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Christmas in a Thrift Shop
Our cultural artifacts tell us a lot about what we value
By Frederica Mathewes-Green
Frederica Mathewes-Green and her daughter, Megan, visit a thrift shop a
few days before Christmas. Adapted from her new book, "At the Corner of
East and Now: A Modern Life in Ancient Christian Orthodoxy" (Putnam).
Ken Myers, host of the Mars Hill Audio Journal, once said, "To get an
overview of our current culture, stand in a 7-11 and turn around 360
degrees." The "cultural artifacts" visible in such a sweep, he said,
would tell us a lot about what we value.
It is a few days before Christmas, and my daughter Megan and I are
standing in a thrift shop. I can turn 360 degrees here and see a whole
different world from the one at the 7-11, but one no less revealing of
our culture. The difference is, everything here is something that
somebody didn't want anymore. It's an index of what we no longer value.
For this reason I find a thrift shop a sweet place to be, tender and
forlorn. Still, it carries a dash of hope. Maybe someone else didn't
want it, but I might; I believe in the Resurrection.
We pause just inside the door of the shop, a cavernous place that I
suspect was originally a grocery store. The inventory of a thrift shop
is unlimited; anything anyone might buy and then discard ends up here.
Near us there are used magazines, old vinyl records, children's
clothes, and shelves and shelves of books. The windows are framed with
lights and plastic greenery, and clothes strung up on hangers
alternating red and green. Several bent, denuded Christmas trees stand
near the door, leaning like convivial drunks.
We stroll toward the shelves of Christmas decor. She is humming "O Come
All Ye Faithful," and it makes me want to rest my head on her shoulder
and just listen. We pass boxes of old glass ornaments, artificial
wreaths, and a string of plastic popcorn that looks pre-chewed. There
are various incompetent Santas: one with pursed lips and narrow eyes
glowers from a homemade ceramic cookie jar, and a walking wind-up Santa
looks ghoulish with his scalp removed and brainworks revealed. There is
a mug shaped like Santa's head, which causes Megan to say, "Can you
imagine this? If you had hot chocolate in it, the inside of his head
would be brown and steaming."
All this Santa business has nothing to do with St. Nicholas, the
fourth-century bishop of Myra whose feast was a few weeks ago. Though
St. Nicholas was a kindly man who loved children and rescued prisoners
unjustly condemned to death, he was not always mild-tempered. At the
church council which considered the theological innovation of Arianism,
St. Nicholas got so frustrated with Arius that he struck him. For this
outburst the leaders of the council expelled him from the assembly, but
later reinstated him following a series of dreams indicating that the
Theotokos's sympathies lay with St. Nicholas.
I pick up a paint-by-number rendition of hummingbirds. "I understand
these are becoming valuable," I tell Meg. We look at the blocks of hard
color, which seem a little somber for the subject, as if base-tinted
olive green. It is not lovely.
"Why would this be fashionable?" Meg asks, and I think she's chosen a
better word than I have, because this painting could never be valuable.
"I don't think the interest could be sincere," I say. "It must be one
of those irony things." I feel a little sorry for the person who tried
to make something lovely with this picture, and who will now be
collected by people making fun of him. Sometimes I feel like saying,
Can we stop being ironic now? Because it's making my face hurt.
A thrift shop is full of what nobody wants any more, and a 360 degree
turn here reminds you of the transience of fashion. In this jumble of
objects desired and discarded we are moving toward Christmas, that
highest of consumer holidays. Today the malls are full of people buying
stuff that they hope will impress or thrill, and some of it will be
here in this thrift shop in six months. Fashion is a kaleidescope of
change, but the compulsion underneath it is anxiety about what others
think.
We will celebrate an alternate Christmas at Holy Cross, one where
things don't change, but which includes a story about fear of what
people will think. These fears did not receive a reassurance that those
onlookers would understand. At the service of Royal Hours on the
morning of Christmas Eve we will sing Joseph's thoughts. He had found
out that his fiancee was pregnant, and he knew he wasn't the dad. How
could he bear the shame?
Joseph said to the virgin: What has happened to you, O Mary? I am
troubled; what can I say to you? Doubt clouds my mind; depart from me!
What has happened to you, O Mary? Instead of honor, you bring me
shame. Instead of joy, you fill me with grief. Men who praised me
will blame me. I cannot bear condemnation from every side. I received
you, a pure virgin in the sight of the Lord. What is this that I now
see?
Later in the service the answer comes:
When Joseph went up to Bethlehem, His heart was filled with sadness.
But you cried out to him, O Virgin: Why are you so troubled? Why are
you in misery seeing me with child? Do you not understand at all? I
bear a fearful mystery! Cast your fears away, and learn a strange
wonder: God in his mercy descends from heaven to earth. Within my
womb he has taken flesh! When he is pleased to be born, you will see
him. You will rejoice, and worship him, your creator. The angels
ceaselessly praise him in song, Glorifying him with the Father and the
Holy Spirit.
This explanation is not likely to mollify Joseph's critics, but for
those who receive it, it is the best news in history.
Today he who holds the whole creation in his hand is born of a virgin.
He whose essence none can touch is bound in swaddling-clothes as a
mortal man. God, who in the beginning fashioned the heavens, lies in a
manger. He who rained manna on his people in the wilderness is fed on
milk from his mother's breast. The bridegroom of the church summons
the wise men; The son of the virgin accepts their gifts. We worship
thy birth, O Christ. We worship thy birth, O Christ. We worship thy
birth, O Christ. Show us also thy holy Theophany!
On a shelf a homemade papier-mache Santa is perched up on one toe as if
twirling. He is ineptly painted, and his mouth is not jolly, but
stretched in a long oval like a howl. His eyes plead under a tented
brow, as if he longs to stop his endless spinning but doesn't know how.
Some other hand flung him circling and then turned away. His shoulders
are dusty. No one wants him any more.
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