‘To meditate on the manger of Bethlehem is to realise that our life is not some meaningless sequence of events’, writes Andrew O’Connell
As the deep winter darkness falls like a curtain on the drama of 2014, we’re about to do what we’ve always done at this time of year: we return again to Bethlehem. We’ve been here before, but we discover it anew with an unchanged sense of wonder.
At the end of a year of ice buckets and Isis, we pause to gaze in silence at the familiar manger scene with its warm and welcoming glow. Yes, it is a romanticised and sentimental depiction – we are conveniently spared the smell of animals and the taste of poverty. But it transcends the sentimental.
This scene, this moment, this night, has a cosmic significance. The simple crib extends the frontiers of human experience and, in the words of St John Paul II, opens our eyes to the ‘prospect of God’s infinity’. To meditate on the manger of Bethlehem is to realise that our life is not some meaningless sequence of events. We are created. We are loved. We are saved. In the crib we glimpse our divine origin and eternal destiny.
Hodie Christus natus est. “Today a saviour has been born for us.” The angel is referring not only to that day 2,000 years ago, but also to our day. Christ is born this Christmas for us. The crib is not an historical artefact. It is a living thing.
Some will feel lonesome at the mention of Bethlehem. Absent loved ones and Christmases past come to mind. And, as we gaze at the crib, in some mysterious sense, we see them looking back at us.
There was an old Irish tradition that said the gates of Heaven were open on Christmas Eve. Anyone who departed this world on that night would pass at once into eternal happiness. In the crib, Heaven indeed touches Earth and we sense not only God’s infinity, but love’s eternity.
It is a tradition in our house to go to late Mass on Christmas Eve. Afterwards, as we drive home, leaving the lights of the town behind us, we see the stars overhead in all their silent glory and majesty.
On this night, their beauty is reflected in the twinkling of a thousand candles in the windows of the homes of north Kerry. As children, we would look up in the hope of catching a glimpse of Santa’s sleigh.
I still look up to the sky on Christmas Eve – not in the hope of seeing a sleigh, but to experience, for just a brief moment, the incredible silence and stillness.
On this Holy Night, it is as though God gives a gentle, cosmic wink and whispers, “Yes, I’m here. I’m looking after it all. I’m looking after you. All is well. Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry. “Hasten to Bethlehem to greet the Lord.” Venite Adoremus.
Light in the window
The candle in the window is one of the most beautiful and meaningful Christmas traditions. Symbolising the household’s welcome for the Holy Family at Christmas, it is thought the practice comes from penal times when the lit candle signalled a safe house for a priest on the run.
As in many homes, the candle was always lit in our house by the matriarch on Christmas Eve just as the Angelus bell sounded at 6 o’clock. It would be lit again each evening until January 6,
Little Christmas.
There’s a rich symbolism of welcome and hospitality behind this tradition. It would be nice to see it rediscovered and explained afresh.
Snowflakes in September
I was in a large department store in Dublin during the third week of September. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a shelf of Christmas-themed presents – on the 25th of September.
I like Christmas, but the sight of snowflakes in September was too much. I got talking to one of the managers and, while acknowledging her limited role in the decision, gently suggested it was daft to display Christmas merchandise in the month of September. “We’re actually a week late this year,” she responded sheepishly.
We often hear that climate change has disrupted the seasons of the year.
Materialism and consumerism have done their share of disrupting too. So expect to see the Easter eggs on the shelves in a few weeks’ time!
