Keep the Sun in the Son’s “Birthday”

Every December, people start reminding us to “Keep the Christ in Christmas,” which, incidentally, I’d say is a pretty good idea. If it means curbing the annual orgy of materialistic spending – flooding corporate chain mega-stores to snatch up every last piece of plastic crap made in Chinese sweat-shops by 9-year old kids because the altar of television has indoctrinated the masses to believe that this gizmo or that gadget is the essential item to prove their love for their children, show their own self-worth, and find true happiness and sex appeal, then I’d say, yeah, bring on the bearded transient who drove the money-changers from the temple (not to mention the whole “water into wine” thing).

However, I’d like to take a moment to urge us all to remember another and much older tradition. Feel free to keep the Christ in Christmas, but allow me to keep the Sun in the Son’s Day.

Christmas is, in essence, a corruption of the Winter Solstice; the time when our ancestors (and many of us today) mark the passing of the longest night on earth by taking part in a ritualized rebirth of the Sun. By lighting candles and using them to decorate evergreen trees (themselves a symbol of life in the midst of the death of the old year), people helped bring back the light of the world, the Sun. A little research reveals that pretty much every “Christmas tradition” is a Solstice tradition that’s been around for millennia before the birth of Jesus. From exchanging gifts to decorating trees, from mistletoe to candlelight services (hell, maybe even fruitcake); it’s the ancient rites of our ancestors that we are celebrating whether we know it or not.

I don’t point this out in order to disparage Christian belief or tradition. I have nothing against most Christians that I’ve personally dealt with. I’ve written elsewhere that I don’t mind Christians individually; it’s only when two or more are gathered in His name that I begin to worry: That’s when the institution of the Church rises and women get burned at the stake, sacred groves get chopped down, Africans get enslaved, Indigenous Peoples get genocized, and peasants and workers starve while the ruling class (of which the priests and ministers are part) wallow in luxury. So I’m not against anyone from calling themselves Christian, I just wish more of them would follow the teachings of Jesus instead of the bureaucracy of despots in robes. People would do well to remember that Marx didn’t say that Jesus or Faith or God or Spirituality was the opiate of the masses, but Religion. The distinction makes a world of difference.

So the point of all of this is simply this: Enjoy your holiday however you see fit, but perhaps there’s room to consider the true origins of the rituals you keep. I feel that it is a great disservice to our ancestors (for those of us with European origins) to discount and belittle their traditional beliefs simply because they were persecuted and terrorized by an invading force that believed in conversion at the point of a sword. Celebrate the birth of the Son, if that’s your chosen belief; but keep the Sun in the Son’s Birthday. Jesus will forgive you, your ancestors will thank you, and you just might find yourself a little more connected to the natural rhythms of this Earth that organized religion has done so much to destroy.

Peace, love, and Happy Solstice!

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A Handful of Dust

A Handful of DustA Handful of Dust, 2002 [Available at Elk River Books, click here to order.]

“… This is my first night at a small cabin outside of Grayling, Michigan. I have come here to finally write my book. Three white-tail deer come past my window eating blueberries, one still in spots – a late birth. The music of Miles Davis mingles with a stick of Nag Champa to fill my air with an exotic fury. My third beer has emptied itself and left me unsatisfied. I am alone. I am filled with the Dance. I am alone and I am alive. …”

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Jihad bil Qalam: To Strive by Means of the Pen

Jihad bil QalamJihad bil Qalam: To Strive by Means of the Pen
Tri-City Action for Peace (TCAP) Anti-War Anthology, Edited by Marc Beaudin, 2004

“This is the strongest anti-war anthology I’ve seen and from page to page I learn things. Remarkable spirits here … Beaudin’s  contributions are strong, passionate and come from the center of conscience (and artistry) he’s come to be.” -William Heyen, poet, National Book Award finalist and editor of September 11, 2001: American Poets Respond.

3 AM in Baghdad

by Marc Beaudin

It’s 3 am in Baghdad,
“City of Peace” according to
Arabian Nights,
those stories that lulled me to sleep,
to soft dreams.
How did we lose our childhood enchantment
with this far-off place
of silks and spices?
And yes, it’s true:
the rivers we will soon send gunboats up–
will make to run red with the blood
of children–
are those rivers; the Tigris and the Euphrates,
that flowed from the Garden of Eden.
Have we forgotten that too?

It’s 3 am in Baghdad
and I’m drinking water that once,
in the geologic measure of things,
carried holy fish from Eden to Mother Sea
I can taste the tears of Eve,
her black eyes reflecting the death-planes
vomiting out their bombs
while the men at the controls
imagine that she is their cold, blue-eyed mother;
they imagine that God doesn’t hate them for their murder

It’s 3 am in Baghdad
and I want to listen to a Miles Davis cd
but I’m afraid to turn off the radio
I’m sorry I ever paid my taxes
I’m burning a candle in my window
wondering if my neighbors can see it
over the glow of their television sets.
In the middle of Kind of Blue
one can imagine a world where blood
runs through the veins of children rather than rivers;
where oil is kept in the drum of the earth
cradling the bones of our ancestors
and the memories of stars

And now, it’s 4 am in Baghdad:
the deadline of our appointed sociopath
the winds have calmed and the sands
have settled, revealing
the braided strands of stars
silently twisting across the darkness.
Eyes that haven’t slept this night,
that haven’t slept well in years,
look up at that luminous river,
mirror of the Biblical trickle below,
and see the coming storm,
the cleansing rain of fire,
“liberation” from the barrel of a gun.

I hold the water glass to my lips,
knowing that it is made of sands
that once blew across this desert
by winds that held the incense of Arabian nights.
Through its lens I see the
distorted image of a candle burning low,
and its reflection winking back at me from the glass
of the window; also made of these desert sands
and I wonder, how can we ever explain this
to our children?
How can we read them bedtime stories
that speak of a land that
we have destroyed?

It’s 5 am in Baghdad,
city of peace,
the sun should be rising soon
but the night ahead of us is long.
I’ll take a chance and put in Miles–
track 4–
pour another glass of water
and pray to what I no longer believe in.

–March 19, 2003

Seventh Anniversary Addendum

And children who weren’t even born
when this flag-draped terror began
are now in grade school,
apples and chalk dust, lunches in brown paper bags

And one wonders,
do they begin each morning
by reciting the Pledge
with one hand over their tiny hearts
and the other
covering their eyes?

– March, 2010

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