Eric Morlock
Christmas Epistle
Dear Emmanuel,
You must wonder why I'm writing. You know that I don't believe, anymore. I've taken another path, one that trends toward the East. It is a righteous path, I assure you, so you needn't feel remorse. I don't imagine you accept the notion that all paths lead to the summit. Just understand that I try to lead a wholesome and honorable life, and that your Father's commandments do not go unheeded. So why do I feel the need to explain myself to you? Perhaps there is some guilt involved - I know I must let you go, once and for all, and some final words seem in order. After all, you were part of my life for a very long time. In some strange way, I suppose I feel sorry for you.
I know I could have picked a better time to write. No one says goodbye on someone's birthday. It's just that this used to be such a special time of year for me. There was a certain magic about the season, and a comfort in the familiar rites. But now all the light has lost its glow - the moon above the snow, the candles in the window, the star atop the tree, even the sparkle in the children's eyes. I suppose I could blame it all on commerce. By now, who can deny that the sale is more important than the soul? But no, the reason that the magic is gone is because your spirit no longer resides in my heart.
Naturally, you want to know why I lost my faith. Seeing so much hypocrisy among your followers hasn't helped. Too many of them claim to be pious, all the while holding only malice in their hearts. They justify their abuse of others by claiming that your Father created them to profit from their cleverness, and that a simple belief in your divinity assures them a place in your home after they die. By holding yourself as their heavenly host, you didn't give them reason enough to care about the here and now and the world in their midst. Of course, I know there are many who do care and who lead exemplary lives. Their faith in your way has transformed them. Still, it is not my way.
When did I fall off the path? I didn't fall off so much as drift away slowly, until the path was no longer there. I would encounter an obstacle of some sort, a telling incident that challenged the integrity of my path. I ran into so many obstacles that the path became a burden to me. Before I knew it I was lost, groping through the woods for a new way out. Eventually I did find a new path. And yet, you have always held a presence in some remote corner of my mind. Until last Sunday.
I was lying on the living-room couch, listening to a radio program of traditional Christmas music. It was late afternoon, and I was watching a patch of sunlight slowly dim and change shape as it crept down the wall with the setting sun. I listened intently to the music, which I dearly loved. Even as a small child I remember being enchanted by these hymns and carols. More than any other yuletide activity, it was the music that helped lend meaning to your birth.
But on this darkening evening the music fell on deaf ears. I couldn't feel it, you see. And it wasn't because I was in an unreceptive frame of mind. Somehow I now fully realized that our relationship was over. And since I couldn't bring to this lovely music the ardor of a devotee, I could no longer enjoy it as before. One by one they came and went - gorgeous songs like "The Holly and the Ivy," "Oh Holy Night," "I Wonder as I Wander" - and all lost to me now. Because they were all lies.
In the days that followed I began to review my own Christmas history. In childhood there were those dizzying Christmases when the only thing that mattered was what waited under O Tannenbaum. As a young adult on college break, the holidays were mostly an excuse to eat, drink, and rest ye gentlemen in front of the television. At thirty something, the yuletide often proved to be a kind of test to see how well one could endure an entire week, let alone the 12 days of Christmas, with the family. Now, in middle age, Christmas is often spent alone, and the silent nights are profound. Perhaps this solitude has made me jaded. But no, I think it is the years of pretense, of too many Christmases where virtually everyone - family, friends, neighbors, congregations - pretended to hold you dear, when in truth few of us really held you at all.
I remember when I was seven years old and had to sing "O Little Town of Bethlehem" at the Christmas pageant. My third-grade teacher needed a soloist and my mother lauded my "sweet little tenor voice." As the big night approached and the panic set in, they kept reminding me what an honor and opportunity it was to sing about you and display my talent. No matter that I was already almost pathologically shy and the mere thought of standing in front of an audience, much less singing to them, was enough to make me break out in hives. But this was the Christmas pageant, and by God I wasn't going to disappoint everyone.
Well, the teacher was a nice man (at least outwardly - he may have once exposed himself to me at a visit to his home) and my mother was surely a saint (far from it, in actuality), so I did the deed, endured the hives, the dizziness, the backstage vomiting. Afterward, there was a real sense of accomplishment and I didn't mind the praise. But I also vowed never to perform, or even speak, at a public venue again. To this day I will go to great lengths to avoid the limelight. I don't blame my teacher or my mother for wanting to wrest me out of my shell. Others have tried along the way and invariably they fail. Why? Because I like my shell. When people realize this they get angry and condemn me for my "meekness." Who believes anymore that the meek shall inherit the Earth?
