Keep your head up

Even with the layers after layers of crass commercialism and nearly orgiastic excesses of parties during this time of year, I still perceive a “spirit of Christmas” alive, generally speaking, in Canadian society. Often it is small things, such as people being more “open” to wish each other well, show appreciation of others, or just slowing down a bit and reflecting more than usual. It does not matter the cultural background or religion of the person: if they have lived in this country for a couple of decades or more, a modification of behaviour (generally for the better) can be observed during this time of year. For that I am very grateful; all I can say is that I wish that there were a heck of a lot more of it and that it would last year-round.

I am reminded of a song that my children used to sing in school choir this time of year, the chorus of which went:
Christmas time, O Christmas time
Always live in my heart and mind
Lord help me not to go astray
But to live each day like Christmas Day

Back in my high school and university days, I came across plenty of controversies about Christmas, its symbols, what it represents, when Jesus may have been actually born, etc. I found all of this to be novel and mildly interesting – but ultimately of marginal value. It was all a pittance compared to what I experienced from reading the Gospel and from singing in choir during mass in a huge, packed, 19th century stone church. These experiences were real; speculation was not. If some irrefutable evidence came out that Jesus was actually born on July 19, would I advocate for a change in date for celebrating Christmas? Absolutely not! At least in the northern hemisphere, December 25 (or thereabouts) feels like the right time to celebrate the return of “light” and “hope” into our world as we patiently wait through the several months of cold and slowly increasing daylight.

So, for all those who celebrate Christmas, I wish a blessed holy day; and for those who celebrate the turn of the seasons (winter solstice, Yule, Alban Arthan) – similarly, may you have a blessed day.

In the spirit of Christmas Day, I’d like to share an abbreviated rendition of Leo Tolstoy’s short story Where Love Is, God Is. (Like all of his short stories, it is well worth reading the complete original.)

In a certain town there lived an old cobbler named Martin. He lived in a tiny room in a basement, which had one window which looked out onto the street. Through this window he could see the feet of the people who passed by and he could recognize people by their footwear and even identify those shoes and boots which he had worked on.

Martin had had a hard life. Though he married and had many children, he was now a childless widower – over the years, one by one, all members of his immediate family had taken ill and died. After burying his youngest son, who had died of fever just when he had become old enough to help out his father, Martin became despondent and stopped going to church.

One day an old man from Martin’s native village paid him a visit. The visitor had been on pilgrimages for the past eight years. Martin opened up his heart to the visitor, stating that he no longer had a wish to live.

The old man replied, “We cannot judge God’s ways. If God willed that your son should die and you should live, it must be for the best. And your despair comes because you wish to live for your own happiness.”

“What else should one live for?” enquired Martin.

“For God”, said the old man. “He gives you life, and you must live for Him. When you have learned to live for Him, you will grieve no more, and all will seem easy to you.”

Martin was silent for a while and then asked, “But how is one to live for God?”

The old man replied, “How one may live for God has been shown by Christ. Read the Gospels: there you will see how God would have you live.”

Later that day, Martin bought himself a Testament and made a habit of reading it every night. And gradually his heart became lighter and lighter. The more he read the better he understood and the clearer and happier he felt in his mind.

One winter night he read Luke’s Gospel, Chapter 7, and came to the part where a rich Pharisee invited the Lord to his house; and read how the woman who was a sinner anointed his feet and washed them with her tears and how he justified her. He read the verses:

And turning to the woman, he said unto Simon, Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet: but she hath wetted my feet with her tears, and wiped them with her hair. Thou gavest me no kiss; but she, since the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss my feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint: but she hath anointed my feet with ointment.

Martin took off his glasses and pondered.

“That Pharisee must have been like me. He too thought only of himself; never a thought of his guest. He took care of himself, but for his guest he cared nothing at all. Yet who was the guest? The Lord himself! If he came to me, should I behave like that?”

Then, before he was aware of it, Martin fell asleep.

“Martin!” he suddenly heard a voice say as if someone had breathed the word above his ear.

Martin started from his sleep. “Who’s there?” he asked.

He turned around and looked at the door, but no one was there.

Martin called out again. This time he heard a reply quite distinctly: “Martin, Martin! Look out into the street tomorrow, for I shall come.”

Martin was perplexed; he did not know if he heard these words while awake or in a dream. He went back to sleep.

The next morning, as he settled into his work for the day, Martin recalled the incident in the middle of the night. Sometimes he thought that he had heard the voice in a dream; at other times he thought that no, he had really heard the words while awake.

While working, Martin looked out his window and when he saw shoes or boots that he did not recognize he went closer to the window to see the person’s face. After a while, he saw a pair of shabby old boots and recognized them belonging to Stepanich – an old man who cleared the snow before Martin’s window.

After making a dozen stiches, Martin looked out the window again and saw that Stepanich had leaned his shovel against the wall and was either resting himself or trying to get warm. Martin decided to invite the old man in for tea.

While drinking the tea and chatting with Martin, Stepanich noticed that the cobbler was periodically looking out the window.

“Are you expecting anyone?” enquired Stepanich.

Martin replied, “Am I expecting anyone? Well now, I’m ashamed to tell you, but I heard something last night which I can’t get out of my mind.” And he told Stepanich about the voice he heard and how the Lord, when he walked the earth, had kept himself mostly among common folk who were workmen and sinners just like they were.

Stepanich was moved to tears by these words. He rose and said, “Thank you, Martin, you have given me food and comfort both for soul and body.” At which point he returned to his work shovelling snow.

