’Tis the season …

As I pointed out the obvious a few days ago, we’re in that approximately five week period bracketing three significant holidays and occasions to celebrate: Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years. Also, within this general timeframe, we have other holidays and festivals for small percentages of our citizens: the established traditions of Hanukkah and Chinese New Years and the much more recently-initiated Kwanzaa. So, it is the season for celebration and to each his or her own, I guess! The benefit of living in a pluralistic society. 🙂

Christmas.

This one stands apart. It brings out so much. I hardly feel I have standing to write about it but the call has come so we’ll see what happens. This might take awhile.

Growing up in south Palo Alto in the 50s and 60s, living in our tract homes, built in the aftermath of World War II, I figured almost everyone celebrated Christmas. I’m not sure that’s really changed, though. But, back then, I don’t believe it was all that controversial. Yes, we had one Jewish family with boys we befriended our age. The mother and grandmother were Auschwitz survivors and they celebrated Hanukkah. Otherwise, we figured everyone enjoyed traditional Christmas with trees and lights and presents. We were close to another family, Catholics, who regularly attended church, something we didn’t do, and that whole concept was largely outside my frame of reference.

Instead, each December, we all packed into the family station wagon … the 1955 white Chevrolet made way eventually to a 1966 green Chevrolet … and made the 45 minute ride up to San Francisco and the apartment of my paternal grandpa and his second wife, my grandma. (My dad’s first wife died of illness when he was in his twenties.) They kept a kosher home with special plates to be brought out on holy days, including Passover and Hannukah. Of these, Passover was a much bigger deal (as it is) but we participated in the rituals and my brother and I even had yarmulkes. I knew I was somehow connected to Judaism and felt a kind of pride in that, especially when my father would read scripture or parts of a liturgy in Hebrew. There were symbols of Judaism in the apartment and the place smelled a little like old people but we were treated nicely and I felt comfortable. I don’t think I could have ever told anyone why Hanukkah was being celebrated, unlike Passover which had a really amazing story attached to it … something we repeated every year about the time we also went searching for easter eggs.

During the other 363 days of the year, these Jewish days were irrelevant. On the other hand, with a father who was a lover of history, something I acquired at the earliest age, I knew a great deal about the modern history of the Jews, especially the Holocaust when we had lost a number of relatives still living in eastern Europe. I knew of the Diaspora and of the Ashkenazi and Sephardic groups, both of which I could count in my heritage. Maybe I’ll write some day about my identity as a Jew of sorts and its impact on framing my view of so much. Since my father, a confirmed Jew, had ceased being an observant one, I had no real exposure to Judaism as a religion outside of these two holidays. It was a people, really. Not a religion. Any smidgen of Jewish heritage had virtually zero impact on my day to day upbringing as I progressed through childhood.

Of Christianity, I could have said even less. I was aware of someone named Jesus and that his birth had something to do with Christmas, that he was a child born to people named Mary and Joseph. I saw manger scenes with sheep and shepherds and the wise men. We always strung our Christmas cards across the fireplace mantle and there were stars and mangers to go with the silver bells, holly, snow and the rest.

I probably mentioned this before some time but the only church I ever stepped foot in before college was on our 4th grade visit to the nearest California mission at San Juan Batista. Other than that, no weddings or funerals and certainly no services.

My mother was vaguely Protestant of some stripe but I had no idea what that meant. She was from a long line of politically and socially active liberal Progressives (of the late 19th century/early 20th century variety … somewhat different than today’s brand). She was an outspoken Democrat to my father’s Republicanism. We listened to Christmas music and even went caroling on occasion. I’m sure I sang some of the old favorites like Silent Night, O Come all Ye Faithful, Joy to the World and the rest. But, I couldn’t have thought about the words any less.As a family, we certainly never talked about them. I remember one large picture book of bible stories but I don’t remember a bible. The stories, as I recall, were all Old Testament stories of Jacob and Moses and Samson and David, with Goliath and Jonathan and Saul. I can’t recall any talk about God and I’m sure I didn’t give God much, if any, thought.

On the other hand, Santa was larger than life as he always is to small children. We brought in the tree on Christmas eve and strung it with lights. Santa did double duty and hung all the ornaments after we three kids were in bed and before leaving our presents. What kid did not love Christmas! My dad loved it as much as anyone and obviously saw no conflict with his past. On the other hand, I can remember him occasionally being annoyed that some acquaintance was trying to get him to convert to Christianity. This really bothered him. It did not leave a good taste in my mouth, hearing his gripe, especially as I had a vague sense that a Christian West had stood by while Jews were slaughtered by the millions.
These were generally very happy weeks in the cycle of the seasons. We had traditional turkey dinners for Thanksgiving although we never gave thanks (our nightly dinner table was always a family affair and punctuated by intellectual discussions and quizzes … I could recite all 50 state capitals in Kindergarten and campaigned for Kennedy over Nixon to my fellow first graders). With Hanukkah and Christmas to round things out and time off from school, glad tidings seemed very natural.

*****

There is this profound theological concept called Prevenient Grace. Now, I’ve written about grace a bit and have come to see it as the most remarkable force in all of creation. In fact there is only one Grace but those who sometimes want to dive more deeply into its meaning, divide it up into three parts. I had no idea about any of this, even after I obtained a masters degree in Theology from a Catholic university in my young adulthood. In fact, I never even thought about it until I received and experienced it (and that’s to put it lightly). And, I still didn’t know it had a name until later.

Why do I bring this up? Because I think it’s a really big deal and is part of my Christmas Story.

Very loosely, Prevenient Grace is a way of describing that God is seeking us before we ever seek or even know about him. That there are indicators of his presence for some of us to see if we look backwards and can discern his hand. It’s like God is working behind the scenes, maybe tugging a little bit here or there, but generally biding his time. This happened to me.

