Where do all the Christmas decorations go?
When I was a boy, everybody kept their Christmas decorations up at least through what we called “Russian Christmas,” because there were plenty of Russian Catholics and Russian Orthodox in our county, and they followed the old calendar, which put Christmas on what we call January 6. That’s a happy coincidence, since Epiphany is traditionally celebrated on that same date, and that has also to do with the traditional date for the original Good Friday, April 6 — but I’ll explain that when April comes around. Meanwhile, up here in New Hampshire, we’re noticing that Christmas decorations are coming down, and that’s kind of a shame. Why the rush? I suppose people are exhausted from the spree of before-Christmas shopping, which now extends even before Thanksgiving, so that they’re glad and relieved to see Christmas come and go. I’ve noticed also that certain television channels, chock full of Christmas films before that blessed day, have returned to the usual run of crime, love affairs, adventures, westerns, war, treachery, and heroism, as if nothing to change the world forever has happened.
So I’ve thought it best today to continue with the good cheer. After all, Christmas in merry old England used to last twelve days, right? Everybody knows, from that song with the marvelous run of gifts, that there are twelve days of Christmas — otherwise what would you do with all those pipers piping and swans a-swimming and lords a-leaping? I’ve never actually seen a single lord a-leaping, or even a CEO a-slinking, but maybe if you got twelve of them all together and filled them with wassail, they might just do it. By the way, it’s why Shakespeare called his merry love-comedy and comedy-of-errors Twelfth Night, because that’s when the twelve days came to their boisterous and jolly peak.
So at least they did before Oliver Cromwell and his parliament abolished the feast day in 1644 — but the feast was restored with King Charles II in 1660. Why, William Bradford, a man I deeply admire, wouldn’t have the men of Plymouth who were not in the Mayflower congregation play skittles outdoors on Christmas — he told them that if they wanted to keep the day holy, they should do that in a sober manner indoors. But the author of our Poem of the Week, Henry Vaughan, writing in 1650, was all for celebrating the day and the season too. He doesn’t actually mention the evergreen tree, but that’s because it seems that the whole world, in the celebration of Christmas, is green. It’s not winter, it’s not cold, it’s not barren, we’re not indulging in pity for the Christ child. Not at all! The sun is shining — in a most daring image, he shakes his long locks and fills the world with light. He breathes spices, the woods are ringing with the song of birds, and the springs, the brooks and creeks, make up a “consort,” that is, a harmony with the birds, while Man, high priest to all the world, should come forth to offer the joyful sacrifice of praise.
There’s one way in which our poem today is like what we’ve seen two weeks ago from George Herbert, whose work Vaughan knew and loved, though Herbert died when Vaughan was just on the verge of manhood. Both poets think about the inn that had no room for the Holy Family, and instead of turning that matter into something political or social, they interpret it personally. Where should the Child find room? In my heart! But he’s got to clean up that place first. Was the manger lowly? Was it sort of dusty and musty, what with all the animals? It was clean as a whistle, compared with my heart! Unsightly, was it? Hardly — but my heart, says Vaughan, isn’t fit to be viewed on stage (that’s what the word “obscene” means, literally, and that’s how we’re to take it here). Was that birth miraculous? Yes, it was! But Vaughan calls for an even more miraculous birth. Let the Child be born in us today.
Awake, glad heart! get up, and Sing, It is the Birth-day of thy King, Awake! awake! The Sun doth shake Light from his locks, and all the way Breathing Perfumes, doth spice the day. Awake, awake! hark, how th' wood rings, Winds whisper, and the busy springs A Consort make; Awake, awake! Man is their high priest, and should rise To offer up the sacrifice. I would I were some Bird, or Star, Fluttering in woods, or lifted far Above this Inn And Road of sin! Then either Star or Bird should be Shining or singing still to thee. I would I had in my best part Fit Rooms for thee! or that my heart Were so clean as Thy manger was! But I am all filth, and obscene, Yet, if thou wilt, thou canst make clean. Sweet Jesu! will then; let no more This Leper haunt and soil thy door, Cure him, Ease him, O release him! And let once more by mystic birth The Lord of life be born in Earth.
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Word & Song by Anthony Esolen is an online magazine devoted to reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true. We publish six essays each week, on words, classic hymn, poems, films, and popular songs, as well a weekly podcast, alternately Poetry Aloud or Anthony Esolen Speaks. Join us as a paid subscriber now during our Christmas Special Forever Rate.
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