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It’s the most musical time of the year. Church choirs carol door to door in the frosty night air. Families gather round the piano and sing while sipping eggnog. Pop artists shamelessly cash in on the easy money of a holiday album. Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Linda Ronstadt, The Beach Boys, The Jackson 5, Barbra Streisand, Neil Diamond, Mariah Carey, NSYNC, Michael Bublé, Kelly Clarkson, Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber . . . you get the picture. Seasonal standards dominate the airwaves. More than a few radio stations switch over to an endless rotation of holiday hits. Deeply pious cantatas blend seamlessly with catchy jingles. The stand-up Hallelujah chorus from Handel’s Messiah follows Elmo and Patsy’s beer tab-twanged “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” on the radio and we all feel the swell of the season.

Holiday music sounds off in miniature the eclecticism at work in the larger culture. December witnesses high art pressed into plastic yard ornaments and low art elevated to city hall decoration. A Hanukah menorah hangs next to a North Pole elf on the Christmas tree and no one thinks anything of it. In neighborhood drive-through light displays, ancient Jewish, modern American, and medieval Bavarian traditions collide and comingle like old friends. Christmastime welcomes a kaleidoscope of nostalgic, religious, and kitschy stuff. Bronner’s Christmas Wonderland wonderfully demonstrates this fact.

Located in the well-groomed and tourist-friendly Bavarian town of Frankenmuth, Michigan, Bronner’s Christmas Wonderland draws over two million visitors a year to view the inventory of tree ornaments and Christmas trimmings, making it one of the top attractions in the state. Sprinkled around the parking lot perimeter are an assortment of nativity sets with life-sized figures of Mary and Joseph, all being watched over by three seventeen-foot–tall Santas and a snowman. At the far end of the lot visitors can enter an exact replica of the Chapel from Oberndorf, Austria where pastor Joseph Mohr and musician Franz Xavier Gruber first performed “Silent Night” in 1818. Inside the main store, visitors discover a winter warehouse of personalize-able ornaments, nativity displays, and other holiday home décor. Bronner’s Christmas Wonderland stirs powerful emotions for bygone days of childhood play, heartfelt religious devotion, and family. It feeds the instinctual desire to “nest” the home with colorful decorations. And the devout Lutheran faith of the Bronner family infuses everything. The store has consistently displayed and promoted its motto: “Enjoy CHRISTmas, It’s HIS Birthday; Enjoy Life, It’s HIS Way.” Such a place channels and magnifies the cultural, spiritual, and personal meanings and emotions of Christmas.

Seen from another angle, the town of Frankenmuth and its beloved Bronner’s Christmas Wonderland exemplify one of the key characteristics of these postmodern times you and I live in: bricolage. The term bricolage names the untidy habit of grouping all kinds of different things into the same experience. Bricolage refers to the process of cutting, lifting, and pasting to create something novel. Think of an art collage where magazine pictures of cars, perfume, dogs, and celebrities get clipped and glued together with beads, string, and candy to create one conglomerate picture—this is life as we know it: a pastiche of parts. The touristy town of Frankenmuth comingles Bavarian architecture, deep-fried chicken, mega-shopping, and yesteryear tourism. What is astounding is that this gonzo mishmash of styles and experiences does not discombobulate our innards or make our heads spin. It sits perfectly well with our other life expectations. We have come to expect life and all its pieces to get cobbled together from many sources—some ancestral, some cultural, some commercial, some religious.

Those of us who have since our youth breathed the air of postmodernity (whether we called it by that name or not) have acquired a taste for the bric-a-brac Christmas with its family meals, crass sweaters, and inflatable snowmen in the yard. Like an Internet web search that displays anything and everything, so the holidays have a way of summoning the bonkers and the beautiful, the neon blitz of the shopping mall and the gentle wonder of midnight Mass.

It may come as a surprise, but I do not intend here to reject the hodgepodge of the season in favor of some idealized purity. The allure of Advent for me as a theologian is that it combines the high and holy with the popular and preposterous. On Christmas Eve kids gather around granddad’s knees to hear the birth story from Luke 2 and “’Twas the Night Before Christmas.” What can this mean?

In this book I want to take into account the rich theological and biblical themes of the season as well as family traditions, carols, legends, and lore. I plan to excavate the theology of the incarnation but also entertain the many expressions of holiday spirit and festive cheer that attend it. I hope not to leave anything out but include the silly with the serious and the featherweight with the ponderous—just as it actually happens at Christmastime.

