The singing satirist Tom Lehrer once called on Christmas revellers to “drag out the Dickens, even though the prospect sickens.”
We understand.
We understand if the spirit of the season leaches from your body with every step through big box store bacchanalia.
And yet, despite the aunts who give clothes and the uncles who overdo eggnog, we can’t help but love Christmas; maybe because we need it.
Nearly every day of the year, cynicism is an armour we wear and a weapon we wield, furrowing our brows as politicians spin tales of car allowance and carbon-free futures.
Dec. 25 is an armistice. It’s the day when we bury our cynicism and the day when it makes sense for George Bailey and Bob Cratchit to triumph.
England’s Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell was once part of a puritan movement that banned celebrations of Christmas, (although they stopped short of boiling the guilty in their own pudding). And yet the English, displaying an optimism most associated with Whoville, sang.
And across continents and centuries, they’re still singing. Whether you’ll spend the day reading Richard Dawkins or the Bible, we’re all stirred by the return of the sun and the hope that comes with it.
We hope we’ll be better next year. Smarter. Kinder.
And as we look out on the slush, deep and sloppy and uneven, we’re given a wonderful excuse for kindness.
We can offer comfort for the anxious and company for the lonely.
And if we can’t help, we can still listen, because Christmas is above all a time for understanding.
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