God bless the child December 25, 2006
SOME YEARS AGO, I REMEMBER GETTING A letter from an irate reader protesting something I wrote about Christmas, intimating that her wrath was the least I should worry about: a more fiery fate awaited me in the afterlife. What got her goat was my depiction of the Nativity. I said that the true magic of Christmas lay in that the Savior or Redeemer—as Christians take Jesus Christ to be—was born not in finery but in filth, not in glorious pomp but in abject poverty.
I described in some detail what the Three Kings might have seen at the end of their journey that dark night. There was nothing peaceful and calm about that night, it was a wintry night, the winds howling and the dogs baying fearfully in a land God seemed to have forgotten. Proof of that was that the inns were full, weary travelers resting their bones with the aid of liberal libations. That was why the innkeepers turned away the two strangers who knocked on their doors, the woman heavy with child. The ragged appearance of the two, which suggested they could not afford the inn rates, did not help any.
Proof too that it was cold as hell was that the owner of the barn that housed the animals did not bestir himself that night to check on the condition of the animals, if not the barn itself. There is no mention in the Nativity story of Joseph having knocked on the door of the shepherd to ask permission to seek shelter there. We can only guess at the smells that assaulted the Three Kings as they made their way inside: We may safely assume they were nowhere near the pungent smell of pine and grass suggested by belens and Christmas trees.
And the sight they beheld! They would have seen a couple in tattered rags not unlike the indigenous folk that descend on Metro Manila during the holidays, being turned away angrily by shops and restaurants. They would have seen a newborn child covered with hay and straw and whatever was to be found there to keep him warm. I doubt they would have seen a beam of light coming from heaven, or the fabled Star, setting the child aglow. I doubt they would have heard an angelic chorus break from the clouds and set the scene afire. Maybe, they might have espied a little drummer boy in a corner singing, “I am a poor boy too parampampampam… I have no gifts to bring to lay before a king parampampampam,” which he did in fact have. But that’s another story.
In short, there would have been no external divine or cinematic special effects to show the Three Kings that they had not trekked in vain or were being epically delusional. For them to be possessed of the certainty they were in the presence of divinity, for them to fall on their knees on ground full of animal leavings and lay out before the child their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, ah, but they themselves must have received the gift of insight, the gift of sight. That is what thrills me no end about the Christmas story.
But for some reason, my reader took rather violent exception to this, and like I said unleashed upon me apocalyptic visions to visit my sacrilege. She was unshakeable in her conviction that the world as we knew it was radically transformed at the moment of Christ’s birth, so that He no longer wore swaddling clothes, if He wore any at all, but was garbed in regal raiment not unlike the one found in various icons of the Sto. Niño. She was certain angelic voices filled the air, if not to form the strain of Handel’s “Messiah” or any recognizable Christmas carol, at least to fill the human ear with the most heavenly tintinnabulations.
Well, to each his own. From quite another angle, there’s that part in “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade,” somewhere near the end, that is not unlike what I’m saying. They finally reach the place where the Holy Grail lies, but the problem is that there isn’t just one grail but a whole slew of grails. Drinking water from the right cup brings everlasting life and from the wrong one instant death. The villain chooses the most regal among the cups, one befitting a king, drinks from it and crumbles to dust. Jones picks a shabby cup tucked in one obscure corner and brings life back to his father.
It’s the gift of insight, or plainly the gift of sight, that makes us see divinity, that gives us the spark of divinity. And that is the even greater magic of the Christmas story because I figure that that gift of sight or insight simply came from the Three Kings suddenly looking at the world from the eyes of a child. Not unlike those possessed by the child they beheld. Magically, the Three Kings became the Three Wise Men by looking at the world with the wonder-filled or awe-stricken eyes of the little drummer boy.
It is no small irony in that we are a nation that is especially fond of the Christ-child, celebrating the Sto. Niño with near-fanatical passion, and yet unable to see things with the eyes of that Child. We are a people who are easily waylaid by appearances, who prefer porma to essence, ritual to practice, wearing finery to Mass and murdering our fellows with impunity afterward; who assess the world through the greed-filled eyes of “adults” rather than with the simplicity of the innocent. We garb the Sto. Niño in royal robes and do not see the street children strewn on sidewalks, who dream of heaven through the fumes of rugby. Well, the Sto. Niño was born in a state not unlike them, too.
I don’t know, but I half-suspect we’ll never find heaven by scanning around for the special effects. I don’t know if it’s there in the Bible, but I seem to recall that Jesus Christ said something once to the effect that only those who become like a child again will enter the Kingdom of God.
