My Christmas memories are cast in the warm, sepia tones of the mid-century—the 1950s and 1960s. Vinyl albums on the spindle with songs of the season by Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby, and Andy Williams. A spindly spruce tree that smelled like outdoors, draped with tinsel and handmade ornaments. A small pile of gifts under the tree, mostly socks, underwear, and a toy or two. We idolize that time as one of simplicity, conformity, and anticipation—a season where the commercial engine was beginning to accelerate. Still, the pace of life itself was decidedly slower.
Each fall, we’d receive the Montgomery Ward, JCPenney, and Sears Christmas catalogs. I’d spend hours each day leading up to the visit from St. Nick, going page to page to see all the wonderful toys and mechanical games that I’d never own, yet still wishing. Then I’d admire the BB guns and rifles, which I’d also never own. And that’s how wishing and hoping became part of my DNA.
Today, the holiday landscape is fundamentally different. Our Christmas is defined by digital connectivity, overwhelming choice, and a relentless pace. Holiday shopping is a 24/7 digital event driven by algorithms and next-day shipping; the quiet of the season is broken by endless social media posts demanding performance of the perfect holiday; and the anticipation of a few gifts has been replaced by mountains of consumer goods delivered from around the globe. Not to mention the horror of Hallmark Christmas movies.
This year, as we juggle screen time with family time and balance viral trends with timeless traditions, we might ask: What lessons can the quiet certainty of those mid-century Christmases offer to us now? Is it possible to find the grace, humility, and genuine service celebrated in the original Christmas story when the modern celebration is constantly demanding our attention, our income, and our performance?
Growing up, my family always made it to the late-night services at Richfield Lutheran Church. Dad would usher, likely because it was easier to escape outside for a cigarette to avoid singing the hymns. Pastor Rasmussen, a true Lutheran icon in south Minneapolis, would gently tell the Christmas story.
Often softened by twinkling lights and cozy carols, the Christmas story is, upon closer reflection, downright revolutionary. Its core message—the supreme importance of humility and service—is a lesson that gets dangerously lost in our current world of self-aggrandizing politicians, business leaders, overpaid athletes, and popular performers, not to mention churches that are more like large theaters worshiping large screens with song lyrics and electric guitars.
The story of Christ’s birth— God taking on human flesh—is a deliberate, profound rejection of worldly power, prestige, and pride. The birthplace of the Christ child delivers a shocking paradox: the son of God chose to begin his life not in a palace, but in the most meager and lowliest of conditions. Jesus could have chosen any arrival. He could have descended a golden escalator with a legion of angels, instantly commanding the media’s attention.
Instead, the events surrounding the Nativity are a deliberate study in insignificance. A stable attached to an inn, shared with livestock. The first crib was a manger, an animal feeding trough, symbolizing a rejection of human comfort and a willingness to enter into the world’s filth and disorder.
The parents, Mary and Joseph, were poor, obscure residents of Nazareth, a provincial, “no-name” town. They were traveling to Bethlehem to report for a census ordered by the Roman government, a journey necessitated by Joseph’s ancestral ties to the City of David.
The birth was first announced by angels, not to the priests, kings, or scholars, but to shepherds tending their sheep. Shepherds were considered the lowest social class and were often excluded from official religious life. They were not unlike people doing similar jobs today, from driving an Uber to cleaning rooms at the Holiday Inn. Jesus chose the humblest of the people of his day to be the first to receive this most significant announcement.
The humility of the birth is the necessary prelude to a life defined by service. Humility is not just about serving others; it is also about the grace and vulnerability required to receive help when needed.
The Christmas story stands as a permanent, powerful rebuke to human arrogance, insisting that we lay aside our titles and expectations. This paradox confounds human pride: it insists that true power is not found in spectacle and wealth, but in vulnerability and lowliness. Ultimately, the revolutionary message of that first Christmas gives us permission to stop climbing, to stop performing, and simply choose the downward path of service, a sure way to find peace and purpose in any age.
Happy Holidays to all.
