CHRISTMAS MEMORIES IN A LAND THAT IS CONFUSED

I get frustrated by not getting my way as I want it, when I want it.  I can get bent out of shape when traffic slows me, or someone has a problem in front of me at the supermarket checkout.  Especially when I pay for something, I expect to have it when I want it, and even feel entitled to it.  As such, I guess I fit in with most people in our society.

The latest battle in the undeclared (but bloody, oh so bloody) War on Christmas was that some people didn’t get their Christmas presents when they wanted them.  TV news programs dutifully reported the outrage.  People whose “Christmas was ruined” or those whose “Christmas joy was stolen by a Grinch”.  I’m sure it was frustrating—and like everything else we feel we’re entitled to, there was someone to blame.  “FedEx didn’t keep their promise”, one unhappy Christmas-ite said. No recognition—at least not aired—that maybe they waited until the last minute to order, that the delivery systems were overtaxed, that weather happened, or that even—saints preserve us—stuff doesn’t work out sometimes.  In fact, in much of the world, including in Bethlehem, a lot of stuff doesn’t work out a lot of the time.  But that didn’t stop the baby being born.

One person said, “We lost a Christmas memory. One we will never get back.”  Now leaving aside the fact that you can’t have a memory of something that hasn’t happened, it makes me wonder if we’ve become a people with a skewed sense of what memory is.  Do we really cherish the memories of our experiences, or have we become so set on “capturing” memories that the thing captured becomes more important than the life event we lived?

My wife and I were in Paris for our 25^th anniversary this past fall, and went to the Louvre one day.  We got to the room with the Mona Lisa early enough so that we could almost get close enough to see it (when we passed by a couple hours later, it would have been almost impossible to get into the room, crowded as it was with hundreds of people).  Almost everyone was taking a photo of the painting, and we saw many people who never looked at the painting except through their camera or smart phone. 

That happened in almost every gallery we went to.  People walking in and taking a photo—snap, snap, snap—of every picture they could, without every looking at the photo itself.  I don’t know the quality of the photos they got, but it troubles me that they seemed so obsessed with having their machine preserve their memory, instead of relying on the wonderful eyes, brain, mind and spirit of the amazing human being they are.

I suppose the idea is that they can now show their friends and family: “See, I was there. Here’s the photo”.  As if that will either convince or awe the person who sees it. 

Granted, I’ve posted photos of our trip on Face Book, and believe in the power of images.  I also believe in the power of words, of telling a story.  If a picture is worth a thousand words, a story that creates a picture in the hearer’s mind can create a whole world.  I fear for the diminishment of language in our culture in so many ways. One of them is the elevation of the machine as the recorder of our memories, and a lack of trust in our ability to create narratives that embody who we are and what we’ve experienced.

There’s a photo (below) that was on AOL’s front page this Christmas that I’ve attached. (If I’ve broken any copyright laws, sue me). I wasn’t there at what looks to be an amazingly beautiful display of light. I’m not sure people in the foreground were really there either.  Note the little phones they have out “capturing” the event.

I don’t know how much of the experience they “got” on those little screens.  They were preserving a two-dimensional image of a multi-dimensional event.  I imagine some of them sent the image in “real time” to friends around the world, or in another part of the park.  I just wonder how much they—how much we—are truly present to the experience itself.

Just asking, as the kids say.  (Actually, they say “just sayin’” even when it’s often a question they are posing).

We took about 700 pictures on our anniversary trip, and quite a few of them help me remember. Help me.  When we sit and talk about them, the picture of St. Brigid’s Cathedral will lead us to a story of the man at the café and the man at the tourist office there in Kildare.  I don’t have a photo of either one of them.  But I have very clear memories of what we shared.

Be beauty. Be justice.  Be memory.

Patrick

TOYS FOR TOTS? NO, THANK YOU JESUS!

‘Tis the season to remember the poor again.  Especially the poor kids we love to love so much. Some of us remembered them with backpacks at the beginning of the school year.  Some of us remembered them with scholarships to summer camp. We remembered them and their families at Thanksgiving with turkey dinners around town.  And now the biggest remembrance of them all: it’s toy time for the poor children, so that “they can have a brighter holiday”.

Pardon my cynicism.  Actually, I don’t want you to pardon it.  I want you to embrace it.  It’s this seasonal remembrance that punctuates our year-long amnesia about poverty in our midst that is the most cynical of operations.  I have no doubt that many of us are motivated by feelings of good will when we bring a toy to “Toys for Tots” or our office charity event.  I don’t doubt that it makes people feel good—usually the people who give the toy.  I just think it can do more harm than good.

Transparency alert:

I’m not writing this as someone who is absolutely clean of toys for poor kids, in order to celebrate a poor kid born in a barn. Tomorrow, we will help around 100 families participate at Lutheran Social Services Holiday Store, where parents can buy—for a small amount—gifts for their children; and children can buy—again at a small amount—gifts for their parents.  I’m grateful for the gifts that were donated for this store, and those who did the donating.  And I’m not opposed to just plain giving people stuff, nor do I think that BUYING is the supreme value in life.  But the Holiday Store does see poor people as having something to give, and not just as objects of charity.

