“It’s Christmas time,” writes an old friend in Kalamazoo. “I think of it as a spark of light at the darkest and coldest time of year, at least here where I live. I think of it as a very ordinary feast, celebrating a most undistinguished birth in a place that was only a distinction to a very small group of people.”

“To most of the world,” my friend continues referring to Bethlehem, “it was a hamlet inhabited by a few tradesmen and the families of a few sheepherders nestled into some not very high hills on the edge of a not very distinguished capital city of a Roman satrap state called Palestine.”

My friend has captured much of the spiritual meaning delivered in the Christmas event. Its material austerity and its ordinariness – the birth of a child into a poor family among people on the lowest rungs of society – this event in these circumstances is something most people of the world find easy to relate to.

It’s all so simple. You don’t need a Ph.D. in biblical studies to grasp its meaning. And yet, this event allows you to enter further and further into it through contemplation and prayer.

The genius of the Christian tradition is best shown in the two basic events at the beginning and end of Jesus’ life – his birth and his death. Since these are the universal experiences of being human, they speak simply but eloquently about the meaning of our existence.

Birth is a call to wonder, to awe, to joy at the coming of a new person into the world. That is how the birth of a neighbor’s child struck me last month. I watched his mother grow larger during the summer and fall and, as a neighbor, also looked forward to the day of her delivery. When it happened, I felt some share in the joy that the infant’s parents experienced.

When my own child was born, twenty-one years ago, I felt the full force of the mystery. Seeing her emerge from her mother’s womb filled me with strong emotions of pity, fear, and unprecedented joy. Though inevitably the full force of the wonder connected with it has receded, still her being and growth give me cause for continued awe.

The birth of Jesus, prayerfully contemplated, stirs in spiritual seekers wonder at the mystery of it all. And yet it carries this mystery in the midst of ordinariness, the same as happens the world over to people who have little by way of possessions, power, or influence.

In the birth of Jesus, one also confronts hope. My friend presumably means something like this when he describes it as a “spark of light.” This light in darkness does not mean the same as optimism, however. Rather, it places confidence in divine power, not human. After all, the human enterprise always remains far from success. In the land where Jesus was born, people are still killing one another at an alarming rate.

For many people, the world is always dark and cold. And for others of us, it is that way at least some of the time. As M. Scott Peck says starkly at the very beginning of “The Road Less Traveled,” his wildly popular spiritual classic: “Life is difficult.” The beginning of Jesus’ life gives a hint of the experiences that will mark much of his life: struggle and oppression..

As always, the nativity scene raises questions about worldly possessions. Those who first encounter Jesus do not have much. Perhaps this frees them to see more deeply into the meaning of the event than those burdened with too much ever can. That is the experience of many spiritual seekers: we find that our hold on possessions and our constant desire for more become obstacles to our growth in spirit.

These sober thoughts, however, should not be allowed to take away the joy of this day. To those who share faith in Jesus, at least, and for many others too, Christmas serves as a happy event indeed. “Joy to the World” says the carol. Seekers can open themselves to let this joy flow in and learn to place a greater value on their own lives and on those whom they love.

Richard Griffin

After taking part in morning prayers with a group of friends last Saturday, I talked with one of them over coffee and cake. Though I do not know this man –  – a retired banker and current philanthropist –  – very well, I found conversation with him remarkably uplifting. In fact, later in the day and on succeeding days, the more I reflected on our exchange, the more I considered it an occasion of grace.

Both of us had been moved by what the speaker at the prayer session had said about peace. In her five-minute commentary on scripture, she had filled us with reflections about spirituality that carried over into the gathering that followed.

First, we talked about our agenda for that Saturday. His would feature a visit by one of his daughters with her 15-year-old son. Spending time with them, especially the grandson whom he does not see very often, was an event that he was eagerly looking forward to. He noted that boys at that age change so much so quickly that it is hard to keep up with their growth.

My friend, whom I will call Jack, went on to tell me how he feels blessed in living into his 70s. He regards it as a gift from God that he has seen the third generation after him and has the prospect of seeing a fourth, since one of his granddaughters is married and in her middle 20s. Jack feels grateful for the good health he enjoys and the opportunities for doing good brought to him in his later decades.

