Dec 082003
Authors: Shannon Baldwin

I don’t believe in Santa Clause

And really never did.

There was no glitter of Christmas lights

Way back when I was a kid.

No sweet brown-sugared Christmas ham

Nor presents ‘neath a tree.

Tis not the birthday of Jesus Christ

Is what was told to me.

The ancient Church made this day

From pagan celebration.

And in this way they compromised

For non-Christian incorporation.

The pagan peoples would not turn

From their own affiliations

So the church metamorphed those pagan rites

To encourage assimilation.

So, there were no stockings by the fire

No rosemary roasted hen.

Participation in such a rite

Concedes the faith again.

To kiss beneath the mistletoe

Or sing a Christmas carol

Gives approval to the watering down

And puts the faith in peril.

But many days have long since past

Since I was taught that lore

And I’ve long left that Christian church

And opened other doors.

The truth of Christmas origins

Cannot be denied

But I sense an even greater loss

A cultural genocide.

For every time a pagan rite

Was given a Christian form

It meant the abandonment of life

Of a now lost ancient form

For the pagans also compromised

If only to survive

And forever lost a rich heritage

To the Christian hive.

As Christmas time comes round again

It hardly comes to mind

The repercussion to both of these

To faith and pagan-kind.

When I put up my Christmas tree

As now I choose to do

I try to meditate on more

Than just “white lights or blue?”

Whether the birth of Jesus Christ

Or just a family tradition

There are stories behind those ornaments

And the cost of institution.

Christmas is what you make of it

Or so the sayings go

But as you light the Yule log, ask

For whom do the silver bells toll?

Shannon is a senior majoring in technical journalism. She is a

poet for hire.

 Posted by at 5:00 pm

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