Just before Christmas I took a nephew and niece to a special Christmas concert based around a screening of Howard Blake’s timeless classic ‘The Snowman’. It was curated by Joanne Quigley McParland, a renowned violinist.
It was a spectacular performance and worries about a fidgety four year old, Finn, and an inquisitive seven year old, Cara, not having the attention span to listen - let alone follow a story narrated by an actress and accompanied by a full orchestra - were soon dispelled as the two children became transfixed by the magic of theatre.
As the midnight adventures of the little boy and the Snowman came to an end and the boy awoke to his snowman melted by the winter sun, the narrator remarked, “Isn’t that all a bit sad, children?”. There was a collective heave of a sigh from the children in the audience.
From all except one child.
My nephew Finn stuttered out: “No it's not sad. It’s not sad because the snowman had to melt back into the earth. But we can always build more the next time and we still have the hat and scarf”.
I was totally blown away.
What is it they say about out of the mouths of babes?
Finn’s observation about the cycle of life, death, renewal, sadness and joy are the kind of things the Dalai Lama says with such profoundness. But through the lips of a child they have great clarity and simplicity.
A few years earlier, I took Finn’s older brother Ethan to see Father Christmas at the church hall. Beforehand we nipped into Newry’s Dominican church with its famous crib. As a child, the late Fr Murphy OP let me paint some of it.
This is a magical crib containing more than just the traditional manger animals. This one has a pond with moving swans, ducks and owls.
But Ethan’s gaze wasn’t on the crib but on the magnificent Pieta to the rear of the church.
Unlike the real one in white marble, this one is painted.
Ethan studiously looked at the pierced blood wounds in the side of Jesus. He remarked “Was Jesus shot?” No, I whispered to the giggles of the men standing at back row. “I think he was” said an unperturbed Ethan. “The King who wanted Jesus dead as a baby must have gone and got the men with guns to shoot him when he was big.” The sniggers turned into bellows of laughter.
Later at the crib, a priest said: “Ah the boy who thought Jesus was shot.” I cringed a little. He then whispered to Ethan “You know what, if they had guns back then, I think Jesus may have been shot”. Ethan turned to me with a told you so look and grinned widely.
Children make Christmas. They bring it alive. To them it’s full of expectation. Even the most curmudgeonly grinch can’t help but smile when a child gushes with jittery excitement.
The Christian narrative is about a child. It’s also about a disrupted life and a family under pressure. Anyone can appreciate the nativity story.
This year Covid has been a cruel disruptor to the joys of Christmas with many now with empty seats around the table.
With lost jobs and struggling businesses more than a few couldn’t provide financially for their families at Christmas.
Covid also strained personal relationships and created a greater sense of isolation for those living alone or estranged from their families.
Unfortunately the most vulnerable in our society - the homeless - didn’t even have the shelter of a manger. Others desperate to escape economic poverty and oppression, perilously put themselves in danger in the hope of reaching a better place, only to be deceived by merciless people traffickers.
Maybe as we reflect on our own joys this Christmas season it’s worth remembering others less fortunate.
As Benjamin Franklin said: “A good conscience is a continual Christmas”. But children know that already.