Yet the song I sang has so much quietude in it. The town is still. The streets are dark. You yourself lie in a deep and dreamless sleep, as the silent stars go by. No one but your parents and some shepherds know what has come to pass. "How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given." The lyricist seems to be saying that only in silence can we apprehend the wonder and mystery of creation. This is a notion I have carried with me my whole life. Those times that I feel the divine spark shine brightest are in the still places - a wild forest, a deserted beach, a library, a meditation hall, an auditorium at that moment between the final note and the thundering applause. It is at these times that I can fully appreciate your words: "The kingdom of God is within you."
But the carol sends another message, one that occurs with mind-numbing frequency in the music and literature written in your name: the idea of original sin. "But in this world of sin." "Cast out our sins and enter in." You see, this ruins the song for me. A mood of splendor is broken with the persistent reminder of how unworthy humanity is. Why did you conclude that we were so weak willed that only faith in you and your Father could redeem us? True, we are weak, and life is full of suffering - but not because we are born as sinners. It is because we let our minds rule our hearts. We need to learn ways to mend our minds.
I have an aunt who has given up on the world. She is elderly, but in good health and doesn't want for material things. She is also very smart and all of her faculties are well intact. But she suffers from terrible bouts of sadness, a malady that runs through the entire family of devout believers with whom she grew up. The woman has grown so weary of her life that she wants to join you and your family in heaven. And she knows I am a skeptic so she sends cautionary letters, full of Bible quotes, and exhorts me to put my faith in you. In her last letter she wrote, "Wherever we are in this world really doesn't matter much, as long as we are surrounded with the love of the Lord and his precious people. There isn't a safe place in this world outside of His protective, loving care." I know most of your followers don't believe that all atheists and agnostics are damned to hell. But many do. They feel they are elected, and so they become intolerant and bigoted. This could not be what you wanted. But you should have known, when you said, "Believe in me and you shall have everlasting life," that this is what you would get.
My aunt has always had a lovely singing voice. About 35 years ago, when my father died shortly after Christmas, she came to sing at his funeral. Even now I can hear her powerful alto ringing through the church. There was the slightest crack of emotion in her voice, which made the music all the more poignant. Her song of choice, the Christmas hymn "O Come, O Come Emmanuel," has one of the most beautiful melodies in all sacred music. I remember being so enthralled that the words sailed right past me - they didn't seem to matter much. Afterward, many people were in tears and no doubt many of us who couldn't cry wished we could.
A few days later, with the song still running through my mind, I wondered about those words. I did some digging at the library and found the lyrics in a collection of ancient Christmas music. I immediately understood why my aunt had chosen this song for the funeral. It fit her sensibility only too well. It was very old, vaguely anti-Semitic in tone, and carried an apocalyptic vision. "From the depths of hell thy people save, and give them victory o'er the grave." Do you really want your followers to be terrified of death and damnation, and to feel superior to others?
They were all like this on my father's side. My paternal German grandfather was a fundamentalist tyrant, and his children better believe exactly what he did - or else. So Aunt D. disparaged Jews. Aunt R. made polite "Polack" jokes by substituting the word "Bohemians." Aunt M. tried to pray some newly arrived Puerto Rican neighbors right out of town. And Uncle P. often railed against "the niggers." Fortunately, my father didn't have this particular prejudice. But he did have his "Japs," whenever he talked about the war. But then he was at Wheeler Field (a few miles from Pearl Harbor, which supplied the aircraft carriers with the aircraft) when the bombs rained down everywhere, so perhaps he can be forgiven for that.
From whence all of this arrogance and hatred? But you made some heedless statements of your own on occasion. "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God." "Woe to the Pharisees, for they are like a dog sleeping in the manger of oxen, for neither does he eat nor does he let the oxen eat." "Beware of the scribes, who like to go about in long robes…" There was certainly much corruption among the merchants, priests, and lawmakers in your time. But why couldn't you see that, in claiming the mantle of exemplar of moral superiority, you would create only more discord?
