A.M. Siriano
Resolving Scrooge
By A.M. Siriano
My new year's resolutions are generally doable, but there have been exceptions: In the third grade, I resolved to write numbers until I reached a million. After a day or so, I learned just how much a million really was and decided to stop at 10,000. In the fifth grade, having been awoken to the charms of girldom, I made it a challenge to kiss every girl in my class before the year was up. After being smacked on the playground by the Girl 1 for kissing Girl 2, I decided this resolution was ill-conceived.
But then came a good one: About ten years ago I read for the first time A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens. I had seen it on stage and in films many times before that, but in actually reading it, I was bowled over. My one resolution, made on the following New Year's Day, was to read it every year. I guess I thought I needed this "to keep Christmas well."
I'm happy to report that in sticking it out, the practice actually works. It gets my mind and heart right for the holidays and well prepares me for starting the new year afresh. It doesn't take long — about two hours, at most three — so I highly recommend bringing Dickens into your world as I have.
Now, my version of what makes for a good Christmas may differ from yours, but the point of the story is not really Christmas itself. You will learn that right away. It is what results from your encounter with those three haunting and evocative Christmas Spirits that matters.
I am always making resolutions — for the new year, yes, but also every day, week, and month. I used to carry a list of them in my wallet, but now I keep them on my Blackberry, and I add and adjust constantly: "Pay your bills on time." "Read one book a week." "Stop watching so much television." "Finish writing that novel." "Always set out your clothes for the next day." "Exercise something." And so on.
You get the picture. I must admit that when I think of a new one, I can't resist the urge to set a date to begin. Usually the beginning of the week is good enough, but sometimes it's the beginning of the month. Rarely — very rarely (okay, never) — do I say to myself, "I'm going to change that right now." Can't I have my sin for just a little season?
We all know that score. Dieters who binge Friday night are often heard saying, "Well, I've already blown it. I'll start again on Monday." Then they proceed all weekend to gain at least half the weight they lost during the week. Holiday season for dieters is a nightmare of stops and starts, sort of like being stuck on the freeway with a backseat full of snack food. Show me a dieter who says, "Okay, right now," and I'll show you a thinner person in a few months.
The other day I heard about a man who received a Christmas present from his doctor in the form of some very bad news: His liver was now a complete mess and was rudely insisting he stop consuming alcohol. But for this man — a good ol' boy who loves nothing more than downing a 12-pack with his buddies — even the threat of death didn't spawn that "right now" moment for him. He told his wife that he couldn't imagine giving up his friends and would "keep drinking until New Year's Day." Meanwhile, his wife is praying that "auld acquaintance be forgot."
It's fascinating to me that Christmas has been placed at the end of the year. Yes, Christmas has a whole lot to do with tradition, and good will, and giving and whatnot, but it's really all about starting over. At its core is the arrival of "God With Us" who has come to set things right for those of us without God (that is, uh, all of us). When those shepherds heard angels proclaiming "glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men," they were basically writing the ultimate New Year's Resolution — on a cosmic scale, no less, with God Himself penning Resolution Number 1 for every single person:
"I resolve to move into the light. I can start over now and never look back."
A Christmas Carol is all about realizing — and carrying out — that divine resolution. Besides the Gospel itself, it is the greatest story of human redemption ever written. It couldn't have been concocted for any other holiday or any other season, nor could it have been designed for any other time of the year. We read it, hear it, view it, around the very time we are thinking about starting over. Have you ever tried to read the story in an off season? It's as flat as a fallen cake — still tastes like cake, but somehow it's not the same. My resolution to read it every year has now been amended to do so only at Christmastime.
At the heart of this wonderful "carol" is salvation: Ebenezer Scrooge, living a life of lonely hatred born of regret, and of regret born of folly, finds that his bitterness has grown so great that it has conjured the Spirits of Christmas. Scrooge is the very picture of mankind before God finally favored man with Himself. Man needs set aright. Scrooge needs set aright. When Scrooge calls Christmas mere "humbug," he is responding to the real Christmas message itself, as delivered by Scrooge's nephew, who cheerily hails, "God save you!"
After partaking in visions from his past, his present and his probable future, Scrooge has his "right now" moment when he is faced with the certainty of the grave, which for him means spending eternity in the abyss of his own despair. He awakens to a new day and promises to change his wicked ways. Dickens tells us that Scrooge "was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more ..." Thank God for the Scrooges of this world who resolve to do just that.
Have you ever been around a man who is constantly bemoaning his past? That's a man who is still living there. "I haven't been a good father!" — but it never crosses his mind to start being a good father right now. "I neglected my chance at a good education!" — though libraries and churches and universities at his disposal abound. "I should have taken care of my body!" — while his treadmill serves as a clothes rack in his bedroom.
