BY AVELLINA BALESTRI

Some say that the unfortunately popular song Jem Finer and Shane MacGowan song “Fairytale of New York” is meant to be some sort of antidote to the onslaught of candy-cane jingles in shopping malls and on the radio. It is a commentary on our post-modern slump that this relates to so many people who find its broken bitterness relatable and cathartic. I suppose wallowing in misery can be a form of self-medicating, as it asks so very little from those engaged in it.

But I as a Christian, and indeed a Catholic, I reject both the extremes of the nihilistic “Fairytale of New York” and the sugary ad nauseam Paul McCartney “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime,” both of which fail to address the true quality of the human condition, and instead embrace a genre I believe truly recovers the many moods of the season: reflective and rich carols from the Christian tradition, such as “Down in Yon Forest,” which refers to slain knights and rivers of blood as a foreshadowing of the Cross.

I think most of my favorite carols contain some element of that tonal undercurrent, like “What Child is This?” and “Sing Lullaby” which again brings in the imagery of nails and spears and the bondage of death that must be broken, and “The Coventry Carol,” which deals with the slaughter of the Innocents under Herod. Even “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentleman” is not trite in its tidings of comfort and joy, and the term “merry” implies being made whole, not simply having a good time.

“Adam Lay yBounden,” again, is about mankind being bound to sin and death for a symbolic 4,000 years since Adam, our human prototype, fell, before it is announced that even the eating of the apple itself might be paradoxically seen as blessed in light of our redemption and the crowning of Mary, the second Eve, as queen. “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” likewise, is weighed down by painfully beautiful yearning, waiting for the Messiah to come bearing good ransom, even as we rejoice in the knowledge that He is coming.

Other famous carols, such as Isacc Watts’ “Joy to the World” are just as much about Christ’s Second Coming as His First Coming, when Heaven and Earth shall sing because they have been made anew. It is not a syrupy stagnation, but a hope bursting with vigor and vitality, even in a world still groaning with birthing pangs, where all hope may seem lost. Indeed, the haunting Anglo-American hymn “Babylon is Fallen” provides a perfect Advent companion piece, visceral with imagery from the Book of Revelation.

Another famous Watts carol, “Shepherds, Rejoice,” emphasizes the shocking contrasts of the King of Kings being brought into the world without any “royal, shining things,” and calls the shepherds, representing the lowliness of our own condition to “kiss the Son.” I cannot help but see a possible double meaning, when the prophets of old had their lips burned by coals so they could prophesy. In a similar carol, “Shepherds, Arise,” the emphasis is placed upon the haste of the shepherds to reach the one who will “save us from eternal death and raise us from the grave.”

Charles Wesley’s “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” is also far from simplistic in its deeply theological lyrics. “Veiled in flesh, the Godhead see! Hail the incarnate deity! Pleased as Man, with Man, to dwell, Jesus our Emmanuel.” In an often=forgotten final verse, Wesley calls for Christ to “bruise in us the serpent’s head.” Christmas is not mere tranquility, but the beginning of a great battle for possession of our souls, “to save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray,” as “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” puts it so well.

In “O Holy Night,” we confront the weariness of a sinful world straight on. Yet we are encouraged to experience a “thrill of hope” as the soul at last feels its worth. There is also a call to action, to break chains, for the slave is our brother, just as Christ freed us from our own enslavement. “I Hear the Bells on Christmas Day” has a common origin from out of the American Civil War, in which the hymnist laments that there is no peace on earth, yet in the end the bells proclaim “God is not dead, nor does He sleep.” This only is a logical conclusion, given Christ’s harrowing of hell and ravishing of the tomb.

The Mystery of the Incarnation is not one which can be merely domesticated, but rather draws up our domestic realities into the divine realms. We are living in the Age of Grace, betwixt the first and second comings, fighting the long defeat, as JRR Tolkien put it, promised final victory just beyond the horizon. The Christ Child and the Blessed Virgin come by way of water in “I Saw Three Ships,” the symbol of eternity coming into time.

Then there are songs and stories grounded in the turning of the wheel of the year, the seasonal changes which were vital to study for any who lived an agrarian life. We find ghosts of our ancestors and the Green Man of the Wood, the herd of reindeer we must follow for survival, and the pregnant doe who, once again, tends to a slain knight and carries him over the earthen lake to the Otherworld. We bless the apples and go wassailing, reveling even as the land slumbers. The spiritual and the physical endlessly overlap, like time and eternity, manifest in the evergreen of the holly and the ivy.

Likewise, in winter folk songs, we have themes of both separation and endurance. In “The Snow It Melts the Soonest,” we hear of a loved one’s inability to maintain scorn, even as her lover leaves for the New World. In “The Bonny Light Horseman,” a young man, whose rosy red cheeks captured the eye of his sweetheart on a cold winter’s day, is slain during the Napoleonic Wars, and his lover wishes she had wings like an eagle to fly to where he lies and heal his wounds. We long for unity, in this world and the next, but it is hopeless for us to achieve it by our own power. But a change is coming, infusing our timeless tales with whisperings of a New Creation. The Winter Solstice, celebrating the newborn sun, is lent new meaning by the True Light coming into the darkness. The old pagan customs of folklore are christened, just as the natural world itself is christened, drawn up into the mystery of theosis.

As the carol “Tomorrow Shall Be My Dancing Day” so wonderfully captures, the divine life of the Trinity is dynamic, overflowing like a water-wheel, and all are beckoned to participating as Christ “knit into Man’s nature to call my true love to My dance.” It too, references both the Creche and the Cross, making a natural companion piece be the richly allegorical “Quia Amore Langueo,” depicting yet another wounded knight (see a pattern here?) going to woo back the lover who set Him aside.

The truth is that Christmastime, disconnected from both its natural and religious moorings, simply collapses in on itself, either as a season of meaningless frivolity or equally meaningless cynicism. Commenting on the brokenness of our condition is only beneficial when coupled with an understanding of our need for salvation. Pushing back against merely tinsel show is only worthwhile if there is something better to offer. Otherwise, all you are doing is feeling sorry for yourself.

Sadly, I feel that is what most of our modern world does, especially here in the West. We are perhaps one of the first civilizations to try and sever our institutions and lived experience from a higher power. We have lost touch with who we are, what we are called to do, how we got here, and where we are going. Europe, historically known as Christendom, is even further ahead of her children in the Americas when it comes to abandoning her faith and even sense of self. Without God, any transcendent ideals pertaining to country and community must inevitably fall by the wayside. Stories and songs cease to have meaning, but serve only as a distraction from the void.

And yet, the deeper reality endures, pulsing beneath the surface, just like the life of the earth beneath winter’s reign “In the Bleak Midwinter,” when earth is like iron and water like a stone.

Yes, this is part of that long defeat. Nevertheless, spring breaks through the surface, melting the frozen and warming. For with spring comes Easter, and the first fruits sprung forth from a garden tomb. Perhaps Robert Southwell’s poem “The Burning Babe” captured the fusion of fear and joy that must reside in every Christian heart, for the fire is of Love, and it will not cease to burn until all of us are consumed. That is the true meaning of Christmas.