Christmas. Adam C. English
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of the Word
This chapter is about the Word, the one Word of God, and so it must also be about words, the words of humans. Contrary to the sing-song truism, it is not true that words can never hurt us; words can hurt as much or more than sticks and stones. Morally speaking, our commitment to the Word made flesh entails our promise to watch our words and guard our mouths. It is the prayer of the psalmist that “the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight” (Ps 19:14). The third chapter of James marvels at the outsized carrying capacity of the human word coiled on the human tongue. Though small, the tongue can direct or destroy the whole body. Like a rudder that steers a ship, a spark that sets a whole forest ablaze, or a drop of poison that kills a living body, so the tongue jerks the body this way and that (Jas 3:2–10). Who can tame it?
Scripture warns, commands, advises, and speaks to the moral use and misuse of language—“Keep your tongue from evil, and your lips from speaking deceit” (Ps 34:13); “Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruits” (Prov 18:21). A handful of other related Scripture references include Deuteronomy 27:9; Psalm 12:3–4, 62:5; Proverbs 10:19, 12:18, 15:4, 18:21; and Ecclesiastes 3:7. The deuterocanonical book of Sirach recommends that in the same way that you might make a fence for your property and lock up your silver and gold, “so make a door and a bolt for your mouth” (Sir 28:24–25). Little wonder that the Benedictine Rule concludes it best to avoid speaking altogether. More than disallowing wicked and unedifying speech, the Rule advises monks to refrain “even from words that are good” so as to “cultivate silence.”32
The social media age we inhabit sniffs at such prosaic and out-of-date recommendations. The technologically savvy citizen of today cannot help but smirk at the Benedictine Rule’s admonition to silence and snicker at the charming sermon on holding the tongue and wonder if it will end with a finger wagging reminder to say “yes sir” and “no sir,” “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am.” What use is a thread-worn lesson about good manners when social media allows conversation to stream, refresh, and disappear in a continuous and ever-changing feed? Smart phones, dish, cable, Wi-Fi—these keep us instantly and perpetually connected. We find ourselves never without words to hear and see, never without updates, news alerts, and real-time opinions. Culturally we are still reeling from our own cleverness; we are trying to come to grips with our smart phone apps and find a “healthy balance” of on-the-go user-driven technology.
Christians should feel uneasy about such technological advances if for no other reason than the fact that our very religion centers around an outmoded piece of technology: the printed and bound book. The Bible defines Christian faith, practice, and existence. Come what may, the written word will always smell like home to the Christian. Christians can never succumb to the total digitalization of language. We will always be tethered by a book. Said differently, by a book we are tethered to heaven.
Christians, like Jews and Muslims, are a people of the Book. In liturgical processions, the Book of the Gospels is held high for all to see as it is carried down the nave, set in a place of honor, and greeted with a kiss. Christians take their Bibles with them to church, read them daily and memorize their verses. Scripture represents the supreme guide and source and authority for Christian belief and practice. One cannot hope to understand Christianity apart from the Bible.
While holding all this as right and true, Henri de Lubac (1896–1991), a delightfully quizzical Jesuit scholar from the twentieth century, argues that Christians are not a people of the Book as much as a people the Word, the Word become flesh.
Christianity is not, properly speaking, a “religion of the Book”: it is a religion of the word (Parole)—but not uniquely nor principally of the word in written form. It is a religion of the Word (Verbe)—“not of a word, written and mute, but of a Word living and incarnate” (to quote St. Bernard). The Word of God is here and now, amongst us, “which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled”: the Word “living and active,” unique and personal, uniting and crystallizing all the words which bear it witness. Christianity is not “the biblical religion”: it is the religion of Jesus Christ.33
More treasured than the holy Book itself is the holy revelation the Book contains. Christians answer not to the Bible but to the God of the Bible. To say that Christianity is not a biblical religion is not meant to diminish the Book but to identify its Lord and Master. Indeed, the phrase “people of the Book” came originally from Muhammed, father of Islam, not the Christian community. Christianity is a religion of Jesus Christ. Far from shrinking its scope, this confession expands the reach of Christianity worldwide. Converts do not need to learn Greek and Hebrew in order to practice faithfully. They can read the Bible in their own language and so find the Word in the words of whatever language one knows. The language of the Book can be translated into other tongues far and wide, ancient and modern. The printed medium does not dictate or limit the message. Its virtue and its value derive directly and exclusively from its Lord. Apart from and absent of the Spirit who makes the words of Scripture alive and active and sharper than a two-edged sword, we would have to admit that we hold in our hands nothing more than an archaic record of human experience and religious ideas.
What else do we hope to encounter in the Bible if not the Author of the text, the Spirit of the law, and the Word within and behind and above and in front of the words? Advent marks the beginning of the Christian year because it marks the coming of the Word.34 We Christians have nothing to say—literally!—until we have the Word. It is to the first Word that we Christians must always return in the end.
Lord of Misrule
For us Christians, the conviction that we are people of the Word carries implications for faith, hope, and love. These three virtues should shape the very existence of the Christian even as they are themselves shaped by the person of the Word.
Faith
The virtue of faith translates into trust, believing without seeing, fidelity in the hour of despair. December presents just such a month for proving faith and testing trust. Ancient cultures marked the month in special ways. Greeks celebrated the Lenaea, a time for theater, fatty meat-roasts, and uncorking new wine. At the Lenaea, the god Dionysus experienced rebirth. Attended by dancing satyrs and nymphs, he came ready to party. Germans meanwhile hunted and feasted and spoke of Yuletide. The Irish had Wren Day. Agricultural communities rested from their farming duties, but their collective restfulness quickly turned to restlessness. The sedentary ease of the fallow season did not give rise to quiet meditations and gentle repose. It stirred a need to carouse, amuse, and let off steam.
Barrels of new beer became ready to drink in December. The first snap of chilly December weather signaled the arrival of fresh meat. The cold would preserve slaughtered meat from spoiling, and so protein became a staple of December meals, making up for the lack of vegetables and fruits during the cold months. Perhaps the oldest Roman temple on record is the Temple of Saturn, dedicated to the deity of seed and sowing whose holy day began December 17 and continued for a week of festivities.35 During the Saturnalia, priests symbolically unchained the god so as to let him run free. Ordinary commerce was suspended as were the customary rules of behavior and decorum. Slaves might be treated as the equals of their masters, being permitted to wear their clothing and to be waited on at meal time. The plain toga could be exchanged for colorful garments reserved for special occasions. The civil authorities made allowances for gambling in public places and cross-dressing. Friends visited friends and brought gifts of wax candles. Public banquets were held to honor the god. Some of these became raucous and out of control.
The Saturnalia was by far the most popular holiday of the early Romans, although the elite rich tended to endure the frivolities away from the crowds, in a private cubiculum or country estate. When spotted out of doors, the plebs expected the wealthy to shower coins and bread freely from their own hands. The poet Lucian highlights the most extreme behavior and gives us a taste of the Roman holiday: “drinking and