O Tannenbaum

I am always amused by the controversies aroused by Christmas celebrations.  I was born into a family of very nominally practicing Christians, well, my father was a Unitarian, and not a Christian at all, and since he died when I was six, I guess we can't even count him.  Mother was an aesthetic Episcopalian which is to say that she enjoyed the drama and lights of the major holy days.  Christmas dinner was big with her, which had been preceded by Midnight Mass and lots of carol singing, and invitations to her Easter dinners were always a prize at which time she reminded us children that it was the herald of spring, good cheer, and hope.  I don't remember lingering much on the Crucifixion, the Descent and the Resurrection.  My second wife and I raised our four children in a home devoid of religious instruction; I don't think she had ever been to church, and I who was once a devout altar boy and crucifer, left religion completely at the age of sixteen although I was happy when I married my first wife to discover that she shared my mother's love of the Episcopal church as an occasion to experience ritual, drama, good lights and music.  There was always a wonderful Christmas tree in my life, the decorating of which was a joyous ritual, the eventual removal a pain in the ass.  In all the years of my association with it I never thought of it in connection with the story of the birth of the Christian god.  Early on I had studied history and comparative cultures enough to know that the so-called Christmas tree was simply an add-on, implying nothing about Christian faith, and enjoyed it as such.  Christmas carols which I sang lustily every chance I got were more obviously depicting that event but telling someone, for instance, the story that unfolds in "Gone With The Wind" does not require my believing it.  I remember when living in Brookline Massachusetts that it was largely the Jewish parents of my children's friends who complained to the school administration when it decreed that there would be no more singing of carols, insisting on keeping them on the grounds that they were beautiful, a traditional part of the season, and one could mouth the words and intone the music as a joyous aesthetic communal experience without a commitment of belief.  But then of course most everyone in Brookline in those days was a liberal, instinctively ecumenical.  Anyone who has stepped into a public space between Thanksgiving and Christmas has certainly suffered the assault of aggressive commercialism, of elevator music swing--even hip hop--versions of those hymns I remember singing in candlelight processions on the Eve.  There is nothing that brings to mind the story of the Angel of the Lord revealing to that frightened poor girl that she is going to achieve instant stardom, bothersome celebrity, that her quiet pleasant marriage to that unassuming Joseph is going to be upended with agents, reporters, television cameras, total misery.  I love the lights, the tinsel, the smell of a pine trees, wishing people Merry Christmas.  Sappy as this may sound, I don't think it's anything more than the Season of Feeling Friendly, Cheerful, and maybe, even, --for a grouch like me--a teeny bit happy, once I learned to stay out of the stores, and have gone through rehab and no longer give presents.