As I write this post we are fast approaching another one of those holidays that has been transformed by retailers into an absurd celebration of materialism. Even Thanksgiving, a time set aside for remembrance of all that we should be grateful for –family, nature’s bounty, our health and so much more has been transformed into an orgy of consumption followed in short order by narcoleptic viewership of the day’s vicarious contest between the teams we love and the teams we hate while we wait with bated breath for the hours to tick by until we can let loose the hounds of retail frenzy. But this is a mere prelude to the sustained commercial event known as Christmas.
Don’t mistake this as bah humbug. I once looked forward to this time each year as an opportunity to re-connect with friends and savor the moments of reflection and solemnity that ever so briefly remind us of something greater than our own small concerns. And to be clear, I rather like the exchange of modest gifts, some especially choice fruit, a plant or some other remembrance that the recipient is someone I value in my life. Even the exchange of holiday cards is something on which I spend time, not as a mindless formality but as an intentional pause to recall and re-connect with the people who have enriched my life.
I no longer care much about receiving gifts—at least not any thing. I am at an age and so fortunate that there is little I need or lack. I can think of nothing that would so improve my daily life that I believe it could contribute in any meaningful way to my happiness. Of course, there are things I use, things that wear out and need to be replaced, but I am able to acquire these things by in large. None are of signal importance. I do understand, however, that for those who routinely go without even essentials their receipt can be transformative. Isn’t that the real point of the tradition of giving gifts at this time of year? Most cultures celebrate some exchange of gifts in the course of each year, whether it be food, clothing, or a household item. This tradition appears to originate out of an appreciation of community—a do unto others virtue. I like that and wish we might be a people more inspired by concern for each other than one pre-occupied with our differences.
If ever there was anything magical in the spirit of the day surely it was when I was a child and looked forward to the extended family gathering, the stories, the laughter and yes, the lights, the tree and the brightly wrapped packages. But it did not take long for me to realize that the gifts I yearned for never lived up to their billing and were quickly abandoned. Santa did not fare well either. Family lore has it that at the age of four I observed that Santa wore brown wingtips identical to those my grandfather favored. No amount of explanation that Grandpa was a stand-in for the real Father Christmas could assuage my growing skepticism. It was the first of many revelations about the holiday and more important the spirit of the day that contributed to a growing sense we had got this all wrong.
O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi, which most of us probably read somewhere in junior high school, is often trotted out as a commentary on the real purpose behind giving and the nobility of sacrificing something we treasure to honor our love for another. That is of course what the act of giving should engender; generosity and selflessness. But I must confess that reducing our celebration of love for one another to an exchange of gifts—even those that cost us greatly falls short for me.
Love demands our time and attention far more than grand gesture once a year. And it seems to me that the true spirit of sacrifice, the kernel of truth in the story of the birth of an infant Jesus has everything to do with the giving of the most precious gift any of us possesses. That is the gift of ourselves, the gift of shared experience, and the gift of teaching one another about compassion, respect, dignity, and honor –the gifts we should be giving each and every day of the year.
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