You saw families being torn apart by your inflammatory words, and acted as though it was the inevitable consequence of a righteous cause. "Do you think that I have come to give you peace on earth? No, I tell you, but rather division, for henceforth in one house there will be five divided, three against two and two against three…" You demanded that all your closest disciples renounce all family ties before committing to follow you. You even shunned your own kin when they came to see you. Were they so incapable of loving God? In the best sense, isn't the love of family, friends, neighbors, strangers - even animals and plants - exactly the same as the love of God?
My father was of course an ardent follower, and often took your words and example far too literally. He was very hard on his family, dictatorial and demanding. But he read the Bible faithfully, prayed at bedtime, attended church every Sunday, ate a ham-free diet, and drank in moderation. He seemed to feel this was enough, that blind devotion to you and your Father's strictures was all that was required of him. But each day after supper he would retire to his den to work on his stamp and coin collections. He would simply disappear for the whole evening. This lasted my entire childhood. For my mother, sister, brother, and me it was like having a stranger living in our midst. How did this color our relationships?
It colored them black. My mother hated her husband for his anti-social behavior. Their silent hostility hung in the air like a foul odor. We children did our best to break free. My sister escaped by hiding in her bedroom at night, and then immersing herself in school activities during the day. My brother escaped into juvenile delinquency. And I escaped into television, music, and books. None of us felt we could turn to each other for support. How could we trust one another when we couldn't trust them?
My last family Christmas was five years ago, at my sister's home in Colorado. There were five of us, as usual - me, my mother, my brother, my sister, and her husband. It had become an annual ritual: my mother and I would drive from Iowa and my brother flew in from California. For a nature-lover like myself the trip was almost worthwhile, especially when the weather in Colorado Springs was right. This year it was ideal, with temperatures in the 40s and brilliant sunshine every day. I remember the night sky on Christmas Eve. Looking out the living-room window you could see an infinity of sparkling stars, a lovely half moon, and white-shrouded Pike's Peak crowned with its yuletide cross. Inside, the scene was not so inspiring. It was like a movie set full of miscast characters: all of them hated their roles and wished they were in a different production.
It was a scene markedly lacking in the "Christmas spirit," even though my sister had arranged that night for each of us to read a passage from the Bible. Although we all called ourselves Christians, I doubt that any one of us - even my sister - gave you much thought that night. After the traditional chowder feed we were all in our places, following our script. My brother and sister lingered in the dining-room, debating some small point of politics. My mother was cleaning up in the kitchen, wearing her frown. My brother-in-law was in the living room, in his favorite armchair, nodding off in front of the television. And I was in my darkened bedroom, gazing out at the stars. I felt an aching in my soul, and in my bones. I knew we were not a true family. We were just going through the motions.
Christmas music wafted through the entire house. My brother-in-law, the stereo fanatic, had wired a speaker in each of the three common rooms - the living room, the dining room, and the den. He kept playing his custom CD recording of holiday favorites. Although the music was good, ranging from authentic folk renditions to pop standards, from New Age fusion to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, this was clearly too much of a good thing. It was like being trapped in an elevator, with better than average music.
At length my sister breezed into my bedroom to announce that it was time for our readings. While I respected her resolve to inject a dose of meaning into this Christmas, it would have rung truer if her little debate with my brother hadn't turned into a full-blown argument as usual. It was always the same: my brother assumed his devil's advocate stance on some issue, luring my sister toward the inevitable row. Why couldn't she see what a cynical game it was for him, and that sometimes there can be honor in swallowing one's pride and letting the other person "win?" Blessed are the peacemakers, you said. As we all headed for the den to give our Bible readings, I wished my sister and brother had remembered this and called a truce for once.
Because of their bad feelings, a cloud settled over the room as the Good Book passed through our hands. My brother went first, which was just as well because he thought the whole thing was a sham. Still, he loved his own voice enough to take the "Christmas-Carol" speaker into the hallway so the music wouldn't drown him out. Next up was my brother-in-law, who couldn't shake the sleep out of his voice. Listless as it was, my own reading was even worse. Because of my age-old "performing" jitters - even with a four-person audience - I rushed through in a high-pitched, quavering voice that would have made a choirboy sound virile. My sister's style was much better, calm and measured, but her sibling angst blunted her sincerity. My mother's reading was the only one that projected any heart. A former English teacher, her voice was full of seeming reverence and, it occurred to me, a certain urgency borne of a lifetime of - as per her frequent reminders - trying to keep this family together. She selected St. Paul's famous passage in Corinthians 1:13, which ends:
When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love abide; these three, and the greatest of these is love.
