As my screaming nine year old daughter sank her teeth into my right ear I had the thought that Christmas Day wasn’t going quite as planned. Like you, we had put much time and effort – not to mention expense – into planning this one day of the year; and like other Ozzie families we were hard at work experiencing Peace and Goodwill. My nine year old has Down syndrome, and I guess the excitement of presents and food and fizzy drink and visitors and sisters and lollies and rellies and lights and candles and bonbons and Christmas was finally all a bit much. We were sitting around the tree, opening presents, when our little girl taunted the puppy just once too often. Maybe even the dog had had enough Christmas cheer. The Puppy leapt snarling at my little girl, my little girl leapt screaming at one of several available big sisters, and I leapt (a sort of slow leap) to the rescue.

It’s not the first time we have had one of these awful ‘meltdowns’ and it probably won’t be the last. We know what to do; how to get her to her bedroom, how to endure the storm for a few minutes, how to look for the tiny glint of humour in her eyes that is the sign that she is wanting to leave anger behind and melt back into the giggling, affectionate girl that we know so well. And so a few minutes later she and I were comforting each other, nursing our wounds, and exchanging earnest assurances that all this would never happen again.

As a pastor and counsellor I have spent hours talking with people who struggle through Christmas. No one sets a place for depression at the Christmas table, but the black dog comes nonetheless. For those with grief in their lives, Christmas can be a too-painful reminder of loss. While most families thrive in the food and fun of the day, many find themselves forced together with people that they basically can’t cope with. But for me all this has been reasonably theoretical: my own Christmases through the years have been joyful, fun-filled family reunions.

But this year I spent much of Christmas Day in a wheelchair; and for the first time I felt just a little of what it can be like to have the Christmas Machine roll its wheels over you. I think Christmas works best for ‘normal’ people. In fact it’s designed by the vested interests of commerce and entertainment to fit snugly into the lives of those with the money, the good health, and maybe even the good fortune to celebrate ‘the good life’. From my new perspective, some 3 feet lower than last year, I have seen for myself just how intensely prescriptive Christmas is. It’s hard to shop when you can’t walk, and this continual state of ‘awesomeness’ is exhausting when life is uncertain. There are so many rules which must be obeyed. It seems as though every detail from the look of your home through to the tone of your voice has been scripted. But who made these rules? Who said that the celebration of Christmas should look and sound and smell exactly like this? On this one strangest day of the year we all behave the same way, do the same things, say the same words, and I have to ask: Why?

I guess you are expecting me to reveal my true identity and say “Bah Humbug!” about now. But I’ll keep going: I think that the Christmas Machine and the Message of Christmas are almost diametrically opposed. Christmas is so relentlessly external, while Christ is ultimately internal. Christmas embodies consumption, but Christ gave his body to be consumed. The sound of Christmas is loud, relentless, and brooks no opposition; Christ’s call is a still, small voice that is heard only by those who humble themselves before God.

Christ came for the poor, the lonely, and the heavy laden. Christmas has become a celebration of wealth, of friendship and the ease of life.

In the end I shrank back a little from the wheels of the Christmas Machine. The outwardness of the season has driven me inward. That’s not a bad place to go; and in the silence of detachment I was surprised to find a deep well of Peace and Joy.