Every year when we put up our Christmas decorations, I unwrap the ceramic Madonna with a mixture of fondness and alarm. Why do I have such a complex reaction to this one piece of holiday décor?
My mother-in-law gave her to me shortly after my husband and I were married. Dorothy and I competed for Ed's affection for years until we both settled down. There's that.
And, while I do admire the delicate blue tint and gilt trim of Mary's mantle, I'm suspicious of the Grecian nose and the tiny, tucked rosebud mouth, the pinkish glow of her neck, the thin eyebrows arching over the perfect, painted eyelashes and the closed, downcast eyes.
She's an ideal of feminine beauty drenched in religious sentiment. As if girls everywhere should aspire to be just like her.
The feminist in me despises the portrayal of Mary handed down through the ages as meek, silent and submissive.
There's that, too.
But what worries me most right now is that this Mother of God is so white.
Now I know that one of the blessings of the Holy Family is that people all around the world identify with them. We see Jesus, Mary, and Joseph as being like ourselves. One of my favorite modern Christmas carols puts it this way, "Some children see him lily white... Some children see him bronzed and brown... Some children see him almond-eyed... Some children see him dark as they."
To me, that's at least part of what the Incarnation means – because the Son of God took human form, we are able to imagine ourselves as being made in the image of God. Whoever we are. All races, genders, identities.
But I also know that dominant cultures often insist there is only one way to imagine divine likeness. Women cannot be Catholic priests because the first disciples were men. Black people are inferior because, of course, Jesus was White.
Which he wasn't.
The historical Jesus was a brown-skinned Jew.
This ceramic Madonna I unwrap every December makes me wonder how many of our assumptions are relics passed down from our ancestors that we would do well to discard. Sentiment may blind us to their danger.
My parents, from whom I received many good gifts, were devout Christians. But good people can be racist. My mother and father shared a mistrust of Black people held by their parents and by many small-town-bred Northern Whites. When Detroit burned in 1967, my parents believed that the problem was the people who were looting and burning, and not the systemic inequities that had made Black folk so angry and desperate.
I don't mean to suggest that I've put inherited racism behind me.
I haven't.
What are some of the racist assumptions I inherited from my forebears? That Black men are to be feared. That the well-being of people of color does not matter as much as my well-being. That Black and Brown people should serve White people.
I don't like to admit this. It's painful to own our racism. When a racist thought rises in my mind or a bigoted behavior asserts itself, I ask Where did that come from? But I know.
Racism is bred deep.
And, as a White person, I continue to reap benefits from economic and governmental systems that codify racist assumptions into law.
Some liturgical scholars say we should approach the season of Advent as a mini-Lent, a time of repentance in which we set aside the mindsets and behaviors that prevent us from receiving Christ. A blessing prayer for the Advent wreath begins, "Christ came to bring us salvation and has promised to come again. Let us pray that we may always be ready to welcome him."
The people respond, "Come, Lord Jesus."
The leader continues, "That the light of Christ may penetrate the darkness of sin."
"Come, Lord Jesus," the people say.
I have mixed feelings about the counsel of the liturgical scholars. Party poopers. I like the joyous festivities of December. Winter is cold, dark and long. Who needs two Lents? We have little enough joy as it is.
But perhaps their counsel is intended to help us receive more joy. When we release the meanness in our hearts, joy can move in to the cleared space. And whenever we repent of our sin, we increase the joy of those who suffer because of our sin.
So, when a racist thought or behavior rises in me, I name it, renounce it, and ask forgiveness. God meets repentance with forgiveness every time. Also, I pay attention to how racism manifests itself in public policy. I challenge it where I can.
I do this because I'm a breed of Christian known as United Methodist -- one of the good gifts my parents gave me. The vows we say whenever we have a baptism include this question, "Do you accept the freedom and power God gives you to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves?"
"Yes," we answer.
It's slow, hard work with many setbacks. Especially in this time when bigotry is declaimed without shame in high places.
The good news is that God comes, regardless. It wasn't a great moment in history when Jesus was born, either. God came in a displaced family warming themselves in a makeshift shelter. God came in a strong, brown woman fleeing Herod's thugs who sought to harm her child.
God comes when kindly landowners in any Bethlehem welcome a stranger.
"That the Christmas season may fill us with peace and joy as we strive to follow the example of Jesus," the blessing prayer for the Advent wreath concludes. "May the light of these candles reflect the splendor of Christ."
Yes.
Come, Lord Jesus.
Scripture: Luke 2:7, Matthew 2:13-15. And John 1:5: "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it."
Playlist: "Some Children See Him," lyrics by Wihla Hutson and music by Alfred Burt, 1951. Performed by artists such as Andy Williams and James Taylor.