Christmas brims with anticipation.

Framing the Manger

The Bible sketches the holy nativity scene in sparse and iconic prose while gathering together a truly eclectic cast of characters. Mother and father, angels and shepherds, farm animals, wise men, and ordinary townspeople clump and conglomerate around the manger. The manger represents bricolage in action. We see a microcosm of the church and of the wide-ranging kinds of members who make up each local congregation in the body of Christ. Each character in the biblical story in some way represents each of us—the community of faithful believers who carry on the story today.

Let us take a peek at the actors in this company.

At the center lies the Christ child, meek and mild. In some ways he is easily overshadowed by everyone else in the frame, but if we keep our eyes on him, if we keep moving toward him, if we keep him at the heart of worship, all else will come into focus. And here especially is where we might learn from the example of children. Children pay particular attention to the baby Jesus. In the living room display sets, it is the baby Jesus figurine that is most often swiped by toddlers and preschoolers. Straining on tippy toes, pudgy little fingers feel around until they grasp the baby and then carry him off to other play sets and other adventures. Martin Luther (1483–1546) once complained about his theology students, saying that he wished he could get them to pray the way his dogs went after meat. He might well wish the Christians of today would strain and grasp for Jesus the way toddlers do.

If we peer in at the infant asleep in the manger, what will we see? Not all see with the same eye, but for those who can see, there is a vision of greatness tucked away in the smallness of the crib. In a sermon delivered by Ælred of Rievaulx (1109–1167) we find this lilting passage about the Son of God in the manger.

He bends himself down so that he might raise us up not only from the sin into which we had fallen but also from the penalty of sin to which he has descended. Therefore, the beginning of our salvation is there in the spectacle of his humility. Therefore, let us see our Lord first of all in this humility, in this littleness, in this poverty. And who is there who cannot see him in all these things? Now through the whole world it is known that God was made human (Ps 75:2; Mal 1:11), a little human, and a poor human. But not all see him with the same eye.1

What strikes Ælred more than anything is the littleness, humility, and poverty of the infant King, the lowly Lord of heaven and earth—a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes. Most basically, of course, the clothes should signal to us that the infant Jesus has been cared for. He has been diapered and bundled for warmth. It is a simple detail, but one that communicates love and tenderness on the part of Mary and Joseph. Luther sees theological significance in addition: “the cloths are nothing but Holy Scripture, in which Christian truth lies wrapped up.”2 How does God package his Word and message? In Scripture. What is bundled within the folds of Scripture? Jesus Christ.

If we step back from the manger crib we might take note of the angels. We must not forget the angels, even though their translucent bodies tend to fade in and out of view. Are they part of our world or not? Are they ever-present or do they only make intermittent appearances? They seem always to be in transition between this world and the next.

They come bearing news. What does the angels’ announcement sound like? Like a scream or a growl or a bark? No. It sounds like laughter—“joy to the world!” And indeed, the angelic beings who crowd around the birth stall remind us that the work of Christian living should be marked by joy and happiness. They also remind us that our work is not ours alone; we never operate by ourselves. A cloud of witnesses surrounds us. The ministering angels of God watch and rejoice over the one sinner who repents. They remind us that in our acts of mercy, earth and heaven join hands.

Who else appears in this portentous scene besides the Christ child and the angels? There is the blessed mother Mary who said yes to the angel Gabriel’s announcement, and the kindly Joseph who stayed with her on that long night. Even as we look to the child we cannot quite take our eyes off Mary. Neither can Joseph. I imagine Joseph stealing looks at his wife, amazed, as if seeing her for the first time. In wonder he ponders her just as she ponders in her heart the soft-skinned infant in her arms.

At the very least, the presence of Mary and Joseph at the nativity scene reminds us that in every church there are those who bear Christ to us and become for us our spiritual mothers and spiritual fathers, the rocks of faith and boulders of prayer.