Therapists love those kinds of people because they fuel an entire industry. But they are the only ones. Everyone else loves people who turn from their sins and move on with the goal of sinning no more — quietly, determinedly, but never self-righteously. There is nothing more joyous than a person whose rotten past life has been truly left in the past.
It's interesting that Dickens would not have us forever focusing on what produces a Scrooge. What produces him is obvious — it's called "humanity" — and besides, Christmas is about giving (and re-gifting) the divine spark. That's why the title of the story reminds us that life itself, if well lived, will find us singing praises and hymns to the Father of Christmas.
Dickens prepares us for God's New Year's Resolution by carefully manipulating our emotions, as any good writer will: In the reading of Scrooge, we go from sheer disgust at the first appearance of the old misanthrope, to pity for his less than wonderful childhood, to sorrow for the loss of his beloved sister, to cold indifference as he steps onto the wrong path for nearly the rest of his life. We hate him when he snubs the charity workers, shudder at his miserly use of coal, and revile him for only begrudgingly giving Cratchit the day off for Christmas. When Scrooge begins to see the error of his ways, we can't help but extend a bit of kindness toward him even as we sneer at him, especially when he starts to anguish over Tiny Tim. As he is taken to the churchyard by the third Spirit, we want to force him to read the name on the gravestone faster than the author allows, because we know that only then will he have his moment and start living.
By the time we are finished tromping through Scrooge's familiar past, present, and yet-to-come phases, we are pleading with this "squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner" to throw himself at the mercy of the Spirits and be forgiven. In the end Scrooge walks out of the darkness and into the light, and we experience the full joy of his salvation and the birth of his beneficence. Going forward, we are assured that he will never again personify his own miserable name.
As with every good Dickens story, we easily see ourselves in those pages. That's the whole point of reading it instead of viewing it, because reading forces an infectious intimacy with the characters. The reader, like it or not, becomes the characters for just long enough to "get it." When we read A Christmas Carol, we remember that we, like Scrooge, are old sinners, with plenty of folly and regret. We are then taken through our own small journeys and prepared for the writing of resolutions. If we try very hard at keeping them, we can be like Scrooge, who required "no further intercourse with Spirits."
© A.M. Siriano
December 29, 2008
My new year's resolutions are generally doable, but there have been exceptions: In the third grade, I resolved to write numbers until I reached a million. After a day or so, I learned just how much a million really was and decided to stop at 10,000. In the fifth grade, having been awoken to the charms of girldom, I made it a challenge to kiss every girl in my class before the year was up. After being smacked on the playground by the Girl 1 for kissing Girl 2, I decided this resolution was ill-conceived.
But then came a good one: About ten years ago I read for the first time A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens. I had seen it on stage and in films many times before that, but in actually reading it, I was bowled over. My one resolution, made on the following New Year's Day, was to read it every year. I guess I thought I needed this "to keep Christmas well."
I'm happy to report that in sticking it out, the practice actually works. It gets my mind and heart right for the holidays and well prepares me for starting the new year afresh. It doesn't take long — about two hours, at most three — so I highly recommend bringing Dickens into your world as I have.
Now, my version of what makes for a good Christmas may differ from yours, but the point of the story is not really Christmas itself. You will learn that right away. It is what results from your encounter with those three haunting and evocative Christmas Spirits that matters.
I am always making resolutions — for the new year, yes, but also every day, week, and month. I used to carry a list of them in my wallet, but now I keep them on my Blackberry, and I add and adjust constantly: "Pay your bills on time." "Read one book a week." "Stop watching so much television." "Finish writing that novel." "Always set out your clothes for the next day." "Exercise something." And so on.
You get the picture. I must admit that when I think of a new one, I can't resist the urge to set a date to begin. Usually the beginning of the week is good enough, but sometimes it's the beginning of the month. Rarely — very rarely (okay, never) — do I say to myself, "I'm going to change that right now." Can't I have my sin for just a little season?
We all know that score. Dieters who binge Friday night are often heard saying, "Well, I've already blown it. I'll start again on Monday." Then they proceed all weekend to gain at least half the weight they lost during the week. Holiday season for dieters is a nightmare of stops and starts, sort of like being stuck on the freeway with a backseat full of snack food. Show me a dieter who says, "Okay, right now," and I'll show you a thinner person in a few months.
