Sad, Sad Christmas Stories
In Gallup’s Strengthfinders assessment, I score high on “Input.” Characteristics of that trait include curiosity, the propensity to read and collect knowledge, and the tendency to draw from multiple sources to discover themes and patterns.
“On brand” for that definition, I have an affinity for old books that wrap cosmic truths in masterfully-spun stories. Books that were written before the age of mass publishing are marked by a quality of writing that outweighs the pressure to produce profit. As a result, they tend to tell the truth about the hard realities of the world.
Over time, George MacDonald, a Scottish preacher who significantly influenced the faith and writings of C.S. Lewis and JR Tolkien, has risen to the top of my favorite authors list. MacDonald is to writing as Rembrandt is to painting. Both are masters of their craft. Both illuminate the truths of the human condition. Both use darkness to draw the eye (and heart) to the light.
Several years ago, I was delighted to find a book of MacDonald’s Christmas stories for children. The cheerful cover painted a scene any parent would hope to replicate — an attentive father with an open book on his lap, surrounded by adoring children nestled in a cozy room complete with a twinkling Christmas tree and stockings hung by a glowing fire.
With my own children snuggled on my lap, I opened our new treasure and began to read aloud.
The story revolved around a very young girl who had already suffered much loss. She had endured the death of a parent, emotional abandonment, and deep loneliness. All hard realities to introduce to my own children — but I trusted MacDonald. We kept reading.
Sometimes trust takes us to hard and unexpected places.
Sometimes trust leads us straight into darkness.
The story progressed. The tone had been dismal and foreboding, but I did not anticipated what eventually unfolded as little Posy discovered her newborn brother (who she thought was the baby Jesus) on Christmas morning:
“As she sat, she began to model her face to the likeness of his, that she might understand his stillness — the absolute peace that dwelt on his countenance. But as she did so, again a sudden doubt invaded her. Jesus lay so very still — never moved, never opened his pale eyelids! And now set thinking, she noted that he did not breathe. She had seen babies asleep, and their breath came and went — their little bosoms heaved up and down, and sometimes they would smile, and sometimes they would moan and sigh. But Jesus did none of those things. Was it not strange? And he was cold — so cold.”
What in the world?
How could such a story be considered appropriate for children?
Why would MacDonald weave such despair into a story intended for Christmas, a season marked by joy and hopefulness? A confounding question complicated by his being a man of deep insight and faith.
Over the years as I’ve become a dutiful student of MacDonald’s writing, I’ve come to better understand the essence and power of his work. Through his stories written for audiences of all ages, consistent themes emerge:
Wisdom is gained at a price.
Telling the truth about darkness tills the soil of the soul.
Pain and loss are often the path toward becoming more fully human.
In his stories, George MacDonald uses sorrow not to crush the heart, but to soften it to grace. The oldest, truest story does the same.
“They will look to the earth, but behold, distress and darkness, the gloom of anguish. And they will be thrust into thick darkness.” Isaiah 8:22
That particular gloom of anguish lasted for seven centuries.
For some, seeing and naming the realities of darkness come quickly:
Grief due to the loss of a loved one, loss of a dream, broken bodies or broken relationships.
Despair due to lack of purpose or belief that there is “more” to life than we can currently see.
Helplessness given the overwhelming nature of political strife, injustice, and oppression at the expense of the “least of these.”
Distraction is tempting. Glowing screens and saturated schedules numb our deepest longings. We are all too easily lulled into complacency and settle for the fluorescent lights of power, comfort, or pleasure. Our eyes adjust to our self-made light, reducing sensitivity to the truest, brightest, eternal Light. Letting go of our strategies and striving requires trust.
And sometimes, trust takes us to hard and unexpected places.
Sometimes trust leads us straight into darkness.
Not to abandon us there, but to prepare us for light.
This is the strange, beautiful gift of Christmas.
“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. . . In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” John 1: 1-2, 4-5
Being willing to sit in the hard truth of deafening darkness — in the deep sorrows and brokenness of the world, our communities, in the depths of our own hearts, and even in reading sad, sad Christmas stories — prepares us to receive the gift of unfailing Hope.
Oh come to us, abide with us, our Lord Emmanuel.
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