In every congregation you will find a few wise men who come from the east bearing gifts, as it were. In every church God provides individual members with gifts, musical talents, financial support, and leadership qualities that can be used for the good of the kingdom and the spreading of the good news. The magi honor the newborn king with gifts. Scripture records three and so tradition has assumed that there were three magi. Ephrem the Syrian (303–373) observes that the gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh—at one time revered and worshipped in themselves as the material representations of the gods—submit themselves to the Christ in worship and adoration.3 What was once worshiped now worships the one worthy of worship. In these gifts we also find theological surprises: the gold stands for Christ’s kingly status, the aroma of frankincense reminds us of his priestly sacrificial duty, and the myrrh to prepare the body that will one day die.4

Then there were the shepherds. Commentator Raymond Brown informs us that “Shepherd’s Field” was located about two miles outside of Bethlehem.5 Much has been made of the shepherds in biblical commentaries because they represent the lower strata of society.6 They are the unsavory, disreputable, and often forgotten types. They have no impressive gifts of gold to present. They have no wisdom to impart. What can it mean that the angelic announcement of the newborn Messiah came first to them? “They represent all the lowly ones who lead a poor, despised, unostentatious life on earth and live under the open sky, subject to God. They are ready to receive the gospel.”7 What impressed Martin Luther most about them was that, upon the sanctifying sight of the Christ child, the shepherds did not drop their shepherds’ crooks, put on the cowl, and become monks.8 Rather, they returned to their flocks; they remained responsible to the ordinary demands of family and job, but with a new light and wonder and hope in their hearts.

Churches would not exist without sheep herders, the ordinary Joes and Marthas who take care of their families, work responsibly and loyally in the different ministries of the church. The kingdom of God is made up of shepherds like these who have looked on the Lord Jesus and carry the good news into the most mundane of places, the most necessary of places.

And the animals! They presented themselves as best they could. The little carol “Good Christian Men Rejoice” reminds us that ox and ass bowed before the manger too. It also reminds us that in every church there are some oxen and the occasional . . . ass. We must learn to live and work and partner in ministry with all kinds of human beings, even those that bray and snort. Saint Augustine (354–430) interpreted the ox and donkey as the two peoples of God, the Jews and Gentiles. He counseled his congregation in a sermon not to be ashamed of being the Lord’s donkey, saying, “Let the Lord sit upon us, and take us wherever he wants. We’re his mount, we’re going to Jerusalem. With him seated on us we aren’t weighed down, but lifted up; with him guiding us, we can’t go wrong.”9 Saint Francis of Assisi (1182–1226), making a more literal application of the lesson, recommended caretakers give their livestock, especially the oxen and donkeys, extra helpings of hay and grain at Christmas for their role in the holy drama of the incarnation. All creation should celebrate the coming of the King.

Mr. Claus’s Ministry

I have had the joy and privilege of devoting some of my professional career to studying the biographical evidence for the life of Saint Nicholas of Myra (c. 260–333). One unexpected surprise to come out of my research has nothing to do with the historical facts I learned. It was the people I met. I discovered Saint Nicholas has fans. Some of his fans are deeply spiritual and pious, some style themselves as collectors of old toys and memorabilia, some are just obsessed with all things Christmas. And something else I learned—how many men devote their post-retirement lives to playing the role of Santa Claus, certainly more than enough to staff a North Pole workshop. Many Santa Clauses commit to a year-round beard, red suspenders, and an all-around red, white, and green wardrobe.

More than a few of these men fell into the role of Santa Claus by accident. Some have always worn beards and find one day that those beards have turned white with age. Suddenly their grandkids and random strangers begin greeting them as Santa. Some put on the red suit and funny hat as a hobby, some treat it as a part-time seasonal job, others just love the holiday season. One military veteran was asked by a friend if he would help out in a pinch by coming onto the base and meeting with the families and children of deployed soldiers. The heart-warming response of the children at the appearance of Santa touched him deeply. So, he volunteered to appear again the following year. Before long, he bought his own suit, grew a beard, met with area Santa groups, and had more requests in a season than he could fill. And yes, in case you wondered, down in Coral Gables, Florida, there is an official Santa Color Guard—a battalion of Santas clad in red, white, and green camouflage pants.

One man, Jay from Kentucky, suffered a life-threatening car accident with his wife. He stayed in the hospital over two weeks recovering while his wife lay in a coma. To this day she has residual health issues from the trauma. As Jay convalesced, he neglected to shave. A fine white beard grew. He walked the hospital halls for exercise and came upon a cancer wing full of children. Young kids in much worse condition than him would poke their faces out of their rooms and ask if he was Santa Claus. Jay realized that God had hand-delivered him a ministry, practically gift-wrapped with a bow on top. All Jay had to do was accept this new calling and play the part.

