As a child, there was something special about Christmas. Sure, it was partly about the mystery of the Winter Solstice, when the globe’s rotational physics reaches its stretching point. I would wonder on occasion … what would happen if the earth’s axis did not self-correct? Inevitably, though, the subsequent days would grow longer, thereby suggesting warmer times ahead.

And, of course, there was the anticipation of a brand new calendar year and all the hope attached to this annual ritual. Okay, nothing really changes as one year transitions into the next, other than an excessive intake of spirits along with too many easily ignored and ill-considered promises to remake one’s life. Still, the promise of newness and renewal adds something special to this season.

Nothing, however, adds more magic to the season than the narrative surrounding Christ’s birth. As a kid, even a teenager, I was moved by the story. Wandering travelers, in particular the teen mother to be, are seeking shelter for the night as they return home to register for a mandated census. Consigned to a stable … magic happens. A bright light in the sky signals a momentous event. Wise men bearing gifts appear literally from nowhere. Even the lowly animals nearby are moved by events they might possibly apprehend but could never understand.

I can yet recall one Christmas eve in Worcester Mass. I was a teen and had pretty much decided to enter a Catholic seminary that prepared male believers for foreign missionary work in the service of my faith. That’s right, the left-wing socialist you know and love had bought totally into the foundational Christian (i.e., Catholic) narrative. On this particular occasion, however, we were hit with two consecutive snowstorms that paralyzed the city. That Xmas eve, I recall walking (in the middle of the street) the two blocks to our local church. There were five Catholic churches in the area, divided by ethnic allegiance. My local one was Lithuanian. I cannot recall now if I was going to an event or just seeking the quiet presence offered by the smells (from incense and candles) as well as the special sentiments attached to this holy sanctuary.

It was the journey to the church that has stayed with me. Any progress was labored that night. The snow was up to my knees, at least. Nothing was moving. The only audible sounds were faint Christmas music wafting from the tenements on either side of the road. It was the kind of classic wintertime scene ordered up by God explicitly for this season and for the purpose of making each of us reflect. The blanket of snow had been heavy, so everything was covered in undiluted whiteness with a few flakes yet descending from the darkness above. All was clean and pure … in fact, perfect. In that moment, I fully believed in my faith’s foundational myth, the story of Christ’s birth. I embraced all of its sentimental detail, facts that defied logic yet moved me. I must have been moved … that image has remained with me to this day.

Over time, the magic of the moment, along with my simple beliefs, faded. I lasted a little over one year in the seminary. In the spring of 1994, I matriculated at Clark University, a very secular school designated as a den of atheists and Communists within the local Catholic community. Had I not detoured into my failed effort at sainthood, I never would have considered Clark. I would have gone to Holy Cross … a very good Jesuit institution but one well within the tentacles of my very Catholic cocoon. However, my life trajectory had been fundamentally ruptured by my detour to Clark.

My earlier decision to leave the seminary increasingly became clear to me. I had never really believed in the Christ story. After all, that was based on second-hand, hearsay testimony by people who never witnessed anything first-hand. At best, this was questionable evidence that would never be admitted in a court of law. There are few, if any, primary accounts from reliable sources that Jesus was an actual, historical figure. Surely nothing definitive exists as to the timing and circumstances of his birth. The date of December 25 itself was picked out of a hat, most likely since it coincided with Pagan celebrations related to the winter Solstice and a tribal desire for new beginnings. Some scholars put the year at plus or minus 3 years from the agreed upon date. In any case, any real historical Jesus likely was a local rebel who traveled the land fighting the establishment and raising hell for the establishment. He would have been put to death as a troublesome revolutionary.

But therein lies the real magic of the season. While the story handed down to us pulls at our heartstrings, that is not what is important. The message attributed to the Christ figure is what moved me as a young Catholic. In reality, it is the core message found in most major religious traditions, at least once you discard the surrounding nonsense. The message of love and doing good, especially for others you would normally ignore, is what inspired me as a young man. That message can yet touch me even as an old fart. It is universal and immutable.

I can still tear up as I watch any version of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Why? Because it is Christ’s message (whether or not he is responsible) in its purest form. Love one another. 💓 That’s it. That is all of it. Of course, throwing in a blanket of snow just for tonight would help a bit 🙄.

Happy Holidays!