Christmas in June

Here it is, June 23; it is only possible to get two days further away from Christmas (in an absolute value sort of way), but I am nonetheless listening to Christmas music. In fact, I generally listen to Christmas music at least once a week throughout the year. Some call me crazy; others call me inspired; most call me Jonathan.

Regardless of what you call me, it is safe to say that my taste in Christmas music is eclectic. I have a suspiciously large collection of Christmas music in foreign tongues: Russian, Gaelic, Latin, German, French, Italian, Spanish. I have always found these songs are my favorites, but I am often alone on that account. A few years ago I tried to play my Latin music on Christmas day at my family’s house, but I was almost instantly vetoed. I guess most people don’t appreciate "In Dulci Jubilo;" "Veni, Veni Emmanuel;" and "Volare" as much as I do. (Okay, so "Volare" isn’t Latin or Christmas, but it’s still a great song.)

Part of the reason I am so fond of foreign Christmas music is that many of them are exceedingly old. And the older the song, the more likely it is melancholy and haunting. Most Christmas songs are peppy and upbeat, and I like those songs just fine, but the songs that really touch me are those more akin to "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" with their darker moods and mysteriously foreboding wonder. Other traditional carols from Europe like "The Coventry Carol," "Don Oiche Ud I Mbeithel" (Gaelic), "Maria durch ein Dornwald ging" (German), and "Szczo to Za Prediwo" (Polish) all carry this same tone. These songs, among others, are representative of a side of Christmas we often neglect.

In many ways Christmas is both a mystery and an unfortunate necessity. Obviously the birth of Jesus was a joyful event. There were angels singing, shepherds praising, and much general jubilation. But we often forget that Jesus himself said his purpose on Earth was to die. And he was doing this because humanity had messed everything up. So Christmas is joyful because God sent Jesus to save us, but it is also profoundly sorrowful. He would not have needed to come if it weren’t for our failings; he would not have needed to die. Jesus’ birth was the first physical step toward his unjust death. Hence the magus’ gift of myrrh, an ointment for embalming the dead.

Beyond its gloom, the birth of Jesus is also a mystery to the Christian. He was both God and man; he was born of a virgin. It’s all quite paradoxical. In this way the Catholic church is right to classify the incarnation of Jesus as a “mystery” of faith.

So I see the melancholy songs of Christmas as an important reminder of the nature of Christ’s birth, but I also enjoy these songs for a different reason. They invoke some of the most vivid memories of my life. England, to me, will always be encapsulated in the gloomy Gaelic Christmas song that I listened to umpteen times on the train to and from a Medieval Christmas Fair in Ludlow. My wife and I had just decided that we would be moving back to Atlanta after a brief stay in Oxford, and my emotions were conflicting. The move was necessary but sad, which is probably why the opposing moods of a darkling Christmas song hit the spot. The oft-forgotten disparities of Christ’s birth are common enough in our lives: the bittersweet release of a child to college, marriage, and beyond; leaving a place you love; seeking closure for the death of a loved one. I wanted more than anything to stay in England, to do all those things I had envisioned in my mind before arriving, to make better friends, to really know the place. So as we left Ludlow, snow-covered hills gently flowing by, the mournful notes of Christmas were the perfect summation of my emotions.

Life is no simple matter. Every joy has a corresponding sorrow; every life ends in death. Christmas often brings with it a naïve belief that all sorrow can be covered with gifts. But the true Christmas is much more complicated. It is joyful and foreboding, simple but mysterious. In reality, Christmas is life in a nutshell, and sometimes that is easier to see in a heat wave in June than in the snowy shopping frenzies of December.