About eight yeas ago my sister got me the one thing I asked for for Christmas. It was a creche. It was the first one I’d ever had even though I’d been a Christian for a very long time. She and my entire family knew how much that meant to me. I dutifully put it out every year. Until I de-converted. Since then I haven’t even gotten it out of the box. Not one person has even asked me about it.
I also had a Christmas tree filled with crosses. Because for me they so intertwined, Christmas and Easter. One was no good without the other. I haven’t used those since then either. Unceremoniously. I just don’t put them out. In fact, I sold them in a garage sale just a month ago. Not the creche. I’m not ready yet. I was actually thinking about taking out of the box. I’ve finally gotten to a place where I can possibly embrace the mythicism. Possibly. It’s December 7th and I haven’t opened the box.
The reason I haven’t put it out nor used the crosses has little to do with anything triggering. It was at first. But not now. It’s more that it doesn’t hold the same meaning now. Before when I saw a cross, or a Baby Jesus – so lowly in his manger, or angels I was filled with awe and wonder and delight. And love.
I felt love.
I felt loved.
Now these religious symbols are just pieces of ceramic, and wood, and glass. Personally meaningless except to remind me of a past that makes me feel a little like a crazy person; that I manufactured all of those feelings within myself. All the times I thought that a loving god sent a redeemer. A redeemer for what? Because I’m flawed? I am. And it’s okay.