(“But we like giving to charity!”  Why?  Do we find it effective?  Does it reduce poverty or bring healing? If we are truly interested in helping people, why don’t we “give” to justice, or “give” to development, both of which get at root causes.  Or better, why don’t we “live” justice and “live” radical hospitality with all people.)

These are some of the bromides[i] I’ve heard about the annual REMEMBRANCE OF THE TOY KING!

“Help a child by giving them the only toy they’ll receive this Christmas”.  I seriously doubt it.  I’ve worked in neighborhoods that are economically poor for over 30 years, and almost every kid gets toys.  Many families living in poverty are awash in the same mania of toys—including digital, expensive toys—that everyone else is.  True, there are a few families who are so poor the children may not have any new toys this Christmas. But usually that means they also don’t have enough food or warmth or housing, either, and a toy isn’t going to brighten their Christmas any.

“Help brighten up a needy child’s Christmas”.  As if poor people can’t celebrate Christmas without our help!  Have you noticed how poor people celebrate Christmas?  Birthdays? Quinceañeras?  June Teenth?  Mother’s Day and Father’s Day?  They are usually not skimpy celebrations!  (Sometimes they can go into debt for bash, which is a whole ‘nother issue).  There’s almost always an abundance of food, of people, of warmth.  Most celebrations are real celebrations.  It is perhaps those of us who are not poor who could learn how to celebrate Christmas by hanging out with people who are.  We might learn something about hospitality and rejoicing.

(While we’re on the subject, I would love to see someone create a manger scene that reflects how communities of poverty respond to birth.  Usually scenes of the manger where Jesus was born are chillingly antiseptic—in a barn!—with Mary radiantly otherworldly, Joseph stoic, and a few clean shepherds at a safe distance.  I have a feeling that the first Christmas was a lot more chaotic and dynamic than that, with lots of people in Bethlehem showing up to help.  Señora Hernandez starting slapping tortillas on a big comal.  Sister Williams got a big pot of greens going.  Huck brought his banjo, and Grace brought her violin, and Afaa brought out his drums, and the kids were playing stickball and soccer in the street.  They even gave a plate of food to the soldiers standing guard in the cold.  That’s how I imagine Christmas first went, and how I hope it will go for us this year!)

(My siblings will remember the manger scene my father made out of chicken wire, paper maché—a Judean hillside, with real dirt and real corn and grass growing, with paths leading up to the holy cave.  One of the first poems I ever wrote was about that (I hope I can find it someday!) I remember the first lines went like this:

“Jesus was born dirt poor,” my father said,

and then he hauled in the dirt.)

More bromides for Polyphemus:

“Give them a Christmas to remember.”  Poor people who celebrate Christmas don’t forget it.  And those who don’t celebrate Christmas almost always have another remembrance that gives them hope.  Usually those remembrances go beyond the surface happiness of a good time with presents and food, and include a longing for hope in the midst of struggle.  And isn’t that what the whole Christmas story is about?  A poor family having to leave their town, due to global forces, travel to a place they are not welcomed, be pursued by a rage filled king who kills innocent children—and yet, in the midst of that, this marvelous promise of shalom on earth?  The joy of those who remember is grounded in a struggle for life.   On a weekend in which we remember Nelson Mandela (Oh Lord, help us not to forget him!  And help us to remember that our nation branded him a terrorist, and gave guns to the South African military), let us remember that this most joyful man—a radiant smile, bright eyes, welcoming voice—had his joy forged in injustice and imprisonment. And yet he never lost hope.

One more thing: “Toys for Tots” is a program of the US Marines, and every night now on the NBC affiliate here in Minneapolis you’ll see people and businesses bringing their toys and checks to present to a Marine in full dress blues.  What will Herod think of next?!  I have nothing against those men and women who serve in the military, often at great sacrifice.  I do have a problem with thus “remembering” the poor during the season dedicated to the Prince of Peace who suffered violence at the hands of an empire’s army who was known for invading and occupying countries poorer than them.  Both my parents served in World War II, and my dad saw some very difficult combat.  I’m proud of them both, but I ask why every country we’ve invaded since then has been poorer than us?  I will pray this Christmas that someday the proud marine will stand on TV in dress blues—blue overalls—with his sword beaten into a plow, ready to plant. (Isaiah 2)

If you give a toy to a child this Christmas—or if you don’t—ask yourself these two questions: Why am I doing this—who benefits? Why do we live in a world where we think that is needed?

That’s three questions (!), and I’m sure there are more.

 

Be Justice this holiday time—and not just charity

Be Beauty this special time—a beauty that can encompass grief

Be Cynical—but be hopeful

 

Patrick

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[i] Here’s the definition of bromide I found on-line: 1) a drug that makes a person calm, 2) a statement that is intended to make people feel happier or calmer but that is not original or effective.