The other day I heard about a man who received a Christmas present from his doctor in the form of some very bad news: His liver was now a complete mess and was rudely insisting he stop consuming alcohol. But for this man — a good ol' boy who loves nothing more than downing a 12-pack with his buddies — even the threat of death didn't spawn that "right now" moment for him. He told his wife that he couldn't imagine giving up his friends and would "keep drinking until New Year's Day." Meanwhile, his wife is praying that "auld acquaintance be forgot."
It's fascinating to me that Christmas has been placed at the end of the year. Yes, Christmas has a whole lot to do with tradition, and good will, and giving and whatnot, but it's really all about starting over. At its core is the arrival of "God With Us" who has come to set things right for those of us without God (that is, uh, all of us). When those shepherds heard angels proclaiming "glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men," they were basically writing the ultimate New Year's Resolution — on a cosmic scale, no less, with God Himself penning Resolution Number 1 for every single person:
"I resolve to move into the light. I can start over now and never look back."
A Christmas Carol is all about realizing — and carrying out — that divine resolution. Besides the Gospel itself, it is the greatest story of human redemption ever written. It couldn't have been concocted for any other holiday or any other season, nor could it have been designed for any other time of the year. We read it, hear it, view it, around the very time we are thinking about starting over. Have you ever tried to read the story in an off season? It's as flat as a fallen cake — still tastes like cake, but somehow it's not the same. My resolution to read it every year has now been amended to do so only at Christmastime.
At the heart of this wonderful "carol" is salvation: Ebenezer Scrooge, living a life of lonely hatred born of regret, and of regret born of folly, finds that his bitterness has grown so great that it has conjured the Spirits of Christmas. Scrooge is the very picture of mankind before God finally favored man with Himself. Man needs set aright. Scrooge needs set aright. When Scrooge calls Christmas mere "humbug," he is responding to the real Christmas message itself, as delivered by Scrooge's nephew, who cheerily hails, "God save you!"
After partaking in visions from his past, his present and his probable future, Scrooge has his "right now" moment when he is faced with the certainty of the grave, which for him means spending eternity in the abyss of his own despair. He awakens to a new day and promises to change his wicked ways. Dickens tells us that Scrooge "was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more ..." Thank God for the Scrooges of this world who resolve to do just that.
Have you ever been around a man who is constantly bemoaning his past? That's a man who is still living there. "I haven't been a good father!" — but it never crosses his mind to start being a good father right now. "I neglected my chance at a good education!" — though libraries and churches and universities at his disposal abound. "I should have taken care of my body!" — while his treadmill serves as a clothes rack in his bedroom.
Therapists love those kinds of people because they fuel an entire industry. But they are the only ones. Everyone else loves people who turn from their sins and move on with the goal of sinning no more — quietly, determinedly, but never self-righteously. There is nothing more joyous than a person whose rotten past life has been truly left in the past.
It's interesting that Dickens would not have us forever focusing on what produces a Scrooge. What produces him is obvious — it's called "humanity" — and besides, Christmas is about giving (and re-gifting) the divine spark. That's why the title of the story reminds us that life itself, if well lived, will find us singing praises and hymns to the Father of Christmas.
Dickens prepares us for God's New Year's Resolution by carefully manipulating our emotions, as any good writer will: In the reading of Scrooge, we go from sheer disgust at the first appearance of the old misanthrope, to pity for his less than wonderful childhood, to sorrow for the loss of his beloved sister, to cold indifference as he steps onto the wrong path for nearly the rest of his life. We hate him when he snubs the charity workers, shudder at his miserly use of coal, and revile him for only begrudgingly giving Cratchit the day off for Christmas. When Scrooge begins to see the error of his ways, we can't help but extend a bit of kindness toward him even as we sneer at him, especially when he starts to anguish over Tiny Tim. As he is taken to the churchyard by the third Spirit, we want to force him to read the name on the gravestone faster than the author allows, because we know that only then will he have his moment and start living.
By the time we are finished tromping through Scrooge's familiar past, present, and yet-to-come phases, we are pleading with this "squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner" to throw himself at the mercy of the Spirits and be forgiven. In the end Scrooge walks out of the darkness and into the light, and we experience the full joy of his salvation and the birth of his beneficence. Going forward, we are assured that he will never again personify his own miserable name.
As with every good Dickens story, we easily see ourselves in those pages. That's the whole point of reading it instead of viewing it, because reading forces an infectious intimacy with the characters. The reader, like it or not, becomes the characters for just long enough to "get it." When we read A Christmas Carol, we remember that we, like Scrooge, are old sinners, with plenty of folly and regret. We are then taken through our own small journeys and prepared for the writing of resolutions. If we try very hard at keeping them, we can be like Scrooge, who required "no further intercourse with Spirits."
© A.M. Siriano
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