I guess it stands to reason that, having made the decision not to listen to Lessons and Carols from Kings on Saturday, that some more pieces would fall into place (or out of it, depending on your perspective!)
First of all, that Christmas Eve hour-and-a-half was truly a gaping hole. I think -- although I am not sure about this -- that this was the first Christmas where I actively boycotted the service, and it was a hard, empty period of time. Over the years, I have listened to the broadcast from the darnedest places, or around the edges of driving around doing last minute shopping, or helping friends prepare Christmas meals, or -- as I've recounted here -- sitting in my car watching Lake Superior steam up and freeze over, sobbing with homesickness for England. I think a few years ago, I almost boycotted it on the issue of the all-male choir, but at the last minute chickened out and listened. If nothing else has "been" Christmas for me, this service stood firm.
But because this year, I was reacting to the Adam and Eve story (not the superficiality of who was singing the carols), it brought me to the core theological issues that have dogged me since childhood. At the age of eight, in the choir loft at St. George's, Schenectady, I wondered why God hadn't chosen to have a special daughter, or a son and a daughter. As hard as I have tried to let my objections go, or just place the religion in historical perspective, feeling left out has never fully gone away. This year, I had to be honest with myself. The Christmas story -- true, largely told through familiar carols -- makes me angry. I always try hard to walk through anger as quickly as possible, but this is big and has been simmering my whole life. I'm angry at all the references to the little boy savior, the new-born king, the son who will reign for ever and ever. Where is the daughter?
I'm sure there aren't too many men who spend time literally identifying themselves as the messiah, but the fact is, they could if they wanted to. Or they can place themselves in the shoes of the kings, or the shepherds, or Joseph. But for women, there is a gaping hole in the story. Who can we identify with? Mary? I don't know any woman who quite "gets" the notion of the virgin birth, but whether we are single and have no children, or married with five children, it's hard to relate to her situation or condition. It is literally too unreal. It was wise men, not women, who were sent to visit the child. There may have been women among the shepherds, although it's not specified. Angels are sometimes seen as female (as a two-year old, I played an angel in a pageant) but there, again, I can't place myself in their proverbial shoes. It's the core, holy story of the religion of my upbringing, one that is supposed to bring joy, and yet there's no part for me to play. There is no place for me. From Christmas to Easter, someone who looks like me will never be the star of the show.
The only thing that I can do today is find a way to tell a story where I exist. Maybe, at least for starters, I can imagine that over Schenectady, a star was shining bright. Maybe I can imagine that heavenly beings were gathering to celebrate my birth -- and that they do that for every girl baby born on this planet!! Maybe as prosaic as the real story is, of my dad bar-hopping for hours in the middle of a winter's night, and my mom enduring a long labor in a sterile 1950's-era hospital, there were angelic beings on the scene. If you had listened carefully, some heavenly music might have been audible.
This Christmas weekend -- amidst the impossibly strong winds and low wind chill temperatures -- was a seismic shift for me. Through decades of being single and childless, having little spending money for presents, never having a permanent home, and becoming increasingly "post-Christian", I could still at least enjoy Christmas carols. I knew all of their verses by heart, and sang with gusto. At other times of the year in the future, I suspect I'll still be able to attend choral evensong services, although it will be interesting to see how I react when I have that opportunity. But not Christmas or Easter. No matter how beautiful and glorious the music is, I think the door has closed on the major holy days. And that is a gaping hole.
