If Christmas

If Christmas were all about glitter and lights

and gifts under a Charlie Brown pine,

perched awkwardly, displacing a more permanent resident chair;

if it were just about cards and carols sung off-key at children’s plays,

with lop-sided crowns and angels sporting withering wings—as cute as that is;

if it were just about expectation of giving and receiving more stuff,

then I would be the Grinch’s biggest fan.

Disappointment would not be worth the price of turkey and pumpkin pie.

But as much as it can be about family and fellowship, the good and ugly

in all of that;

and as much as it is about traditions and nostalgia, the good, quaint, and sometimes trite

in all of that;

even more, it is about the crèche, lost in the parade of tinsel, tumult, and talk.

It’s the spectacle of God humiliating Himself to accommodate a fallen race,

becoming of us,

to buy us back,

willing to live and suffer for that joy beyond it all.

And if we have truly missed the wonder because of the raving repetition of traditions,

the busy busy of buying,

then we have missed it all.

This year, I think I should have one decoration, at least in my heart:

a baby in a manger come to redeem His beloved and to fill the hole in our hearts with

His joy.