Silent Night

We’re in the thick of the most wonderful time of the year. Unfortunately, it’s also the time of year when all that is not well is magnified. It’s the time of year when family dysfunction doesn’t go unnoticed; when financial hardships are harder than normal; when job loss can feel like the greatest loss; when broken dreams feel like splinters to the soul; when death feels like it’s had the final say; when grief lingers long and deep.

Somehow, in the face of all that’s wrong, we wear a stiff upper lip, and determine not to be the grinch.

We pretend that the cutting words and divisive actions of family members don’t hurt. We keep reminding ourselves that peace is worth the price of loneliness.

We max out credit cards and ignore the fact that the financial stress already choking us will tighten its grip in January. We give what we can’t afford because we’ve been sold on the commercialism of Christmas.

We live on deferred hope when what we really feel is defeat. We tell ourselves that if we can just get through this season, surely a new job will appear after the first of the year.

We delude ourselves into believing that a new year will bring with it some magic to make the heartache of broken dreams go away. We think back to January 1 — to all those plans and dreams and resolutions — and we’re reminded that we’ve failed . . . again. We want to believe next year will be different.

We remember every goodness about everyone and everything that has died. We dwell on the idea that surely we will see the goodness of God who raises the dead and makes all things new.

We push aside the grief that threatens to swallow us whole because we know people will remind us that it’s the most wonderful time of the year. We plaster smiles on our faces and ignore the grief simmering below the surface because that’s easier than acknowledging we’re a fragmented people who don’t bear each other’s burdens.

We desperately cling to an unravelling faith because Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without the baby Jesus.

We sing Christmas carols and hymns, and for a moment we relish in the fact that our voices haven’t been completely silenced.

But I wonder if we should sit in the silence and loss and grief. I wonder if that’s what Christmas is really about — the heartache of leaving all that’s familiar and comfortable only to be rejected time after time; finding refuge among the stench of animals; feeling the pain of flesh being ripped apart; depending on the kindness of strangers to show up and provide protection.

When our lives are chaotic and uncertain, I wonder if sitting in the solace of a silent night would bring comfort. We focus all season on the excitement of Christmas morning. But maybe the most wonderful time of the year is the silent night when everything is wrong, and the smell of shit invades our nostrils and permeates our clothes, and we finally scream in our pain that we just want it all to hurry up and be over. Maybe it’s then that Jesus steps into our world — into our grieving, lonely moment when we finally accept that nothing is as it should be. Maybe it’s then that our stiff upper lips, wet from salty, fallen tears, soften as we kiss away expectations and failures and disappointment and heartache. Maybe it’s then that the silent night becomes a holy night.