Happy Christmas

by Beth Adams

It is a rare sunlit morning in late December. Standing on the steps of London's National Gallery, where I've been visiting the Rembrandts, I look out over Trafalgar Square. In the unseasonably warm weather, fountains still dance on either side of Admiral Nelson's towering column. On the side near the Gallery, a tall spruce shines with bright white lights. A tree like this has stood in Trafalgar Square each year since the end of WWII, given by the people of Norway in gratitude and remembrance to the people of Britain who helped keep their country free.

Slowly I walk down the steps and along the sidewalk, thronged with tourists, and, suddenly, there he is again: the old man who looked out at me, just moments ago, from a Rembrandt self-portrait. Wrapped in a tattered blanket, with disheveled hair and rheumy eyes, he sits huddled against the Gallery's wrought-iron railing. Here he is, in a different incarnation: the eyes filled with the same mixture of desperation and resignation, brokenness and nobility. The old man isn't begging, merely sitting: watching the flight of pigeons and the river of humanity streaming before him. I walk past, and then stop, turn around. I dig in my pockets and find some coins and a gold-wrapped chocolate from the previous night's dinner. "Happy Christmas," I say. He nods, startled, as if astonished to find he is not invisible.

The homeless people and beggars of this city affect me deeply. There were the two sleeping men cradling dogs in Piccadilly Station. That time it was the dog, shivering uncontrollably, who stared into my face. Sometimes you don't even see a person: just feet sticking out from a pile of blankets and cardboard in a doorway, a park, a pedestrian underpass beneath the street. In these days celebrating Christ's birth, I recall one Indian woman in particular. She stood near the doorway of a souvenir shop which glowed with star-shaped lampshades made of brightly colored, pierced paper. Dressed only in a sweater and thin sari, whipped by the cold wind, she held her baby in her arms and met my blue eyes with her dark ones. "Some food for the child?" she asked softly, and then, "Thank you so much. God bless you.

I don't know what the reasons are, in this socialist society, for homelessness. But as cold and poverty-stricken as these people may be, they receive some food, free medical care, and veterinary attention for their animals. And they are treated with dignity, as individuals. On one of the innumerable animal programs on British television, a police officer and a representative from the Battersea Home for Dogs went about the city distributing plaid dog coats to the homeless dogs living with their masters on the streets. As the film crew followed them I watched one pleasant, polite, matter-of-fact conversation after another, as if both parties considered plaid Christmas dog-coats to be the most normal thing in the world. What seems most striking here is the sense, both in public and from every pulpit, that this is a shared problem and a shared responsibility.

Yet I struggle in these encounters. My hearts beats faster, I feel the heat rise to my cheeks as I fumble for change and stretch my hand forward to give it. I realize that part of what I feel is shame at our glaring discrepancy --- what can this person possibly think of me? I realize that I am afraid of rejection. But I also feel drawn toward the encounter, as if toward the Beloved: I am responding to a call so strong I cannot ignore it. In his book, "Christian Households: The Sanctification of Nearness," Thomas Breidenthal writes, "The remarkable thing about conscience is that it is like a voice that is both my own and the voice of someone else. The sleeping figure on the platform calls to me, but it is as if the call is already coming from inside me..."

Because here we must acknowledge one another, it is impossible to ignore the humanity of the person on the street. He or she is a person with a heart, a soul, and a story, and their recognition of me --- if only for a moment --- tells me that they know I am, too. Breidenthal continues: "It is that great paradox of the heightened awareness of love: knowing and feeling ourselves as separate and completely alive, and yet feeling ourselves merge with the other, so that our normal feelings of separation cease."

My thoughts return to the old man. Who is he? Does he sit here because he can feel anonymous, or because there are many people and the likelihood of a few coins is greater? Perhaps it is the proximity to St. Martin's, the London church most identified with the homeless and poor, where he knows he can go in and get warm, and have a bowl of soup. I wonder about the earlier parts of his story. Was he one of the soldiers who helped Norway stay free?

Rembrandt died poor and broken, unaware that his work would command millions and be viewed reverentially throughout the world. This man, staring out at the square, may die poor and anonymous, and lie forgotten forever. But in the eyes of God, are they not equal? Who are we to judge one worthy, and the other not?

"Happy Christmas," I say to the Beloved. "Happy Christmas," he says, and blesses me.