I am forever grateful to the church fathers—and the emperor Constantine—who established Christmas, the celebration of Jesus’ birth in the little town of Bethlehem, at the end of the year, in the dark days of December (dark here, at least, in the Northern Hemisphere). There is a lot of debate about why December 25 was eventually chosen as the day on the Gregorian calendar when many of the world’s Christians would celebrate the birth of our Savior, a birth foretold by a star in the East. I’m glad for the late December date.
Think of all our beloved traditions around the holiday season. I mean, who would put up lights when the sun doesn’t go down till nine o’clock? Or drag a tree inside to decorate when it’s warm out? And stockings hung over a crackling fire? Not in August. There’s something wonderful about getting bundled up for midnight church services. And carolers rosy-cheeked in their scarves and hand muffs, their breath rising in little clouds on the cold winter air. Or the smell of a roasting turkey when we walk into the warmth of a relative’s home. Snow drifting down on a crèche in the front yard…
I confess I’m being somewhat regionally chauvinistic. Not everyone has frost on the windows in late December, and I don’t mind missing out on a white Christmas. Most meaningful to me is that Christmas bridges the past and the future. We look back on the dimming year and see our struggles and our blessings, our joys and our sorrows. In the long, cold night of December, a star emerges. The light of the world, burning brightest in darkness, leads us into a new year and new blessings.
We may never know exactly when Jesus was born, only that he came to redeem us and bring us into the light of eternity. This will be the first Christmas in many years that I will celebrate without my wife, Julee, who passed away in June. She loved decorating our tree with all the ornaments she collected over the years. Most of all she loved the star atop the tree. That star will burn a little brighter for me and Gracie this year.
