As some of you know, I’m an only child. If Ginger were contributing to this reflection, this is where she would add, “And that explains everything.” It’s worse than that really. On one side of my family, I’m also an only grandchild. You can imagine what that meant. Not only did I have my parents undivided attention, I had two grandparents for whom my wish was their command, particularly at this time of the year. More about that some other time perhaps.
But for now, the point is more about my son Andrew, who had me beat. Until his brother Matthew arrived, Andrew was the only grand child on both sides of our family. This, combined with the fact that both my parents and Ginger’s parents felt like they had waited inordinately long for grandchildren, created the perfect storm of indulgence on Andrew’s first Christmas with us. (He was still in Korea on his very first Christmas. Not to worry; it got made up for the next year.)
As has become our custom, Ginger got Andrew his Christmas pajamas. Best to do the truly humiliating while they can’t resist. The first year night wear was a red and white striped night shirt with a matching night cap. Very cute. Pictures exist, which I plan to use in case of an emergency.
The first Christmas morning arrived, and Andrew toddled out of his room in his nightshirt and cap to see what Santa had brought. Santa, that year, had been assisted by his four grandparents. In addition to setting out to completely spoil him, there was no small amount of competition for his affection going on. Ginger and I, at least, stayed out of the Santa event that year. We knew there was no need, and so we contented ourselves with the embarrassing pajamas.
As Andrew entered the living room where Santa’s bounty was laid out, he stopped dead in his tracks. There were toys everywhere. They were on the floor and under the tree and stacked on the sofa. So much stuff for one very little guy. We were somewhat overwhelmed. He was completely overwhelmed. He was stunned. It was just too much. He was quite literally dumbstruck, unable to utter a sound.
The Christmas story, indeed the entire Gospel, begins in a very similar way, although it is a part of the story we usually forget to tell. Before the Nativity, before the Annunciation, there is the story of another miraculous birth bringing great joy. It is the story of Zechariah and Elizabeth. The first chapter of Luke tells us that “[b]oth of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord. But they had no children, because Elizabeth was barren, and both were getting on in years” (vv. 6-7).
And then Gabriel, the same angel who would shortly announce a second miraculous birth, this time to Mary, appears to Zechariah with some most unexpected good news. “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayers has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John. You will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord” (vv. 13-15).
The news is completely overwhelming to Zechariah. He is not inclined to believe it for, as he says, both he and Elizabeth are getting up in years. And Zechariah, too, is dumbstruck. Gabriel assures him of the veracity of all that has been said, and adds, “But now, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will become mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur” (v. 20).
The child to be born, of course, was John the Baptist, announcing the coming of the Messiah. And with that, the story is set in motion. One miraculous birth after another. Grace upon grace. And so it goes on. It is all just overwhelming. It leaves us, or maybe it ought to leave us, dumbstruck. There really is just nothing to be said. It is just too much.
Now, in future years as parents, we learned to give specific instructions to the grandparents as to who bought what. No more of the competition. We divided things out quite equally. And there was an overall limit. Never again more than was possible to take in. No more toddlers paralyzed by how overwhelming it was.
I sometimes wonder, though, if we missed the point. God does not act in such a limiting way. It just keeps coming. The sun every morning. The stars at night. In truth, plenty for all of the creation to thrive, if only we would recognize it and stop living in fear of want. Work to do and take satisfaction in. People to love. Dogs (OK, this is my personal prejudice about things to be grateful for, especially since Annie is at the office with me this morning).
And, above all of it, the most overwhelming statement of all. God’s overwhelming love for creation, and particularly for humanity, in the Incarnation of God’s only Son, Christ our Savior. It ought to leave us dumbstruck.
I wish you a dumbstruck Christmas this year. Ginger, Andrew, Matthew, and the dogs, Annie and Abby, wish you such an overwhelming awareness of your belovedness that you are left completely speechless
Peace,
+Stacy
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