Trading Fleeting Magic for an Enduring Miracle
BY SARAH SHEARER
Sarah is a recent graduate of the University of Pittsburgh, where she studied nonfiction writing and French. She loves finding stories within people and bringing them to life — when she’s not watering her basil plant or making kombucha in her kitchen.
I was a kid sold out for Santa Claus. For years I woke up multiple times on Christmas Eve with adrenaline-junkie anticipation for the morning. Creeping halfway downstairs, I strained my eyes to see the Christmas tree through the nighttime darkness — if I could make out the silhouette of a box on the ground or a bulging stocking, it was all I could do to keep myself from howling with glee.
It's interesting to compare these memories with those of childhood birthdays. I like birthday gifts — I used my barbie karaoke set faithfully until the plastic headpiece became inaudibly fuzzy. Yet these didn’t produce the same visceral experience as seeing those packages on Christmas morning. And then I realized it:
It’s not about the presents on Christmas. It’s because we believe we’ve witnessed a miracle.
What’s funny about this is in the Christian tradition, that’s exactly what we’re all celebrating this time of year: a miracle. The miracle of Jesus. The weeks leading up to Christmas are spent in advent, holy anticipation for this miracle to come. For some of us, that anticipation is daily punctuated with a square of chocolate.
But as I reflect on Christmas as a child, this miracle was quiet and contained. My attention to it could not compete with the deafening tune of presents and the magical man delivering them. For believing children, the miracle of Christmas is inextricably bound to the person — no, the products — of Santa Claus. I still wanted Christmas gifts after I learned Santa isn’t real. I think most people do. But there is an element of magic that is simply not there anymore.
Could it be that we’ve confused miracle with magic?
Merriam Webster defines a miracle as an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs. Magic, by definition, is an extraordinary power or influence seemingly from a supernatural source.
I’m not writing to convince you to teach your children Santa isn’t real. That’s not the main idea here. I just can’t help but notice, the further from my childhood I grow, how miracles and magic are in tension with each other. They’re two competing narratives. And I know it’s not the Christian thing to say — I know, in reality, the miracle already won. But it’s really hard to compete with magic. And it wins more than we want to believe.
Magic is derived “seemingly from a supernatural source” — an illusion of wonder. Santa Claus is an obvious example of this — but what about the illusions that follow us into adulthood? What about buying things for no reason other than it was on sale for Black Friday? What about following traditions because, well, that’s just what we always do?
Magic has an expiration date. Its spell breaks when the toy does, or when the glitter falls off. It fades into the background with the cardboard boxes and instruction manuals, gets thrown out with the bags of torn wrapping paper.
So what — should we not give gifts or buy chocolate advent calendars? Of course no — celebration is a good, good thing. I wonder, though, if there are times where I’m pulling at scraps of magic when I could instead dip into a deep well of a miracle.
There are a couple of ways I’ve learned to celebrate the miracle of Christmas — practices that exchange sensational consumerism for quiet anticipation, and occasionally, joyous celebration. I want to give gifts that mean something to the person receiving them. I want to bake cookies and share them, decorate my house in a simple yet joyful, meaningful way. I want to soak in these moments, and share them with my family. I want to be a better neighbor. And I don’t want to feel guilty when I don’t get it all done in time. Magic carries with it a connotation of quickness, doesn’t it? Just snap your fingers. Santa maneuvers athletically in and out of houses — somehow, he gets it done.
When will we stop believing we can move that fast?
Miracles, in contrast, make space for the slow life. Sometimes they’re instantaneous — a woman touching Jesus’ robe. Water, into wine. Just like that. But elsewhere, time crawls. Did Mary really have to have a full pregnancy, sit on a donkey’s boney back for nearly 100 miles and endure the pains of childbirth for the savior of the world to come? Did his death, years later, have to be so slow and painful? And did he really have to wait three whole days before his resurrection? This is the slow miracle we celebrate. It’s a miracle that endures all things, a light still shining when all others have been snuffed out.
In a lot of ways, growing up is trading simple things for complex ones. I loved the Christmas of my youth — but its magic left with the “stuff.” Now I see a flame burning in the distance, a light that does not dim or flicker. It’s not an illusion — that light is here. Let’s come close.