Okay, confession time. I'm quite introverted, and while I don't consider myself a misanthrope, I'm not overly impressed by what I observe as general human nature. Fortunately, there are some shining exceptions. The late Nelson Mandela is a recent example. The propensity of people to aid one another at times of disaster is another.
Further, I have fierce affection for my family and a few friends. Likewise, most people with whom I come in casual contact seem nice enough. But I'm seriously irritated by the apparently overwhelming distribution of bigotry, willful ignorance, dishonesty, self-absorption, violence and greed portrayed in the daily news. Not to mention all the violence, oppression, and general horror with which the historical record is replete.
I lay considerable store by rationality and objective truth. Obviously, I'm as subject to confirmation bias, intellectual laziness, and prejudice as other humans, but I do attempt to identify and compensate for these failings. I don't claim complete success, and doubtless some would claim I fail miserably. I do the best I can.
I have a wide range of interests, one of which is religion and Christian history in particular. My studies have led me to the conclusion that all the religions involving some sort of deity are man-made, and however emotionally satisfying they may be, their truth value is suspect to say the least. Which leads to the point of this essay after this windy introduction.
It follows that I tend to be annoyed, rather than moved, by all the hoopla surrounding Christmas. I cannot get excited over the celebration of the purported birth of the mythical god-man propounded by Paul and his successors. Short digression: it's irrelevant whether or not there was an historical mendicant preacher named Yeshua bin Yusef. That person, if he existed, was a believing, observant Jew, and he would have been appalled by the baroque myth the Church Fathers built in his name. Probably especially their co-opting the Roman pagan festival of Saturnalia for the celebration of his birth.
And yet – and yet – there's one relatively recent Christmas tradition which can move me. “A Christmas Carol,” (Dickens' novella, not the music – “Carol of the Bells” and “The Little Drummer Boy” can get on my last nerve), no matter how many times I have read it and seen it performed as a play or film, can have me on the verge of tears.
Why should this resonate with me so powerfully? Well, I suppose you could say I was fixated on the work by playing Bob Cratchit as a 5th grader in an elementary school production. But I think it goes deeper than that.
I think the theme of redemption – of a sea change for the better – appeals to me viscerally. I want to believe such change is possible, and not only for the individual. I want to believe our better angels can prevail and that we can make this into a more just and gentle society, however overwhelming the evidence to the contrary. I want to believe humans world-wide can come to their senses, recognize the suicidal course we are on, and work cooperatively to avoid the worst consequences of our past actions.
My intellect, of course, says “fat chance.” But even a fat chance is a chance. Occasionally long-shots do come home. So it's Christmas time. I saw the TV production with Patrick Stewart as Scrooge last night. Scrooge changed, and Tiny Tim lived. And I get emotional at the memory.
So, against my better judgment, I'll echo Tiny Tim. God bless us, every one.