| IT
is the eve of the gladdest festival of the year, the
day set apart as a memorial to that serene and beautiful
Being whom his followers delight to call the Prince
of Peace. So old and beloved is the holiday that the
mere word Christmas itself is more rich in the aroma
of kindly and moving associations than any effusion
of yours or mine could be.
As
children we innocently believed in the little round-bellied
chimney god and the good persecuted Martyr of Calvary
with equal reverence. He who filled our stockings with
candy and toys and gilded baubles was quite as generous,
and much more real, than He who guarded and loved our
souls. In the early dark hours did we not wake up and
stealthily feel each stocking toe-tip? And [Page
247] were they not actually stuffed with the
long-desired treasures? Could any proof be stronger?
And then in a few years, as the cold suspicion of truth
stole over the child mind like an autumn frost, and
good St. Nick was discovered to be a myth, did we not
silently try to perpetuate the crumbling dogma? That
all his miraculous kindliness should be only the work
of our parents, after all, was too sad to be believed.
The frail tissue of fable on which we had so confidingly
relied was far too lovely to be ruthlessly destroyed
by any prosy fact; and there stole over our perception,
I think, a sort of sadness at the disillusion, so that
we would not willingly admit even to ourselves that
the delightful and impossible children’s paradise
was at an end. It was, though; and in time we came to
substitute an understanding human love of those who
cared for us for the ruined fairy-tale of Santa Claus
and his Christmas team. It was good to have something
to take the place of that which we had lost. [Page
248]
There
are many grown-up children who do not write letters
to Santa Claus and post them in the empty fireplace
any longer; who have discarded the doctrine of the fireside
Christmas Eve divinity with much superiority; who would
scorn to hang a stocking by their bed to-morrow night;
who would scoff at the idea that it might be
filled once again, if only they wished hard enough;
and who none the less will go to their temples on Christmas
day with the unshaken hallucination that the Great Orderer
of the universe is to be influenced by many solicitations.
It may be so; it may be that this round world is ruled
by some great cosmic Santa Claus who doles out blessings
while we are unaware, and is swayed by the urgent supplications
of his children. I have my doubts. I have a suspicion
that this, too, is no more than a nursery tale, though
a decent reverence for all ancient beauty makes us shrink
from acknowledging the infatuation even to ourselves.
When
the myth of the good St. Nicholas [Page 249]
had to be destroyed, in the interests of so-called
education and truth, still there remained behind the
poetic symbol, the solid though less attractive feat
of human parental care and loving kindness. But when
you take away the greater myth of the St. Nicholas for
grown-ups, on what fact am I to rely? Is that, too,
merely a symbol of human love and the kindliness of
our own hearts? Among the marvels of science is that
contrivance which from an elaborate sort of magic lantern
casts moving and lifelike pictures upon a curtain for
our edification. Is the matter of our destiny some such
enormous shadow cast upon the curtain of the universe
from the tiny luminous point of mortal soul? Still,
how wonderful the mechanism must be! And who invented
that?
Well,
perhaps it is not important, after all. I am quite sure
that our good friend from Nazareth would care very little
how you explained him or the Father he talked about,
so long as you cherished his teaching. We [Page
250] have hardly come to that yet; we cannot
practise universal love. But at least we can profess
it. I suppose that is something.
Meanwhile,
for this day and year, our festival of peace is rudely
disturbed. Dream as we will of the spread of the kingdom
of love, the old custom of bloodshed remains. We be
Christians in name, but Jehovists and Norse pagans in
reality. Who are the exponents of modern Christianity?
The Anglo-Saxons. And now, at the dawn of the last year
of nineteen Christian centuries, one branch of that
dominant race is treading on a feeble Oriental people,
while its sister branch is waging desperate war with
a stubborn foe in Africa. Is this any better than a
Roman or a Macedonian campaign? You say the English
and the Americans have right on their side, and justice,
and the good of the world? Yes, but how can love fight
at all? Christ never resisted; he didn’t believe
in resistance. Probably he was in error. If not, how,
then, can you justify your profession of [Page
251] his doctrine while you are violating its
letter and spirit?
It
is the old dilemma; the battle is to the strong, and
the strong are only made through battle; then how shall
we preserve our integrity as men, and yet allow wars
to cease? The law of life is that it shall live by strife;
the life that ceases to strive dies of decay. Then,
perhaps, we may eliminate hate without eliminating strife.
It is said that the hunter does not hate the animal
he kills — not always. Perhaps we shall some day
actually come to love our enemies, as we were advised
to do so long ago. [Page 252]
|