His wife has had some serious physical problems and walks with difficulty. But she has adapted cheerfully to her leg brace, a device that, along with a helping arm from her husband, allows her to get places where she wants to go. Jack agreed with my remarks about her resiliency, a characteristic that he and I also regard as a gift.

Jack also shared with me the benefit he is drawing from a course at his church that focuses on Abraham in the book of Genesis. This study is stirring Jack spiritually and he repeated to me “be a blessing,” the phrase spoken by Abraham from which he is deriving spiritual relish.

In my part of the conversation, I shared with Jack my own plans for that Saturday. These included a meeting of members of my church concerned about a crisis. Later in the day I would attend a cocktail party given by a 90-year-old friend in honor of his late wife. Finally, I would be celebrating the birthdays of two of my brothers and be introduced to the fiancé of a niece. All of these events of that day would offer material for reflection and prayer.

As I left the gathering my soul felt buoyed up by the heartfelt exchange with Jack, and I reflected on the traditional role of spiritual conversation in the life of seekers. In my novitiate training long ago, I learned the value of talking with other people about the spiritual life. And this value came home to me often, especially when I talked with close friends who shared my ideals.

I had also learned the value of keeping silence but there was much time for that. When opportunities came for conversation, then I experienced the spiritual benefits from learning how others were faring in living toward God.

The masters of the spiritual life have also taught that idle and superficial conversation can sometimes harm the soul. Living in 21st-century America can make this a hard saying because our culture elevates chatter into a way of life. Like almost everybody else, I enjoy bantering with friends and exchanging clever remarks. However, I also find that such chatter, if carried on too long, can eat away at my soul.

Just the day before Jack and I talked, I had been in a conversation with a group of colleagues, a discussion that left me feeling low. By contrast with the way Jack talked, these other men never said anything of substance. The result for me was a spiritual malaise that acted as a true downer. It has made me appreciate even more my spiritual conversation with Jack.

Richard Griffin

If you are the parent of a college student the way I am, you have become familiar with a special vocabulary used by your daughters or sons and their friends. Even when you overhear only one end of their telephone chats with one another, you become familiar with expressions such as “cool,” what’s up?”,  and “sketchy.”

Another word that comes up frequently is “awesome.”  Our juniors use it in tribute to all sorts of happenings that they consider exciting. Its currency has lost some value, of course, because the word is now used routinely rather than rarely. A young woman’s new hairdo or a fellow going to a lively nightspot can provoke the response “awesome;” it does not need the eruption of a mighty volcano.

Probably not one in a thousand collegians realizes that the word “awesome” classically expresses the beginning of a spiritual way of looking at the world. It contains two basic ideas – – fear and fascination. That is how Rudolf Otto, a German scholar of the early twentieth century, described it; he saw it as the human response to the encounter with what is holy.

The experience of awe finds graphic expression in the lives of mystics of every spiritual tradition. The prophet Isaiah is a good case in point. As described in the Hebrew Bible, he had a vision of the Lord “sitting on a throne, high and lofty” and heard angels calling out “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.”

Isaiah’s response was to recognize himself as “a man of unclean lips,” but an angel came down and touched a hot coal to his lips, purifying him for his mission.  

Centuries later, Jesus at the time of his baptism saw the heavens open and heard a voice saying “This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased.”  This was an experience that filled him with awe and carried him into his public ministry of proclaiming the Kingdom of God.

Such powerful experiences are not restricted to figures in the Bible. They have been handed down in traditions other than the Judeo-Christian.

In a new book, “Why Religion Matters,” the scholar Huston Smith cites Hindu lore, referring to a vision that one of his students has of the god  Krishna “in his terrifying cosmic form.” Professor Smith alludes to the Buddhist tradition as well and cites “the Buddha finding the universe turning into a bouquet of flowers at the hour of his enlightenment.”

Using the image of a carapace or hard shell that stretches over the world, Huston Smith also gives readers this definition:  “Mystics are people who have a talent for sensing places where life’s carapace is cracked, and through its chinks they catch glimpses of a world beyond.”

