim.
No, not my husband’s and why I should remember
I cannot say.
It was a night in winter.
Our house was full, tight-packed as salted herrings –
So full, they said, we had to hold our breaths
To close the door and shut the night-air out!
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| Mantegne's 1492 depiction of the Nativity |
Across the threshold, half in the ring of light
And half beyond it. I would have let them in
Despite the crowding – the woman was past her time –
But I’d no mind to argue with my husband,
The flagon in my hand and half the inn
Still clamouring for wine. But when trade slackened,
And when all our guests had sung themselves to bed
Or told the floor their troubles, I came out here
Where he had lodged them. The man was standing
As you are now, his hand smoothing that board –
He was a carpenter, I heard them say.
She rested on the straw, and on her arm
A child was lying. None of your crease-faced brats
Squalling their lungs out. Just lying there
As calm as a new-dropped calf – his eyes wide open,
And gazing round as if the world he saw
In the chaff-strewn light of the stable lantern
Was something beautiful and new and strange.
Ah well, he’ll have learnt different now, I reckon,
Wherever he is. And why I should recall
A scene like that, when times I would remember
Have passed beyond reliving, I cannot think.
It’s a trick you’re served by old possessions:
They have their memories too – too many memories.
Well, I must go in. There are meals to serve.
Join us there, Carpenter, when you’ve had enough
Of cattle-company. The world is a sad place,
But wine and music blunt the truth of it.
Clive Sansom
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| Fra Fillipo Lippi's Nativity from 1450 - it beats Bethlehem 2013 |
