A Larger Hope: Opening the Heart to God

This is a thoughtful and much-needed perspective. I am troubled that a previous reviewer portrayed Dr. Colglazier by quoting only a small portion of one of his columns. In order to set the record straight, here is the entire column: I have nothing to say. Nothing to say about Jesus, or the church, the virgin birth, Mary and Joseph, Bethlehem or Jerusalem. Nothing to say about Matthew and Luke, about angels or magi, or the lowly stable. Nothing to say about Christmas or Christianity, world peace, global hunger, or the war in Iraq. Nothing to say about the pandemic of AIDS, the presidential election, or who is going to win what bowl game on New Year's Day. Nothing. I'm sitting in my office surrounded by thousands of books. (I now have a library of nearly 3,000 volumes.) I estimate that in one way or another, half of them are about Jesus of Nazareth, the Jesus whose birth is remembered and celebrated this coming week. Even if you're not a Christian, Christmas has a way of becoming part of a cultural celebration. (As one friend said to me not long ago, "We don't really believe much of it, but we sure like the gifts once a year!") Nevertheless, in spite of all the books, words, sentences and pompous ideas, it seems like none of them are adequate for explaining Christmas. Maybe having nothing to say is a good thing. When I contemplate the first Christmas, I tend to think of it as an event where very little was said. Can you begin to imagine that night, that silent night of Jesus' birth? Mary and Joseph are traveling, and he is quiet, worrying about where they will spend the night. As for Mary, her ankles are swollen, her belly heavy with child, and, truth be told, she doesn't feel like talking to anyone. The birth happens in a barn -- dark, quiet and cavernous. A cow bellows every once in a while, and occasionally, a horse offers a wet, mucousy snort. But, for the most part, it is a night of silence. I see Mary's eyes becoming large and dark, like the eyes of a pony. They are dilated with adrenaline, and she is breathing hard, eventually panting and pushing. Then there is that brief sound of suction, of life coming out of the hollow of her body, and yes, a baby squirming into the world. A tender slap is administered to his skin and Jesus (at this moment a baby like any other baby) sucks down the sweetness of oxygen. He is wrapped in cotton cloths and gently placed upon the chest of his mother. She breathes. The baby breathes. And then more silence. Perhaps this is the truth of Christmas: It is only when we have nothing to say that we discover what we need to hear. Christmas is not so much explained as it is waited upon; it is a mystery gently revealed. When our losses are beyond words, we finally begin to feel the hand of a neighbor upon our shoulder. When our disappointments are unspeakable, we hear the deepest voices of love. When our failures are inexcusable, perhaps then and only then do we hear the true voices of acceptance. And when we'r