I participated in a livestream yoga class the other night that was run by a local Methodist church, and that incorporated the Christmas story into the session. There were breaks for carols and readings from the bible, and various poses were reimagined as part of the story – Extended Mountain was “bringing Christ’s light into the world” and Spinal Twists were “the animals in the barn taking a look at the new baby Jesus.” That sort of thing. It was sweet, if maybe a little childish, but I still got a good workout and an interesting experience. I blew out my “Silent Night” candle at the end and thought that was that… but I keep thinking about it.

Now, to be clear, I don’t consider myself a Christian, but I freakin’ LOVE Christmas. And not just for secular reasons like all the gifting and silliness and songs, but for this very Christian birth story. I love to imagine this tiny baby, so humble he was born in a literal barn to this poor young couple fleeing oppression, being seen as the sign of a new era of peace and love and hope so potent and transformative that mighty kings came from all around to greet him, and even the actual stars above responded. That this small beginning of this one person could have such an impact, and be felt with such immense and immediate joy all over the world. Imagine what that would be like, if you really believed this about this one little baby at that time, that he was going to change everything? Everything! All the terrible desperation and atrocities you’d seen in your lifetime. Like a COVID-19 vaccine personified, but who would also cure things like HIV and cancer and heart disease, not to mention racism and hunger and war and climate change and all the other things that keep us up at night. All solved by a squirming little baby! I’d be on my knees too, crying with happiness. Pretty sure you would be too.

And I really don’t need this story to be true, or to even believe that Jesus was a real life person, much less the son of God, to imagine this and appreciate its symbolic significance. I can hold that sense of wonder and joy in my heart alongside the knowledge that he’s likely just one of many savior archetypes that humans have created over the millennia – and still, that wonder and joy are just as potent for me, and why I love this holiday. I still cry while singing “O Come All Ye Faithful” every year – come, let us adore him! – even though I’m not “faithful” in that sense.

But I am, in my sense. And that’s the part about that yoga class that I keep thinking about.

It was led by a priest who lay her mat down right on the altar of this church, fully visible in the background in all its elaborately carved wooden glory. The carols were led by another woman at a fancy organ, and advent candles were lit at the beginning of the service. I knew all these carols and sang along from my living room floor (no need for subtitles, which weren’t provided), and even though we didn’t really do the advent candle thing in my household growing up, I knew what they symbolized. Nobody had to explain to me who Jesus was for me to understand all this, and I even heard the voice of Linus van Pelt in my head as they got to the part about the angel saying “fear not!” We all know this story, these rites, these symbols, no matter what our spiritual beliefs and backgrounds are. The idea that there’s some kind of “war on Christmas” in this country is absolutely absurd – Christmas and Christianity are so deeply entrenched in our culture, they’re practically in our DNA. Do a quick Google search of churches in your town – here in Columbus, Ohio I can’t even count past the As in an alphabetical list, there are so many. And nobody questions these. Nobody pickets outside of them (especially if they’re predominantly white) nor harasses them for celebrating Christmas or the many other holidays throughout the year. These buildings are paid for by vast congregations (and tax deductions) who have no reason to fear retaliation or oppression for their support, who walk around their whole lives fearlessly wearing necklaces with crosses on them or ashes on their foreheads in February, who are so influential that all of us get certain days off work every year for their holidays, whether we spend those days in their midst or not.

And yet, I’ve spent my whole life in these kinds of situations making mental substitutions for certain words that don’t resonate for me. Even as I rose into my Extended Mountain, I heard “Christ’s light” and substituted “the light of joy and peace.” I hear “God” and I mentally fill in “spirit” or “the Universe.” There are no animated holiday specials on tv for the equinoxes or solstices – even Samhain is reduced to horror movies and trick or treating (which of course I also love, let’s be real.) And the most significant astrological event of our lifetimes, the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn in Aquarius on yesterday’s Winter Solstice, considered to be ushering in a new era of communication, ideas, and connectedness not seen in 800 years? They’re calling it the Christmas Star. Seriously.

It’s not just about representation though. You have to work to learn the symbols and rites of paganism. Many are hidden within Christianity, sure – wonder why we color eggs at Easter? or decorate Christmas trees? – but that’s just it: they’re hidden. Most of us didn’t grow up learning about the Wheel of the Year or the uses of different herbs or crystals or how to do a Celtic cross (!) tarot spread – we had to intentionally seek out resources on these things. So thorough is our cultural witch burning that most don’t even bother to question this, much less investigate and learn about it. Or if they do, it’s with fear and condemnation, associated with Satanism (which is vastly misunderstood as well) or simply, unabashedly mocked. Ask any group of people what their sun signs are and I guarantee you’ll get at least one or all of them to quickly say something like “not that I believe in that stuff” – and then watch those same people send you a glittery holiday card in December. We have no buildings, no carols, no public tellings of our stories so many times that even those of other faiths are even passingly familiar with them. Our tools have all been taken from us, and we’ve had to reinvent them, look for where they were hidden, or even just keep them in our own minds and hearts.

So my “church” is a forest or open field, and the sky above me – all things always available to you too, yet I don’t expect you to call them the same names. I do expect you to hold them with at least some semblance of reverence, however. When I stretch into a Crescent Lunge in yoga class, I think about whether I’m waxing or waning and send a mental “namaste” up to the moon, but I don’t expect my fellow yogis to do this. And yes, even yoga itself as I practice it is a western appropriation of another religion – asking forgiveness for that is part of my “light of joy and peace.” I wonder, is it part of the story of Christ for Christians anymore?

I’ll be celebrating a tiny baby symbolizing this on Friday too. Deliveries willing, my own child will have presents under a tree and candy in her stocking. We’ll make special food, play games, and have a zoom call with extended family which will probably include some carols and storytelling. Like I said, I love this holiday. But as I look up at the Great Conjunction, and feel the wonder and joy of this mysterious and tumultuous era in which we’re living, I’ll also be religiously welcoming back the light of the lengthening days and the opportunities for healing and connection to come. I invite you to do the same, and to call it what is most meaningful to you. But consider taking in a couple words from this heathen with the utmost respect and wish for the happiest of holidays:

Blessed Be.