Take it from Billie Holiday too: God bless the child.
Merry Christmas everyone.
http://opinion.inquirer.net/inquireropinion/columns/view_article.php?article_id=40087
I described in some detail what the Three Kings might have seen at the end of their journey that dark night. There was nothing peaceful and calm about that night, it was a wintry night, the winds howling and the dogs baying fearfully in a land God seemed to have forgotten. Proof of that was that the inns were full, weary travelers resting their bones with the aid of liberal libations. That was why the innkeepers turned away the two strangers who knocked on their doors, the woman heavy with child. The ragged appearance of the two, which suggested they could not afford the inn rates, did not help any.
Proof too that it was cold as hell was that the owner of the barn that housed the animals did not bestir himself that night to check on the condition of the animals, if not the barn itself. There is no mention in the Nativity story of Joseph having knocked on the door of the shepherd to ask permission to seek shelter there. We can only guess at the smells that assaulted the Three Kings as they made their way inside: We may safely assume they were nowhere near the pungent smell of pine and grass suggested by belens and Christmas trees.
And the sight they beheld! They would have seen a couple in tattered rags not unlike the indigenous folk that descend on Metro Manila during the holidays, being turned away angrily by shops and restaurants. They would have seen a newborn child covered with hay and straw and whatever was to be found there to keep him warm. I doubt they would have seen a beam of light coming from heaven, or the fabled Star, setting the child aglow. I doubt they would have heard an angelic chorus break from the clouds and set the scene afire. Maybe, they might have espied a little drummer boy in a corner singing, “I am a poor boy too parampampampam… I have no gifts to bring to lay before a king parampampampam,” which he did in fact have. But that’s another story.
In short, there would have been no external divine or cinematic special effects to show the Three Kings that they had not trekked in vain or were being epically delusional. For them to be possessed of the certainty they were in the presence of divinity, for them to fall on their knees on ground full of animal leavings and lay out before the child their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, ah, but they themselves must have received the gift of insight, the gift of sight. That is what thrills me no end about the Christmas story.
But for some reason, my reader took rather violent exception to this, and like I said unleashed upon me apocalyptic visions to visit my sacrilege. She was unshakeable in her conviction that the world as we knew it was radically transformed at the moment of Christ’s birth, so that He no longer wore swaddling clothes, if He wore any at all, but was garbed in regal raiment not unlike the one found in various icons of the Sto. Niño. She was certain angelic voices filled the air, if not to form the strain of Handel’s “Messiah” or any recognizable Christmas carol, at least to fill the human ear with the most heavenly tintinnabulations.
Well, to each his own. From quite another angle, there’s that part in “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade,” somewhere near the end, that is not unlike what I’m saying. They finally reach the place where the Holy Grail lies, but the problem is that there isn’t just one grail but a whole slew of grails. Drinking water from the right cup brings everlasting life and from the wrong one instant death. The villain chooses the most regal among the cups, one befitting a king, drinks from it and crumbles to dust. Jones picks a shabby cup tucked in one obscure corner and brings life back to his father.
It’s the gift of insight, or plainly the gift of sight, that makes us see divinity, that gives us the spark of divinity. And that is the even greater magic of the Christmas story because I figure that that gift of sight or insight simply came from the Three Kings suddenly looking at the world from the eyes of a child. Not unlike those possessed by the child they beheld. Magically, the Three Kings became the Three Wise Men by looking at the world with the wonder-filled or awe-stricken eyes of the little drummer boy.
It is no small irony in that we are a nation that is especially fond of the Christ-child, celebrating the Sto. Niño with near-fanatical passion, and yet unable to see things with the eyes of that Child. We are a people who are easily waylaid by appearances, who prefer porma to essence, ritual to practice, wearing finery to Mass and murdering our fellows with impunity afterward; who assess the world through the greed-filled eyes of “adults” rather than with the simplicity of the innocent. We garb the Sto. Niño in royal robes and do not see the street children strewn on sidewalks, who dream of heaven through the fumes of rugby. Well, the Sto. Niño was born in a state not unlike them, too.
I don’t know, but I half-suspect we’ll never find heaven by scanning around for the special effects. I don’t know if it’s there in the Bible, but I seem to recall that Jesus Christ said something once to the effect that only those who become like a child again will enter the Kingdom of God.
Take it from Billie Holiday too: God bless the child.
Merry Christmas everyone.
http://opinion.inquirer.net/inquireropinion/columns/view_article.php?article_id=40087
posted by dqfan06 @ 3:38 AM
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