Of course, such experiences are not limited to religious people. Those who call themselves “spiritual but not religious,” the way many do nowadays, can find this kind of genuinely awesome experience in the world of nature or in the life of the arts.

There is a story about the great 18th century composer George Frederick Handel telling what it was like to compose the “Hallelujah Chorus.” “I thought I saw the heavens open, and the great Lord Himself,” he was reported to exclaim.

You may have had something like these precious experiences. Many people, very few of whom are monks or consider themselves mystics, have. According to one poll, an astonishing 32% of Americans report having mystical prayer experiences.

Spiritual writer Elizabeth Lesser urges everyone to place great value on these inner events: “We should cherish those moments when we have an awareness of our life being something more than it appears to be.”

Are we allowing ourselves to cultivate moments that are truly awesome? When they come into our life, do we let them change our daily feelings about ourselves and our world?

A walk in a cemetery led to such an experience for me long ago. It was a beautiful place with abundant foliage and sculptured mountains off in the distance. There, suddenly, a realization sunk into me that I cannot express fully. At the risk of my insight sounding banal, let me here provide an inadequate summary of what I then received: “God is real and you will always remember this truth.”

Richard Griffin

The 1935 Christmas that we see in old magazines and films can seem merely a Norman Rockwell never-never-land, an idealistic presentation of a world that was, in fact, far from ideal. But even in those Depression years, Christmas for a family like mine could be abundant, both materially and spiritually.  

What I remember most about my earliest Christmases is the profusion of gifts and the transformation of time.

The day felt different from any other time. At an early morning hour, my father went downstairs first to turn on the lights and to take one last look around to see if Santa Claus had really arrived. As we followed down the staircase, we children felt a delightful anticipation that was almost better than the gifts themselves.

But the gifts could be memorable as well. One year I got a Lionel train and worked with my father to get it going. The locomotive, turned on by the transformer, would navigate the tracks, up and down hills, and around curves.

My brother and sister and I set to empty our stockings pinned up on the mantle piece. Out would come small objects, knickknacks for our pleasure. Despite advance word about finding lumps of coal for bad behavior, it never happened.

All of this happened in a room where the Christmas tree, with its lights and angels, took pride of place. There also the Christmas crib drew attention, with the small figures dramatizing holy people and events.

The time soon came when we would have to defer play and get ready for church. In those days Catholics like us did not eat or drink anything before Mass, so we did not wait until late in the morning before going off to our parish church, where the sober austerity of Advent had given way to festivity.

There joyous music resounded, red poinsettias decorated the altar, and people somehow looked different from the way they usually did.  The priest now wore white or gold vestments, a sign of liturgical rejoicing.

I knew us all to be in no ordinary time, and I felt myself transported into a new sphere of being. In fact so focused was I on the events of the day that I was able to lose consciousness of time altogether.

Home from church we would have a more hearty breakfast than usual and then return to our gifts. Later in the day, my grandmother and aunt would come, the latter bringing frozen pudding ice cream, a flavor all of us kids detested. My maternal grandmother was our favorite relative, a woman whose love for us was unconditional, like God’s.

My father cut the roast when we settled down at the dining room table in the mid afternoon and we ate our Christmas dinner. I tended to eat too much on such occasions but afterward would go outside and throw a football around with neighboring boys. Or, if there was snow on the ground, I might try out a new sled.

After a simple supper at day’s end, I would be sent to bed early, assured by parents that I would have time to play with my things on other days. Though I would not admit it, I felt agreeably tired, ready for sleep after the festivity of the day.

Looking back over the decades, I still feel affection for this kind of Christmas. Granted how middle-class it was, full of the rituals that others of our time, place, and economic station followed, our form of celebration had its own power.

We knew other children were not so blessed with material goods as we, but that did not stop us from being thankful for what we had been given.

From this celebration I received a palpable sense of God and God’s goodness. Because our Christmas celebrated events centered on Bethlehem so many centuries before, I learned feelings of awe, reverence, and love, qualities that mark all true religion. God was the source of abundance. He overflowed in love for us and in other gifts.

And the time felt holy. Christmas day made me and other family members feel ourselves to be in the presence of someone and some things different. This was more than human time.

Richard Griffin