Some Children See Him

Some Children See Him December 23, 2015

After bashing two beloved Christmas Carols and being accused, by Matt, of hating Christmas, I thought I’d take this morning to reveal a guilty and terrible pleasure, one which Matt himself has maligned. It’s not that I hate Christmas, it’s that he needs to let me celebrate the kind of Christmas that I love. And the kind of Christmas that I love includes Evie.

I know. I suppose some of you will click away and never read this blog again. But let me just just paint a warm and glowing scene. Because when we fall into the realm of bad taste, like sneaking a Grace Livingston Hill Novel and a flashlight and staying up all night, the context matters. What was going on all around you that made that particular vice such a glorious dream?

In the case of Evie. How Could I Not Love Her. I would, as a child on rare stops over in Brussels between Africa and America, pout in the serene beauty of my grandmother’s perfectly appointed Belgian living room, gazing out at her snow laden garden, deigning to be spoiled with candy and presents and attention. My Great Big Doll, Sophie, was pressed into my hands in that living room, and my doll house (which my children are still not allowed to touch), and the Peter Rabbit Tea Set, and the China Doll in the blue dress. And in the background wailed Evie.

For Belgium, Evie. For the deep darkness of a Malian Christmas morning, Benjamin Britten’s Ceremony of Carols. For the hours of sojourning in my car around Binghamton, Charpentier’s Christmas Oratorio and Stile Antico’s A Wondrous Mystery.

But we’re not talking about those other ones today, we’re talking about Evie, and my favorite wailing carol, which, as I look at it from this angle, requires some microaggression trigger warnings.

WARNING the following carol is probably no longer culturally appropriate and also, wow, the theology isn’t great either. Nevertheless, I love it. And as a child, it made me just love and adore the Baby Jesus. Here it is. And while you read it, don’t think too much, just like when you’re enjoying Away in a Manger.

Some children see Him lily white,
the baby Jesus born this night.
Some children see Him lily white,
with tresses soft and fair.
Some children see Him bronzed and brown,
The Lord of heav’n to earth come down.
Some children see Him bronzed and brown,
with dark and heavy hair.
Some children see Him almond-eyed,
this Savior whom we kneel beside.
some children see Him almond-eyed,
with skin of yellow hue.
Some children see Him dark as they,
sweet Mary’s Son to whom we pray.
Some children see him dark as they,
and, ah! they love Him, too!
The children in each different place
will see the baby Jesus’ face
like theirs, but bright with heavenly grace,
and filled with holy light.
O lay aside each earthly thing
and with thy heart as offering,
come worship now the infant King.
Tis love that’s born tonight!

So. Um. I suppose in the year 2015 this counts as racist. Jesus, obviously, was Jewish, and wasn’t an airbrushed white boy. And we aren’t allowed to talk about the way people look, like this anyway, anymore. But when I was super little I just loved the physical descriptions, and I could see each baby clearly in my mind’s eye, and I was enthralled with the knowledge that Jesus, himself a baby, encompassed and saved all of humanity, even me. I looked different from everyone, but it didn’t matter. All the babies, all the people, could belong to him. There isn’t a single kind of person, there isn’t any physical particularity that will shut you out of the embrace of Jesus. Sure, it’s saccharine, and dated, but I still love it. And I’m going to listen to it very quietly while I bake and stuff. Because I don’t hate Christmas. I totally basically pretty well tolerate it with reasonable good cheer.


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