He visits children’s wards regularly dressed as Santa Claus. One time a little girl sat on his lap and when he asked what she wanted for Christmas, she answered, “I want a new eye.” Jay spoke honestly with the child. He told her he could not promise that she would have a new eye for Christmas, but he promised that he would pray for her.

The next day he went back to the hospital and the mother of the girl found him and asked, “Do you remember my little girl?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You made her day yesterday. She said, ‘Mama, Santa Claus is praying for me.’”

And then there is Father Joseph Marquis. A tall and barrel-chested priest in the Byzantine rite Catholic Church, Father Joseph has a well-groomed beard and a voice deep as a gravel truck. He has accumulated over forty years of experience portraying the character of Santa Claus. When he changes out of his black, clerical garb and into his custom fit and embroidered Santa suit, white gloves, and wide black leather belt, he makes the transformation complete.

He got a phone call one morning in June from a man who said his granddaughter, Angela, was dying of leukemia. She had always loved Christmas and probably would not live to see another one. Would it be possible for her to receive a visit from Santa Claus? Father Joseph agreed on two conditions: first, that the grandfather would drive him, since it is hard to steer a vehicle in a full Santa suit, and second, that the grandfather would clear his visit with the hospital—he did not know how the hospital staff might react to a man dressed as Santa in mid-summer walking through their halls unannounced.

The appointed day was one of those sweltering June days over ninety degrees. The grandfather pulled to the curb in a pickup truck with unfortunate news: “I’m sorry to tell you, Father Joseph, but my air conditioning just went out.”

Even with the windows rolled down, they roasted and sweated all the way to the hospital. They arrived and Father Joseph stepped off the elevator and into the children’s ward to find that the entire floor had been decked out for Christmas: music, streamers, candy canes, and nurses dressed in green and red scrubs.

Father Joseph did not walk directly to the patient he had come to see. Santa loves all children, so Father Joseph made the rounds. To each boy he gave a button that read “Santa says I’ve been a good boy” and to the girls a button that read “Santa says I’ve been a good girl.”

Eventually he made it to Angela’s room. Her eyes widened with joy and she sat up in bed to meet Santa. He gave her a button and led the family in singing a few carols and songs. The grandmother decided this was the right time to give Angela a blue dress that she had sewn herself. It was a lovely dress made with loving care. The grandmother also made a little matching dress for a doll with curly blond hair. Angela squeezed the doll as Father Joseph bent down and said, “Angela, this doll is your guardian angel. God’s angels watch out over us, so whenever you see this doll, remember that God loves you and is watching over you.”

Angela would cherish the day as a dream come true. Father Joseph would cherish the memory in his own way. Two weeks later, on a Saturday, Father Joseph received a phone call in his parish office. It was the grandfather. “I just wanted you to know that we buried Angela this morning. She looked so peaceful laying there with her eyes closed, her doll tucked into her arms. She wore her new blue dress and pinned to it was that button—‘Santa says I’ve been a good girl.’”

Father Joseph hung up the phone and sunk back into his chair. He almost succumbed to grief and despair at the tragedy of it all when a thought occurred to him: maybe, just maybe, his investment of time and money and energy into becoming Santa Claus, maybe his avocation in the ministry of Saint Nicholas, maybe his obsession with all things Christmas, maybe all of it was for Angela. Maybe it had all come about just so that he could bring a smile to this one little girl on the lonely edge of death.

Father Joseph’s experience narrates the bricolage beauty of Christmas. It can come in June at a children’s ward. It can combine seasonal toys and commercial decorations with the heavy blows of life and death, hope and despair. It is the place where Persian magi and unwashed shepherds duck low and gather in, where Christ is found not in his radiant glory and power, but wrapped in swaddling clothes and laying in a manger.

1. Ælred, “Sermon 30,” in “Two Sermons,” 87.

2. Luther, Sermons II, 21.

3. Ephrem, Hymns, 22.26–28, p. 183.

4. Luther, Sermons II, 278.

5. Brown, Messiah, 401.

6. Whether or not they were a despised class of society in the first century, as is sometimes said, is a matter of debate. Bailey, Good Shepherd, 33–65.

7. Luther, Sermons II, 25.

8. Ibid., 37.

9. Augustine, Sermon 189, Sermons III/6, 36.