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What does Christmas mean to a Buddhist? Well, I’m speaking only for my very un-orthodox self here, of course. I grew up in a Christian environment, but not a fundamentalist kind—my family was Episcopalian, and spirituality was a positive, mystical force, not a list of commandments. I saw, and still see, many people who live the true charity of the gospels. So to me, coming to Buddhism was an addition, not a subtraction. The Christian traditions still have great metaphorical meaning for me, just as they did when I was growing up. I remember my father saying that “Everyone is Christ,” and to me, that concept makes Christianity come very close to Buddhism, where the central figure, Buddha, is not an external god to be obeyed but a teacher, an example, a possibility, an inner self to strive toward.
So Christmas for me is partly Christmas past. Each ornament on my tree carries its precious cargo of memories: the paper chain and bread ornaments of my children’s first trees, the golden bell I got in China ten years ago, the delicate shell covered ball I bought while shopping with my sister this year. I always love to spend Christmas Eve baking several stollen for everyone’s Christmas breakfasts, and I listen to the carols while I bake. Gradually parts of the past fall away and new traditions come up—now we’re all adults, we don’t save presents, but open them while we’re all together on Christmas Eve night.
Christmas is about the passage of time, partly. Looking back at the past, I have to remember the Buddhist lessons of non-attachment: even as I treasured my babies, I was helping them to grow into men. The babies are gone, but I rejoice in the men they’ve become. And much as I love to put up the lights, take out the ornaments, each year I also learn to take them down and put them away without grief. Christmas comes and it goes—we can’t hold on to it, but treasure it in its moment.
But it’s more than that. It is the solstice, the return of the light, but not just that. The birth of the magical, holy baby also speaks of a special light given to us in this human birth. Buddha, like Jesus, was conceived of a holy being and born in a special way, and to me both stories tell us that we have the light inside us. Buddhist practice teaches us that the jewel of nirvana grows in the dungheap of samsara, just as the baby Jesus is born in the stable.
So I would say, yes, I celebrate Christmas in my Buddhist way.
So Christmas for me is partly Christmas past. Each ornament on my tree carries its precious cargo of memories: the paper chain and bread ornaments of my children’s first trees, the golden bell I got in China ten years ago, the delicate shell covered ball I bought while shopping with my sister this year. I always love to spend Christmas Eve baking several stollen for everyone’s Christmas breakfasts, and I listen to the carols while I bake. Gradually parts of the past fall away and new traditions come up—now we’re all adults, we don’t save presents, but open them while we’re all together on Christmas Eve night.
Christmas is about the passage of time, partly. Looking back at the past, I have to remember the Buddhist lessons of non-attachment: even as I treasured my babies, I was helping them to grow into men. The babies are gone, but I rejoice in the men they’ve become. And much as I love to put up the lights, take out the ornaments, each year I also learn to take them down and put them away without grief. Christmas comes and it goes—we can’t hold on to it, but treasure it in its moment.
But it’s more than that. It is the solstice, the return of the light, but not just that. The birth of the magical, holy baby also speaks of a special light given to us in this human birth. Buddha, like Jesus, was conceived of a holy being and born in a special way, and to me both stories tell us that we have the light inside us. Buddhist practice teaches us that the jewel of nirvana grows in the dungheap of samsara, just as the baby Jesus is born in the stable.
So I would say, yes, I celebrate Christmas in my Buddhist way.