A beautiful sentiment, to be sure. But what my mother didn't seem to realize, no doubt because the thought of it was too painful, was that at no time did her children ever love one another. My brother despised my sister and me, and we were so busy despising him that it completely soured any affection we ever shared. Just as there was no love lost between our parents, there was no love lost between us.
So our mother's reading left no mark. We all filed quietly out of the den, the men likely with a palpable sense of relief, the women with a false sense of piety. My mother and sister went to the kitchen to put away the dishes. But the men sought out private places, not because we wanted to reflect, but because the feigned closeness felt so uncomfortable. My brother went outside to smoke his pipe. My brother-in-law returned to his remote control. And I retreated to my bedroom to lie down.
I listened to the muffled strains of "Greensleeves" outside the door. It was a spare instrumental version with a plaintive flute at the lead, close in style to the original secular song. I remember finding it oddly comforting, as the sacred incarnation, "What Child is This?" could never be. By now I had begun to seriously question my allegiance to you. All my life it had been a forced allegiance, imposed on me by my relations and other hypocrites, who cared more that I belonged to their faith than if I truly lived it. If the core of any faith is love, I felt I had known few Christians who practiced it with any regularity. And neither had I. I wanted to believe that this was the cornerstone of your way. But I had real doubts. Perhaps, I wondered, even the love you gave was mostly meant for yourself.
"Whoever does not hate his father and mother cannot become a disciple to me. And whoever does not hate his brother and sister cannot become a disciple to me." I know by "hate" you meant that anyone who wishes to follow your path must abandon worldly ways and submit to a higher authority. Your time was full of misery and want, and you looked around and saw much that was gross about humankind. You felt the only way out of the mire was to repent - to sin no more - and strive to attain the kind of "perfection" you embodied. Why couldn't you see what a burden this would be to us? How bedeviling to leave us with only one hope for redemption: surrender to you.
Today, as the chill of winter gathers outside my window, I think of my family so far away from me. Five straight Christmases alone - it feels more like 50. It's not that I've renounced them all. I still see my mother and sister at other times of year, though I have come to realize that my relationship with my mother growing up was warped. But my brother I see not at all. It is a matter of "Get thee behind me, Satan." Unfortunately, he still makes his annual Christmas pilgrimage to Colorado. As long as that continues, I will stay away. And as I recall more about my mother and me, perhaps I will find the need to flee from her as well. For my own safety and sanity, which I have put in jeopardy my entire life, I may well need to proceed without those who did and wished me harm.
"An eye for an eye…" I know it's an Old Testament adage, and not your style, but many of your followers still live by this credo. Pride, anger, hatred - these poisonous emotions are destroying humanity. Before I disowned him, I was consumed with hatred for my brother. I still haven't found the antidote. But I do know that, although I can never forgive him, I can stop hating him. "You see the mote in your brother's eye, but do not see the beam in your own eye. When you cast the beam out of your own eye, then you will see clearly to cast the mote from your brother's eye." But my anger feels so intractable - how can I simply cast it out?
Surely the solution lies in befriending one's own mind, and accepting the darkness that resides there. To observe the mind closely and allow the unwanted thoughts and sensations to arise and pass, safe in the knowledge that nothing is permanent in this world, and we are all as one. Isn't that what you were really teaching? I so wish that more of your followers would take this to heart.
Now I must say goodbye, Emmanuel. I hope I haven't been too hard on you. Please know that I do not for a moment regret our time together. I will always treasure the best of your words and the kindest of your deeds, of which there were many. Think of my departure not as a black sheep straying from your flock, but as a kindred spirit who wandered off and found a different flock of white sheep, who happen to graze among lotus flowers and not lilies.
Soon I will repair to the next room to sit for a time on a Japanese cushion. I will light some Tibetan incense and bow before a Burmese statuette. Before I sit down I will turn on a recording of Gregorian chant. As a rule, I don't listen to music while I sit. "Music" resides in whatever sounds surround you at the time. But I have resolved to do this every year from now on, in honor of your birthday.
I like to think you would approve.
Yours in Spirit,
Eric Morlock
