Expatica resident blogger faces tough questioning from his child at Christmas time.

 

Not so long ago HH entered the “why” phase of life. Nearly everything he saw or heard was followed by a question. At first, I was excited because it was a phase of growth I had expected and looked forward to. I wanted to answer his questions, help him understand the world he was now paying attention to, and more generally, it was an opportunity to talk with the little boy who had finally begun to master speech.

HH is now four and deep into Christmas lore, which in his case includes the evolving mystery of Santa Claus and the far more complicated issue of the baby Jesus. As a result, his questions have become more difficult to answer. I was raised a Catholic -- the old school version with large doses of fear. I remember all too well the queasy certainty in the pit of my stomach on Saturday afternoon that if I didn't go to confession soon, I would probably drop dead (at the ripe age of 11) and go straight to hell for all the sins I was lugging around. I had recently discovered Playboy magazine courtesy of my best friend, Mike, and I was sure I was regularly committing mortal sins. 

I have no desire whatsoever to subject HH to that kind of childhood. Still, he was baptized and at some point, he will likely enter a Catholic primary school here in Germany where he will be taught a version of the Catholic doctrine. We made the decision to raise him Catholic because we felt it was better for him to have some religious tradition in his life than to have none. But with that choice came a commitment to balance the religious instruction with a version of things that allows room for doubt.

I have no idea if there is a God. At times I believe there must be some sort of master plan, some driving hand that set the universe in motion. When I watch a perfect sunset or see a magnificent flower or a child’s face, I believe. At other times, I can’t imagine any God worth their salt who would permit the kind of suffering that much of the planet experiences. So I dispensed with the idea of a God who takes any active role in the day-to-day operation of our lives and settled into a belief system where God (whoever or whatever God is) is the party who gave us a great palate on which to invent our lives, a universe rich with every possible wonder and a free will that allows us, in principle at least, to find some measure of happiness in the short period of time we call life. Jesus is another matter.

The questioning started last Easter during a family holiday in Belgium and Holland. We were driving on the autobahn and were nearly killed when a car, travelling at a ridiculously high speed, wasn’t paying attention to the traffic in front of him and nearly slammed into the car just off to our left side. There was much screeching of tires and swerving and me attempting to throw my body over HH, while at the same time trying not to upset him too much -- that’s a tricky balance let me tell you!

“Why is that car mad at us Papa,” he asked me when things had settled down, when we realized we had survived near death and my heart stopped beating at hummingbird speed. I tried to explain crowded highways and bad drivers. Somehow the subject of Easter arose and he asked me what it was all about. That was the first time the subject of Jesus came up. I explained that Jesus was a very good man, so good in fact that for centuries after his death, people have remembered him. I also feebly tried to explain the idea of Easter. I told him legend had it that Jesus came back to life after he died, that he was the only person ever to do such a thing and that this event -- this miracle -- was celebrated at Easter. I don’t know if he quite understood the connection between the resurrection and heavy traffic but he didn’t ask any more questions then.

Until last night.

Just before bedtime he was looking at the pictures in his mother’s old catechism. It was then that he asked the big question: “Why did they kill baby Jesus?” His mother was in the room and explained that sometimes, when people are jealous of others, they hurt them. He also wanted to know why the "bad people" had taken Jesus' clothes and why Jesus was taller than all the other people in the pictures. Mama escaped the questioning when HH fell asleep.

 

St. Nicholas is a new holiday for HH and me. Germans celebrate St. Nicholas night on December 6th -- when a character resembling Santa Claus visits homes and leaves candy and small gifts in shoes. Then on Christmas day, the Christkind, an angelic sprite that legend says was promoted by Martin Luther to diminish the importance of St. Nicholas and the power of the Catholics, brings presents for the children and leaves them under the Christmas tree. This usually takes place on the afternoon of Christmas day, although the tradition differs from family to family and from country to country. Then there is the Weihnachtsmann (Father Christmas) who also has a role in all of this and either assists the Christkind in delivering gifts or does it on his own, again depending on the regional or family tradition.

It’s all a bit confusing and last night after HH fell asleep, Mama and I sat up late at the kitchen table refining our version of the Christmas myth and thereby establishing the tradition we want to follow in our family. You can see how things get complicated, particularly for recent immigrants such as ourselves, who, raised in one tradition, come to a new land where not only one new tradition exists but where there are competing traditions.

One big challenge in all this myth-making is kindergarten. Everything that his kindergarten teacher tells HH is gospel -- whether it has to do with Christmas or the fact that tangerines and apricots are tasty or that he should be able to dress himself at this age. The last thing we want is for HH to be confused or disappointed. So in creating our version of Christmas, we have tried to incorporate local traditions with our own. But how does one connect all these dots with the baby Jesus, who can be easily lost in the excitement of Santa Claus, the Christkind and Nicholas?

This is what we’ve decided upon. Christmas is the time of year when we celebrate the birth of baby Jesus. When he was born, the three kings, whose bones are conveniently entombed in the great Dom cathedral that dominates this city, brought gifts to Jesus. It is this tradition of giving gifts that eventually led to Christmas as we know it today. Gifts are given within our family just like gifts were given to baby Jesus. The Christkind, Santa Claus and Nicholas are different names for the same character whose job it is to deliver the gifts to children at Christmas. And since HH was born in America, Santa Claus will bring his gifts to him on Christmas Eve. When he wakes on Christmas morning, he will find them under his tree. Nicholas, who came last night, ushers in the season, reminding us that Christmas is drawing near. He also brings a bit of chocolate.

"But why did they kill the baby Jesus? Why can’t I eat that small piece of bread that you and Mama get from the priest at church on Sunday? Who is God and what does all of this have to do with Christmas?" I’m going to keep it simple for now, as with each new phase in his life, HH will be asking more and more challenging questions. The challenge, as I see it, is to tell a consistent story that attempts to answer the question at hand but stays just this side of being dogmatic. I want to leave room for doubt: Because if anything is true, it is that doubt exists and there is nothing wrong with that.

14th December 2007

Expatica