My first experience that there was really something other than what commonly meets the eye was a profound vision I had in the 7th grade. You heard that right: I had a vision. And what a vision it was. As visions are known to do, this one came out of nowhere and transported me. Let me set the stage. 4th graders were introduced to music in our elementary school and given a flutophone, the precursor to encouraging us to take up a real instrument. I chose the violin against the objections of my mother (who seemed to always be concerned about my failure while expecting me to excel) because my dad had briefly played it. They finally agreed to get me one if I agreed to take weekly lessons and practice at least one half hour a day. I signed on. The first two years must have been largely miserable because making beautiful music on a violin is just not that easy. However, I began to excel and by the 7th grade in Jr. High, I was in the orchestra and doing pretty well. (As an aside, I continued the weekly lessons and the daily practice through the 9th grade, by which time I was pretty accomplished but also being drawn by sports and other activities. I set it down after performing Beethoven’s 7th symphony in public as a first violinist/third chair in the youth orchestra.)

Anyway, back to some point in the 7th grade when my 4th period orchestra teacher recognized I had some musical talent and encouraged me to join the Glee Club which met after school. I immediately found the vocal music exhilarating. It was probably only my second time there and I was standing on the top riser as a relatively tall boy and we were in the midst of singing something beautiful when I left my body.

No fooling. 7th grade. The real deal.

And I was soaring with angels. Angels. What did I know of angels?? Surrounded by beauty with the sound permeating me. You can’t imagine. I don’t know how long it lasted. A long time for me. Maybe a second for real. I was stunned. About knocked on my butt stunned. I don’t remember what happened next but that I rushed home to tell my mother of this most amazing of experiences. To say I was blown away would be an enormous understatement. So I gushed out the facts, to which she replied, “That’s ridiculous.”

I didn’t sing again until I was over 50 years old.

The scar was acute. In fact, this was an example why I was in therapy for five years. I had had my first “religious” experience, certainly not sought and most certainly condemned. The second one of that magnitude (and greater) happened in 2005, some 38 years later.

I’m not sure of the first time I heard Handel’s remarkable Messiah performed. It was long after I had laid down the violin but I had never given up my love of classical music, especially of the Baroque and early Romantic periods (Vivaldi, Telemann, Handel, Hadyn, Bach, Mozart, even Beethoven, etc…). I loved playing Vivaldi. I was probably in my 20s and by now had been on a quest to find spiritual truths as I felt strong tugs compelling me forward. By my 20s I had also come to recognize that Jesus was the real deal. Maybe not the only real deal but that he was the real deal. He was somehow connected with God, who by then I was convinced existed in some form. I was paying attention.

And then I heard the Messiah, with full chorus. I didn’t know the origin of the lyrics and didn’t understand much of it but I understood enough and I certainly understood and appreciated the music and the beauty of the instruments and vocals so remarkably woven together. I recognized it as something truly special and profound.

As the years went by and I wrestled with God, arguing and resisting and ignoring and doubting, I always came back to the Messiah, once in awhile attending a concert or listening to it when it was available. It was the one constant during that 30 years. The beauty of that piece of music. I have to admit, though, I never really tried to dive into the lyrics and certainly didn’t know that they were verbatim from scripture, nor that the composer pieced together this insanely complicated score in about three weeks.

Handel’s Messiah is the story of Jesus. The whole story. I believe it lasts something like 2 1/2 hours and has just one segment that is almost universally recognized: What is called the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Part way in is the story of Jesus’ birth and the events surrounding it. Later on it covers his ministry, death and resurrection. This was my heartfelt connection to the Christian faith during that long period, despite the fact I had earned that masters in Theology from a Catholic university. I did not attend church (though Diane did and our boys were in a Christian preschool and Sunday School) and even viscerally objected to many tenets I believed were foundational. There was no way I considered myself a Christian and while I saw some things in the religion I could point to favorably (mostly social justice things), I was completely disconnected from life lived in that faith.

Except for the Messiah.

Prevenient Grace.

If you have been with me on these blogs since last winter, you know what happened to me in March 2005. Everything changed in an instant. The gates were opened up. Scales fell away. Not only did God speak but he showed me. He showed me who he is and who I am. He showed me how he’d always been with me and now it was out in the open. He showed me a reality that I could never have understood after a thousand hours of reading or discussing. He proved to me who Jesus was.

And that changed Christmas. In a big way. In a really big way.

And, one of the first things to change was the call for me to return to the Messiah that following December. But, this time differently. With eyes to see and ears to hear.

I transcribed the entire vocal score, separating each piece and entitling it with the appropriate scripture reference. I printed up a copy, bound it and resolved to treat it from a whole new perspective.

That was the first time I prayed (not just played) Handel’s Messiah. I have done it every Christmas season since and will be doing so again soon. I listen to it in my study chair with earphones and Diane knows I cannot be disturbed. The prayer lasts 2/12 hours and it is amazing. I know a different kind of transportation each year and I am largely exhausted at the end. While the birth of Jesus does not play a particularly large part in the entire piece, it is still poignant and I am touched deeply. Christmas is upon us.

Next: Who is Jesus Anyway?

Lord, All I can say is Wow. You are so faithful. What a journey. This life has not always been easy but that doesn’t matter. Thank you for staying with this little boy, this questioning, proud and somewhat defiant young man, this person scarred and vulnerable yet with gifts to give and wonder to behold. Thank you for anointing a composer centuries ago to transform the greatest story into a thing of exquisite beauty. Thank you for giving me the ability to appreciate it and to see it as a prayer. May others find things and moments in their lives that help them to connect with you. Hallelujah. Amen.