When I was a kid, our family had an aluminum Christmas tree, lit from two sides by color wheels. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, you probably didn’t grow up in the United States in the 1960s. So picture this. Take a cheap present-day artificial tree — one that doesn’t try too hard to look authentic. Replace all the green plastic “needles” with shiny silver ones, like a thicker, stiffer version of tinsel. That’s an aluminum tree.

Then take a small floodlight and affix it to a stand so it can sit on the floor, pointing upward at the tree. Rig it with a small motor so that a plastic disc rotates directly in front of the light. The disc is divided into four parts, like a pie with four slices: one slice red, one blue, one yellow, and one green. As the disc turns, the tree is bathed in a succession of colors, with the light sparkling off the silvery branches. To heighten the effect, you can put color wheels on opposite sides, so that one side glows red while the other glows blue, and so on. Finally, add glass ornaments for effect — because obviously, you can’t have too much shiny stuff. Just don’t bother with the tinsel.

It was the epitome of trendy holiday kitsch, with a uniquely 60s vibe. My mom was nothing if not fashionable. And yes, if you’re wondering, you can still go retro and buy all this stuff online.

We eventually moved on from the 60s, and began going to a local tree lot to bring home a live silvertip fir to decorate instead. The one constant from our earlier years was the ornaments: the same fragile glass orbs, gingerly hung then carefully packed away at the end of the season. At some point as a teenager, I became fascinated with these little colored globes. You could see your reflection in them, as if peering into a delicate and distorted world of their own. It became a metaphor for me of the artificial world created by our celebrations, beautiful and yet potentially fragile.

In her book Hopeful Lament, for example, spiritual director Terra McDaniel writes of one of the most difficult Christmas seasons of her family’s life. Their daughter, away from home for her first semester of college, had been threatened by a drunken boyfriend in late November and warned by the police to never walk anywhere alone. Her husband Kyle’s company was turned upended because they had unwittingly participated in a much publicized and fraudulent investment scheme, and Kyle himself was wrongfully implicated. And Terra and Kyle’s marriage was already on the edge because they had overextended themselves in church planting and leadership. The family was in turmoil. It was difficult for them to be there for each other.

Then, because it had been planned months in advance, the extended family descended upon the McDaniel household for a Christmas celebration. Terra was intent on making it a special time for everyone else, so she kept the problems inside, put on a good face, and played super-hostess.

But at what cost?

Think back once more to Micah’s prophecy about the king who would come from Bethlehem. Many dark years would pass before that prophecy would be fulfilled. God’s people would suffer exile, domination, and dispersion in the meantime. Nor did the birth of the Messiah dispel all the darkness. The one born to be king of the Jews suffered rejection, betrayal, and crucifixion. Those who follow him still suffer a variety of indignities that come from living with fragile bodies among flawed people in a broken world.

I understand the desire to have a little Christmas magic every year. Really, I do. I have my own sentimental attachments to the traditions that make me feel like a wide-eyed kid all over again. We put up our tree every year and lovingly hang the heirloom ornaments I’ve made for it. And every year, I’m reluctant to take the tree down, like saying goodbye to a beloved friend.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to spread a little seasonal cheer and goodwill, and I’m not asking anyone to give up their traditions. But here’s the thing. Not everyone’s Christmas is cheerful. Life is just like that. In our family, for example, as some of you know, the season will forever be marked by the fact that on Christmas Day of 2020, my mother died in a hospital emergency room of complications related to COVID. Because of pandemic policy, she died alone, in quarantine.

Our traditions need to be strong enough to bear witness to such sorrows. There must be a place for lament alongside our celebrations.

And why? Because at Christmas, we don’t simply remember the birth of our Savior. We celebrate that we have a God who heals our brokenness from the inside by becoming one of us, by taking our broken humanity upon himself and paving the way to wholeness. If we cannot tolerate lament at Christmas, if we cannot make a place to acknowledge and give voice to suffering, then we are withholding the pain that Christ was born to heal, locking it away lest it contaminate what we think our holiday is supposed to be.

The spiritual night before the first Christmas was a long one. Even now, centuries later, the darkness continues. But that’s why the one who claimed to be the Light of the World also calls us to be light. And light should have nothing to fear from darkness.

So let us weep and mourn as needed and appropriate. Let us make space for one another’s grief. And let us do so because we truly understand the gift we have been given by the one who was born to be King, the one who will one day return at last to claim that throne.