Buddhist Catholic Contemplative Evangelical General Christian Hindu Jewish Latter-day Saint Muslim New Visions Progressive Christian

Beliefs

Topics

Columnists

Resource Library

Research Tools

Video

Podcasts

Thought Readers

Faith In Media Tracker

Newsletters

Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In Subscription Support

Follow Patheos

Good Letters

Home
Catholic
St. Linus the Evangelist

St. Linus the Evangelist

Last updated on: December 24, 2012 at 1:08 am by Allison Backous Troy

St. Linus the Evangelist 2012-12-24T01:08:51-07:00 Allison Backous Troy

LOGO Patheos Explore the world's faith through different perspectives on religion and spirituality! Patheos has the views of the prevalent religions and spiritualities of the world.

An Encore Post

ABC recently ran its annual showing of A Charlie Brown Christmas, one of the defining Christmas rituals of my childhood. After the cartoon aired this year, my Facebook feed overflowed with love for Charlie Brown, and for Charles Schulz: “Thank you, Charles Schulz,” wrote one friend, “for telling me the truth.”

I knew exactly what she meant, and feel the same way. I have a special attachment to Charlie Brown, and more specifically, to Linus—he was the first person to tell me the truth. He was the first person to tell me about the Gospel.

In the cartoon, Charlie Brown has a problem, one that can only be defined as spiritual: the materialism in Sally’s Christmas list, the obnoxious lights on Snoopy’s doghouse, and Schroeder’s incessant piano boogie sink Charlie Brown beyond his usual, block-headed depression.

“I like getting presents,” he says, “and sending Christmas cards, and decorating trees and all that, but I’m still not happy. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel.”

Growing up, my family did not attend church, and Christmas was really just about the lists and lights. It was also the time for my parents’ inner demons to show themselves more fully.

One Christmas, when I was eight, my mother took off her wedding ring and left it on my father’s bed stand. “I won’t wear it if he doesn’t want to be with me,” she told me, her eyes dark and resigned as she sat on her bed.

I tried rewriting A Christmas Carol with my father as Scrooge; I drew pictures of us around Christmas trees, my parents holding hands and smiling. I can’t remember if I left those pictures on my father’s bed stand, but they didn’t make a difference. Six Christmases later, my parents were divorced.

My parents simply didn’t care about Christmas, or at least, they couldn’t care, their personal problems too pervasive for them to pay attention. But my brothers and sister and I cared, and we did everything we could to keep up some semblance of festivity. We made Christmas cookies by ourselves; we slipped and squealed in the snow. After my mother’s abusive boyfriend moved in, we decorated the tree by ourselves, listening for the sounds of struggle behind their bedroom door while we sorted ornaments.

It was an impulse we could not shake. Even if we never said it aloud, we hoped for something beyond the lists we made, the rituals we gave ourselves. We didn’t feel the way we were supposed to feel—about family, about Christmas, about anything. And I knew that we were supposed to feel something, even if we were in such despair, and even if what I was supposed to feel was unnamable.

Our copy of A Charlie Brown Christmas was on VHS, and over the years, it turned into a reel of snowy static. It was almost impossible to watch, but I watched it anyway. It was comforting in a way I could not explain: I loved the gentle animation, the dotted snowflakes, Snoopy’s goofy yelp after he kisses Lucy on the lips.

But the part that I loved the most was the Gospel, and Linus’s perfect recitation of it:

For behold, I bring you good tidings of a great joy,  Which shall be for all people.  For unto you is born this day in the city of David,  A savior, which is Christ the Lord.

And I always cried at this, because, in some way, I felt like I was being heard: my heartache, my despair, my family’s pathetic and absolute brokenness. I knew that what Linus said was true. It spoke to that unnamable yearning, that hope for things to be made right; it was the promise of God come true, the recognition of my longsuffering, the bringing of real hope. It was rescue. It was Jesus.

I understand that this might sound corny, or sentimental. Even commercial. But isn’t this what the cartoon, and Christmas, really is all about? The Gospel given through the most ordinary of means: tinseled lights, pink aluminum Christmas trees, singing cartoon characters, straw and stable?

The longsuffering continues. Every year, my family slips more uneasily into its despair: my siblings and I wait for my father to break his depressed silence, for my mother to regain clarity. Every year, I’m reminded that I don’t feel the way that I’m supposed to feel.

The first time that I saw A Charlie Brown Christmas, I was four. It is a blurry memory, but the intensity of it remains: I stood on our vacuum cleaner, grabbed the handle for a microphone, and began imitating Linus, who had just stood in front of his own microphone, the lights dimmed. I didn’t know what I was saying. I just babbled.

But I remember my parents standing in the living room watching me, my father’s arm wrapped round my mother’s waist, both of them smiling, together.

It is a glimmer of what was intended; it was the way things were supposed to feel.

This is the ache of Advent, the ache of our expectation, and each one of us knows it. And each one of us waits for Linus’ words to be fulfilled in our time. For Jesus to come back fully. For longsuffering to end. For yearning to be set free.

And until then, I will pop in that snowy tape, and laugh at Snoopy, and keep up the rituals, waiting. It is an impulse I cannot shake.

This Good Letters post originally appeared on December 14, 2009.

Allison Backous

Faith

Film

a charlie brown christmas

christmas

Previous Post

December 20, 2012

Jerusalem Risen and in Ruins

Next Post

December 25, 2012 Come Before Winter Part One

Browse Our Archives

Select a Category A. G. Harmon Alissa Wilkinson Allison Backous Art Authors Brad Fruhauff Bradford Winters Bryan Bliss Caroline Langston Chad Thomas Johnston Chris Hoke Christiana N. Peterson Culture D.G. Myers D.L. Mayfield Daniel Bowman Jr. David Griffith Elizabeth Duffy Faith Film Greg Wolfe Guest Contributor Interview Jan Vallone Jeffrey Overstreet Jessica Eddings-Roeser Jessica Mesman Griffith Kelly Foster Lindsey Crittenden Morgan Meis music Natalie Vestin Nick Olson Peggy Rosenthal Personal Reflection Poetry Friday Reflection Relationships Review Richard Chess Richard Cole Sara Zarr Shannon Huffman Polson Sonya Bilocerkowycz Tania Runyan Tony Woodlief Topical Categories Uncategorized Vic Sizemore Writing

Select a Month October 2018 September 2018 August 2018 July 2018 June 2018 May 2018 April 2018 March 2018 February 2018 January 2018 December 2017 November 2017 October 2017 September 2017 August 2017 July 2017 June 2017 May 2017 April 2017 March 2017 February 2017 January 2017 December 2016 November 2016 October 2016 September 2016 August 2016 July 2016 June 2016 May 2016 April 2016 March 2016 February 2016 January 2016 December 2015 November 2015 October 2015 September 2015 August 2015 July 2015 June 2015 May 2015 April 2015 March 2015 February 2015 January 2015 December 2014 November 2014 October 2014 September 2014 August 2014 July 2014 June 2014 May 2014 April 2014 March 2014 February 2014 January 2014 December 2013 November 2013 October 2013 September 2013 August 2013 July 2013 June 2013 May 2013 April 2013 March 2013 February 2013 January 2013 December 2012 November 2012 October 2012 September 2012 August 2012 July 2012 June 2012 May 2012 February 2008

TAKE THE

Religious Wisdom Quiz

I prayed that God would bless me and enlarge my territory, and He granted my request. Who am I?

Select your answer to see how you score.

Solomon Jabez David Hezekiah