Martin also returned to his work and continued to look intently at the window, waiting for Christ to visit and contemplating his sayings. Many people passed by the window. Then a woman came up in peasant-made shoes. She walked past the window but then stopped by the wall. Martin looked up and saw a stranger, poorly dressed and holding a baby in her arms. By her position it was clear that she was trying to shield the baby from the cold wind. Martin could hear the baby crying and the mother unsuccessfully trying to sooth it.

Martin got up, opened the door and up some of the steps to the street level, where he called the woman to come in out of the cold. The woman was surprised to see him, but followed him in. He directed her to sit on the bed close to the stove and served her some cabbage soup which had been cooking since morning, along with some bread.

He said to the woman, “Sit down, my dear, and eat; I’ll manage the baby. I’ve had a few of my own and know how to handle them.” The woman crossed herself and sat down to eat while Martin got the baby to stop crying and even started laughing.

The woman told Martin her story. Her husband was a soldier who was sent far away, and he had now been gone for eight months. She had been working as a cook until she delivered her baby, but she was fired as soon as the child was born. She had tried to get other jobs but was unsuccessful and was having to sell all her belongings, including her winter clothes, to feed herself. She had just got a job that would begin in a week but her landlady is allowing her to stay for free.

Martin found an old cloak and gave it to the woman and some money for her to buy back the shawl that she had pawned the previous day.

The woman said to Martin, “The Lord bless you, friend. Surely Christ must have sent me to your window, else the child would have frozen. The weather was mild when I started out but now see how cold it has turned. Surely it must have been Christ who made you look out of your window and take pity on me, poor wretch!”

Martin smiled and said, “It is quite true; it was He made me do it. It was no mere chance made me look out.” And he told her the story of the voice he heard at night. Shortly afterwards she left and Martin saw her out.

Martin ate some cabbage soup and returned to his work. Many people walked past his window but nobody remarkable.

After a while, Martin saw an aged apple-woman stop in front of his window. She had a large basket with a few apples in it; apparently, she had sold most of the stock. She also carried a bag of wood chips on her back, which evidently bothered her. When she put down her apple basket to adjust her bag, a boy came by and snatched up an apple. The old woman was swift and caught the boy by the arm and, scolding him, knocked the cap off his head and grabbed him by the hair.

Seeing the commotion, Martin bolted out the door and up the stairs as fast as his legs could take him. He separated them and said to the woman, “Let him go, Granny. Forgive him for Christ’s sake!”

“I’ll pay him out, so that he won’t forget it for a year,” she replied, “I’ll take the rascal to the police!”

Martin entreated the apple-woman to let go of the boy and told the boy to ask the apple-woman for forgiveness. And he gave another apple to the boy, promising the woman to pay her.

“You will spoil them that way, the young rascals,” said the old woman. “He ought to be whipped so that he should remember it for a week.”

“Oh, Granny, Granny,” said Martin, “that’s our way – but it’s not God’s way. If he should be whipped for stealing an apple, what should be done to us for our sins?”

The old woman was silent.

And Martin told the old woman the parable of the lord who forgave his servant a large debt, and how the servant went out and seized his debtor by the throat. Both the old woman and the boy stood by and listened.

“God bids us forgive,” said Martin, “or else we shall not be forgiven. Forgive everyone, and a thoughtless youngster most of all.”

The old woman then mentioned that she had seven children, but now she has only one daughter whom she lives with. And she talked about her grandchildren – especially Annie, who is inordinately fond of her grandmother. And the old woman softened at these thoughts.

“Of course it was only the boy’s childishness, God help him,” she said.

As the old woman was about to hoist the sack back onto her shoulders, the boy sprang forward and said, “Let me carry it for you, Granny. I’m going that way.” The old woman nodded and they walked off together.

Martin returned to his work. After some time, he saw the lamplighter passing on his way to light the streetlamps.  A couple hours later, Martin finished his work for the day, put away the leather and his tools, and picked up the Gospels from the shelf. He planned to open the book where he had placed his bookmark the night before, but instead it opened at another place. As he opened it, he remembered the voice that he had heard at night.

No sooner had he thought of the voice, Martin heard footsteps behind him. He turned around in his lamplit room to see who was there in the dark corner behind him. As he turned, he heard a voice whisper in his ear, “Martin, Martin, don’t you know me?”

“Who is it?” muttered Martin.

“It is I,” said the voice. And out of the dark corner stepped Stepanich, who smiled and vanished again in the dark.

“It is I,” said the voice again. And out of the darkness stepped the woman with the baby in her arms. She smiled at Martin and the baby laughed. And they, too, vanished.

“It is I,” said the voice once more. And the old woman and the boy with the apple stepped out and both smiled. And they vanished.

Martin’s soul grew glad at this. He crossed himself and then began to read the Gospel where the book had opened. At the top of the page he read:

I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in.

And at the bottom of the page he read:
Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of these my brethren, even these least, ye did it unto me. (Matt. xxv)

And Martin understood that his dream had come true; that the Saviour had really come to him that day, and he had welcomed Him.

In many Christian denominations, there is an emphasis on the Holy Trinity being in Heaven, far removed from our daily lives, even though we have prayer as a “hotline” to the Divine. But there is plenty in the Gospel of Jesus Christ that speaks of the Divine being immanent in all. As a mystic, this is the truth that I dwell on continually, while at the same time accepting that the Divine transcends all of creation. It is the supreme paradox (or, if you will, mystery) that helps to keep the faith of many alive. And among the literature that helps to keep me marvelling at this mystery, the short stories of Leo Tolstoy written 140 years ago top the list.

I’ll close with the last lines of the Christmas Carol “In the Bleak Mid-winter” (which I sang many a time in choir during Christmas Mass):
What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man I would do my part
Yet what I can I give him, give my heart.
Give my heart.