Some years ago I wrote about Christmas Eve in 1970, when I was working as a mental health assistant in a psychiatric hospital. Here’s an excerpt:
“Mr. Henderson, a patient at that time, suffered from what was termed chronic brain syndrome, meaning that no one knew what was wrong with him. He had no language, and on his best days he could eat with a spoon. He never spoke or made eye contact. He was subject to fits of wild frustration with no observable cause, so we managed him with great caution. He was a large man. When he seemed calm, we would try to normalize his evenings, sitting him among others during social activities. He never engaged or seemed to notice people or things.
“On this night, he was quite calm and I decided to take a risk and bring him to the lobby, as local children were coming by to sing carols to the patients. I was his regular companion on such occasions, being among the few capable of restraining him if needed. The lobby was decorated with sparse white lights and a crooked little Christmas tree. Light snow was falling as the children entered the lobby, red-cheeked and a bit nervous — it was a psychiatric hospital after all.
“They began singing. “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way . . . .” Then, “Silent night, holy night . . . .” I glanced at Mr. Henderson. His eyes were wide, brimming with tears. Amid the stubble and spittle of his lifeless face his lips began to move. Silently, certainly, he mouthed, “Holy infant, tender and mild, sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.” I squeezed his hand, but he never spoke again.”
I thought about Mr. Henderson this week, trying to reconcile my revulsion at the crass commercialism of Christmas with the meaning of the day. Beautiful, simple melodies crafted to honor the birth of Jesus are used to sell luxury cars. Black Friday and Cyber Monday stir frenzies of consumerism gone wild.
Whatever the children’s carols evoked in Mr. Henderson, I doubt that it was memories of flat-screened televisions or a Lexus with a bow. In his permanent silent night, music was able to reach something deeply human, still alive despite the tangled synapses and incomplete circuits in his disease-ravaged brain.
I suppose it will seem contradictory to claim that I am an atheist in love with Christmas. The myths of virgin birth and resurrection are of little interest to me, but the message of Christianity, like the messages of Islam, Judaism and other religious traditions, rings as true as a silver bell in the silent night. I don’t believe that Jesus died to save us sinners, but I do believe that he and many others over the years lived for love and died for peace.
Anyone can wear religion on his sleeve or robe himself in sanctimonious pretense. Over the millennia, crusaders, charlatans, con men and abusers have cloaked themselves in religious authority as they wage war or enrich themselves. But love is not a garment to be worn. Spiritual strength is inversely correlated with conspicuous exhibition. The historical Jesus moved through the world with inconspicuous humility, touching the poor and sick, loving by persistent example.
In New York City, just the week before Christmas, 62,000 homeless women, men and children slept in shelters. Thousands more, many mentally ill, slept on the streets or in subway tunnels. On Broadway, thousands of shoppers and tourists rushed by, choosing not to notice the frequent pleas. “Can you spare some change so I can get a bowl of soup?” asked one old man near an Upper West Side church. I gave him a dollar. The average shopper in this season will spend $935 on gifts for family and friends. I saw no one else stop to give the man a dime. He might as well have been invisible.
Christmas is not found in great cathedrals or bustling shopping malls. Christmas is not present in light displays or festive holiday parties. Christmas is in the hearts of those who give without expectation of return; who love those hardest to love; who work quietly for peace and justice.
On this Christmas Day, I hope you will pause and reflect on those who embody the spirit of Christ: The volunteers who serve meals or tend to the lost souls on America’s increasingly mean streets; the nurses and aides who care for patients in hospitals and assisted living facilities; the volunteer firefighters who brave freezing nights to save a child; the aid workers trying to stanch the bloodbath in Aleppo; the many women and men who are working tirelessly to bring peace and justice to war-torn regions around the world.
Merry Christmas to all good people who work throughout the year so others might “sleep in heavenly peace.”
Steve Nelson lives in Sharon and New York City, where he is the head of the Calhoun School, a private school. He can be reached at steve.nelson@calhoun.org.