Singing carols in community, gathering with loved ones are hallmarks of the season. How can we experience the same joy at this time if we are alone and surrounded by silence?
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| Photo, Ysabel de la Rosa, San Lorenzo Church, Verona, Italy |
I watched a Christmas concert on PBS last week. The large choir and orchestra lent majesty to melodies from my childhood. I sang those same songs in choirs, around the house with my sister, and in groups caroling in our small town.
I don’t remember singing any song alone, though. When I sing “Whose Child Is This?” in a church service, I have goosebumps. When I sing it alone at home, tears come to my eyes.
The tears have two causes. I remember those who sang through Christmas with me and I miss them. The tears also express succumbing to the penetrating beauty of the Christmas story, a tale of dreams, miracles, doubt, fear, danger, and new life. New life containing God’s presence, that presence an eternal gift. The beauty of the gift is beyond what I can conceive or imagine and yet it is as sure to me as the floor beneath my feet.
Being alone often makes me feel wrong at Christmas — left out, unloved, and ashamed that I’m alone. Family and friends love me, of course. And yet, love notwithstanding, no one is coming here and I cannot go where others are.
Mary was alone when Gabriel appeared. Her cousin Elizabeth was with child at an age that isolated her from all that was normal in her culture, making her socially alone (Before we call something miraculous, we usually discredit it as unbelievable). Accepting Mary’s pregnancy presented Joseph with a blessing that appeared to also be an unforgivable sin. Alone in his faith, he strayed from what society, religion, and culture taught was correct and pure. Joseph and Mary were alone when their son was born. No human home had room for them. They sheltered with animals in a stable. The Gospels say nothing of earthly human help; no midwife, no friend or relative of Joseph or Mary there to find food or aid for them.
Imagine the hush in the air after the baby was born. The strangeness of not being near the homes of Joseph’s or Mary’s families? The trip might have been impossible for others to make, or the shame of a baby born in a barn might have been too much to countenance. Contrary to many song lyrics, I believe Mary was too exhausted to hum a lullaby. As deadly as childbirth often was, I imagine Joseph silent with wonder and gratitude for the survival and health of his wife and son. Whatever sound there might have been most likely issued from a four-legged creature and perhaps the wind.
To arrive at this happy event under harsh and precarious circumstances, Mary and Joseph each heeded ephemeral, fleeting signs — a message from an angel, a dream in the middle of the night — signs that could have been instantly dismissed. Their desire to live a life connected to the Divine Source made them keenly attentive. Nothing was too small to be a sign from God, even signs appearing when each was alone and without witness.
If you will be alone at Christmas, I invite you to intentionally treasure this holy time in solitude. Gently pull these moments away from the fabric of the raucous spending of time and energy our society has labeled Christmas for too many years. Protect the silence, as fertile now as it was 2000 years ago, the quietude in which renewed life and creativity begin. If the spirit moves you to sing, do it, with all your heart. It’s about your expression of joy, not about being heard by anyone. Time alone at Christmas can lead us to look past what we want and welcome with new clarity what we are given.
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