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The month of December long has been among my favorites on the calendar. Partly because of the fact that the newly fallen snow that carpets the ground offers a form of rebirth to a city drowning in decay. The flakes seem to conspire to cover the age and ugliness of our streets with sparkling brilliance, and the rhythmic crunching of them under my heel gives new spring to my tired step. It also is partially due to the notion that the coming new year offers a fresh chance for redemption. All slates are wiped clean as the big apple descends on Times Square. The first kiss that you plant on your lover's lips one second after midnight is but a big toe dipped into a vast ocean known as the new millennium. There can be no greater tonic for a city--one that has treated its past with the same type of care that a prospector shows to a rented mule--than to give the Etch-a-Sketch a mighty shake and erase all the bad decisions and missed opportunities that combined to create such an unsightly mess.
Not coincidentally, the month of December also finds the major western religions all celebrating festivals that warm to the theme of rededication and rebirth.
Muslims celebrate Ramadan. The ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar is holy because it was during this month that the sacred Koran was revealed. All adults of sound mind and body fast daily from dawn to dusk to achieve spiritual and physical purification and self-discipline. No food, drink or intimate relations are permitted. It is a time for feeling a common bond with the poor and needy, a time of piety and prayer. Some Muslims make the pilgrimage to Mecca, the Holy Land that signifies the center of the Muslim universe. Only those of the Muslim faith truly can appreciate the sanctity of the pilgrimage; non-Muslims are forbidden to make the trek. The words of a ninth century pilgrim offer insight. "On my first pilgrimage," he spoke, "I saw only the temple. The second time, I saw both the temple and the lord of the temple. And the third time, I saw the Lord alone."
On Dec. 26, African-American families observe Kwanzaa. Originating in 1966, Kwanzaa recognizes the traditional African harvest festivals. The holiday stresses the unity of black families and of the African-American community as a whole. Kwanzaa, which translates to "first fruit" in Swahili, climaxes with a community-wide harvest feast (Karamu) on the seventh day of the festival.
Hanukkah is the Jewish festival of lights, or Feast of Dedication. The eight-day celebration commemorates the victory of the Maccabees over the Syrians in 165 BC, and the rededication of the temple of Jerusalem. Hanukkah means "dedication" in Hebrew. Legend has it that the Greeks who occupied the temple had defiled all of the oil that had been stored. When the Hasmoneans reclaimed the temple, they found only one small flask of oil, enough to light the Menorah for just one day. A miracle occurred, and the oil burned for eight days. Jews today commemorate this miracle each year by kindling the lights of Hanukkah over an eight-day period.
Of course, Dec. 25 brings us Christmas, the Christian festival commemorating the birth of Jesus of Nazareth. Christmas, as a feast of the nativity, dates from the fourth century. Jesus' birth date was not accurately known. The western church selected Dec. 25 to counteract non-Christian festivals of that approximate date. Many customs from non-Christian festivals--Roman Saturnalia, Mithraic sun's birthday, Teutonic Yule, Druidic and other winter solstice rites--have been adapted as part of our Christmas celebration. Lights, mistletoe, holly and ivy, holiday tree, wassailing and gift-giving are but a few. But Santa Claus and Frosty the Snowman aside, what Christmas is about, at its core, is the belief in a Messiah son, born of immaculate conception, sent to shine a beacon for all men to follow.
The common thread that runs through all of these celebrations is one of hope and belief. When it comes right down to it, what do we really own other than our dreams and our faith? That is why this is known as the season of giving. For a brief moment, we become in tune with those less fortunate than ourselves, and we reverberate to the words of John Lennon, "I am he, as you are me, and we are all together."
Just as Mary awaited the birth of her chosen child, so, too, do we await a birth. The birth of a new year, a new century, a new millennium, a new start for mankind. I am reminded of the words of Unitarian Minister Frances Manley, who wrote, "Something is coming to birth within us, too, and in the dark places of our world. It will come in its own good time, in the quiet of the long, dark night. Its name is light, its name is hope, its name is joy, its name is peace, its name is Christmas. It will come to each one of us, not when the shopping is done and the presents wrapped, not when the calendar says December 25th, but when our hearts are ready to receive it. In the darkness and silence of our souls, may we feel it moving within us, as we wait."
There is a story told by my grandfather that has been handed down through the generations. I will tell it to you as it has been told to me; nothing that is sold, packaged or marketed better typifies the spirit of this magical season.
John was a 10-year-old boy in 19th century London and had broken some stained glass windows in his parish's church. As punishment, he was sent to what was at that time known as an "approved" school for rehabilitation. As the Christmas holiday neared, most of the boys were going home to visit their families. John's parents owned a green-grocery store in London and had asked that he not be sent home until after Christmas, as they would be minding the store.
On Christmas Eve, most of the lads set out on trains for home. As John walked the nearly empty halls of the school, he was overwhelmed by homesickness.
Deciding that he had enough money to buy a train ticket, John hurriedly threw his clothes into a suitcase and rushed off to catch the last train of the evening. As the old coal engine chugged into London, a thick fog, or "pea-souper" as Dickens would have described it, enveloped the city. John could only see one yard in any direction. Setting out for home, he became terribly lost and ended up in St. Paul's churchyard. Stumbling over gravestones, John could no longer find the footpath--cold, hungry and scared, he began to cry. Just then, a voice called out to him. "What's the matter young boy, can I help?"
"Over here," yelled John. "I'm lost."
Out of the fog strode a confident figure. The man ignored the fog and the crippling darkness. Without hesitation or stumble, the stranger made his way around the headstones to young John. "Hold my hand and we'll soon have you out of here. Where do you live?" he asked. John told him, and the man set out, John in tow, toward John's home.
The man easily moved in the fog and darkness, pausing only for a moment to listen, as he stepped around obstacles that loomed everywhere. He guided John across the main road, over London Bridge, down a side street and right to the front door of the green-grocery. John's parents were delighted to see him. It seems that business was slower than expected and they had desperately wished that John had come home for Christmas.
John's father offered the man silver for his good deed, but the man politely refused. John's mother offered him a gift of fruit or beverage; again, he politely shook his head. Calmly and confidently, he wished them a Merry Christmas as was gone into the night. John had been impressed with the stranger and proceeded to tell his parents how safe he had felt as he held the man's hand.
"But," asked John, "why does he carry a white stick?"
"Ah," replied his mother, "that is because he doesn't see with his eyes John--he sees with his heart."
Happy Ramadan, Cheery Hanukkah, Cool Kwanzaa and Merry Christmas one and all.