Christian Friend,
I’ve been meaning to talk to you.
I’m trying to reconcile the things I see right now.
I see your house, carefully strewn with glowing lights, fragrant boughs of holly decking your photo-covered hallways.
I see your ceiling-scraping tree, limbs weighed down with the carefully curated collection of fragile keepsakes and handcrafted mementos acquired over decades.
I see you donning your gay apparel, while making your list and checking it twice, and declaring yourself exceedingly nice.
I see your overflowing shopping cart, packed to bursting with goodness that you plan to soon indulge in, nestled in an abundance that cascades in every direction.
I see the outward displays of reverent religion in needlepoints you make and in cards you’ve sent me and in filtered Instagram posts that arrive from you on my timeline every day.
But I’ve also seen something else.
I’ve also seen your Twitter feed.
I’ve read your Facebook rants.
I’ve watched you watching the news.
I’ve witnessed you tossing-off cruel comments at the dinner table.
I’ve seen your cruelty, your selfishness, your anger.
I’ve heard you declare your contempt for those trying to find refuge here.
And all the while I’ve heard you singing Christmas songs,
With all due respect, I’m not sure you should be singing songs right now.
If you’re going to rejoice over the refusal of refugee families at our borders, you probably shouldn’t be sweetly singing about a baby with “no crib for a bed.”
If you have disregard for a 7-year old who expires from dehydration, I’m not sure “Let every heart, prepare him room,” should burst forth from your lips.
If you’re unaffected by a tear-gassed family under an overpass, pouring water over their bloodshot eyes, I’m thinking that basking in candlelight, while singing words about reverently gathering “’round yon virgin mother and child, holy infant so tender and mild” is a bit hypocritical.
What I’m saying, Christian friend, is that if you aren’t capable of manufacturing the slightest bit of compassion for the hurting and the hungry and the terrified and the desperate right now—what on earth are you singing for?
What is the point of this holiday for you, if you can’t make room in your own heart and your own nation, for the least of these when they show up unannounced?
If you can’t or won’t welcome refugees and migrants and screaming brown-skinned babies of families in duress—you really have no business celebrating Christmas.
Those songs are about a foreign child.
They are about a non-American human being.
They are about a weary family, looking for rest.
They are about divinity wrapped in a non-caucasian baby.
They are about peace for the world coming in the least likely form, and the welcome that was difficult to find.
They are about the transformation of hearts that expand to receive.
Maybe you need to give a gift to yourself right now.
Maybe you should pause before delivering another candy-coated carol, another pristine hymn, another effusive song of praise to a single child born in poverty—and you should ask yourself if you can really own these words.
Maybe if you think about the verses you’re singing and the object of those songs, you’ll hear the discord as you place them alongside your politics and your posturing and your social media rantings.
You might notice the dissonance, as you recognize that Jesus would go on to say that the way you welcome or ignore the poor and the hungry and the forgotten—is the way that you will welcome or ignore him.
I hope a new compassion and mercy and generosity are birthed in you.
I hope empathy for those seeking refugee arrives unexpectedly.
I hope you find yourself surprised by something beautiful within you.
I hope your heart is broken and altered by the need around you.
Then, you’ll really have reason to sing this Christmas.
