Rory Fitzgerald
‘That sense of Christmas magic is undeniable and not even the hardest heart is immune’, writes Rory Fitzgerald
Christmas has sneaked up on us again, catching us unawares. It’s a happy surprise, though, to suddenly discover ourselves in this sparkling mid-winter oasis, after the drear and drudge of early winter.
Christmas is perfectly positioned in the astronomical calendar. Even though it falls in bleakest mid-winter, the darkest day is done and an imperceptible brightening already subtly, but surely, pushes back the darkness. Hearts are stirred by the Christmas story: the pathos of the bright infant born, small and vulnerable, on a bed of straw to a poor wandering couple. This is how light enters the world. Its most delicate ray shines in some humble place, and the whole Earth tips on its axis, and turns towards the sun.
Of course, every year many grumble and lament how the real meaning of Christmas is now forgotten, and the focus is all on material: the presents, the gizmos and the excess. Yet I am always amazed how easily smiles come to people’s faces each Christmas, how warmly they say “Happy Christmas” to strangers and how generosity overflows, among believers and non-believers alike. The Christmas spirit is one of the few aspects of Christian culture that has proven utterly invulnerable to the recent triumph of the secular across the Western world.
That sense of Christmas magic is undeniable and not even the hardest heart is immune. Even the modern, secular and commercialised version of Christmas remains covertly saturated with its truths: the gift-giving, the gaudy expressions of peace and love, the focus on children – even the acres of sparkling lights speak of transformation and hope: humdrum city streets become spangled outdoor palaces and so the dark of winter is somehow inverted, even mocked – it only serves to make the lights seem brighter.
And what of the younger generation? Walking quietly under Dublin’s Christmas lights with the kids, their amazed eyes looking upwards in a quiet awe, I asked my boy what he thought Christmas was really all about: “I do know one thing,” he said confidently, “it’s all about Jesus’ birthday!” My daughter chimed in: “And we will have a birthday cake with candles for him and eat Christmas pudding to celebrate.”
Close enough, I suppose.
Another year has flashed by. We are busy and bewildered, and in need of a break.
Break
The whole country is in need of a couple of weeks off, for we are collectively exhausted after seven years of economic hardship, even if it’s now allegedly coming to a tentative end. Those sumptuous days of reclining and thinking of naught are beckoning.
Ordinarily our enemies, at Christmas, the dark and cold become allies who graciously provide us with the perfect excuses to huddle indoors by the fire doing nothing, and going nowhere – just being. And somehow during those rambling days of cosy, fireside hours with family and friends, our hearts fill and flow with the season’s quiet joy, and we warm each other in the mid-winter.
