Searching for the meaning of Christmas

I receive lots of responses from readers of my weekly column. I try to read every response. Sometimes the e-mails are so voluminous I start hitting “delete” quite quickly. From the contents of my “in” box, I am challenged, gain valuable information, am dismissed and affirmed. No matter the nature of the responses, I learn and am blessed (made happy or joyful).

Recently, I received a thoughtful e-mail that predicted the end of religion, at least among intelligent people. In part, this was my response: “I suspect the future of the world is not with scientists, but with poets, musicians, dancers, comedians and actors. … As long as there is a poet or a comedian, there will be religion.”

Christmas is upon us. While many will celebrate sitting in the midst of piles of junk we call gifts and kill the pain with vintage wine, champagne and whiskey, many others will find hope and joy in the Christmas message brought to us by poets, musicians, dancers, storytellers, actors and — yes — even some comedians.

If we look for the roots of the Christmas message, a prime source of inspiration is the eighth century Old Testament prophet named Isaiah. He was one of the world’s greatest poets. To visualize Isaiah as a 21st century preacher or a seer predicting the future is to do him a great injustice. His poetry found in chapter nine of the collection carrying his name sets the stage and points to the better way.

The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light.

Those who live in a land of deep darkness, on them light has shined.

The yoke of their burden and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor has been broken.

For the boots of tramping warriors and all their blood garments shall be burned as fuel for a fire.

For a child has been born for us, a son given to us.

Authority will rest on his shoulders and his authority will grow and there will be endless peace.

The peace theme continues in chapter 11.

A shoot shall come out from an old stump.

The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding.

He will not make decisions on what he sees or hears; but with righteousness he will consider the poor, and with equity he will decide for the meek of the earth.

A wolf will live with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and a little child will lead them all.

That which is holy will no longer be hurt or destroyed.

In chapter 40 of his poetic collection, he shares his vision.

A new path is being cut; a new road is being built.

Mountains are being leveled; chasms are being filled.

Uneven ground is being leveled; rough ground is being made smooth.

Power is given to the faint and strength to the powerless.

My own Christmas experience is largely defined by singing poetry set to music. I never tire of singing great Christmas carols.

O Come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant,

O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem.

Come and behold him, born the king of angels.

O come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord.

Sing with me one more time.

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,

the little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head.

The stars in the sky looked down where he lay,

the little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay.

Among my e-mail responses, Owen Virgeon, a retired Anglican priest in England, shared with me some of the poetry he had written about the Christ child. I share with you a shortened version of one of his poems.

Let’s sing a carol of power in weakness;

Let’s sing a carol of foolishness wise.

Lets sing a song of compassion and meekness, sparked by our joy in the Christ baby’s cries.

Sing of the goodness that overcomes evil, sing of a love that overcomes hate.

Sing of a God who doesn’t have favorites;

Sing of a kingdom with no nation state.

Weep for morality fueled by terror;

weep for the souls who “know” they are right.

Weep for the minds, who are sure what God’s thinking;

Weep for confusion of darkness for light.

These are the songs of the Lord of our Christmas;

This is the carol that angels would sing.

These are the songs that men dub as irrelevant;

These are the songs of our newly born king.

As long as there are poets, the Christ child message will never die.

The Rev. Howard Bess is a retired American Baptist minister. He lives in Palmer. His e-mail address is hdbss@mtaonline.net.