Overwhelmed? Overstimulated? Worried about parties, decorating or a gift list that keeps growing? Most of us know the feeling. Christmas often doesn’t feel like a celebration of Christ at all. What would Christ feel about modern Christmas?
We live in a world of technology, convenience and excess — nothing like the humble world Christ entered 2,000 years ago. Perhaps attempting to be more like Christ can be even more powerful than simply remembering him in turning Christmas from a burden to a joy.
Although Jesus Christ is the model for all Christian living, that doesn’t mean our idea of him is always accurate. C.S. Lewis wisely said, “My idea of God is not a divine idea. It has to be shattered time after time.” Often, we warp God into a Santa-like wish-fulfiller, not the being portrayed in scripture.
When we look closely at Christ’s life, one theme rises again and again: His repudiation of what George MacDonald called “the Dominion of Things.”
Every October, I open a Google Doc and begin listing gifts for my children. Every year, I vow to keep it short; every year, the list grows. Part habit, part fear of disappointing them, part enjoyment of giving. The pull of “things” is powerful.
Christ gave gifts too — but not “things.” Instead, it was food to the 5,000, a miraculous catch of fish, and wine at a wedding. His gifts always met a real need or furthered his mission.
Even the wisemen’s gifts — gold, frankincense, myrrh — were likely practical: funding the family’s flight to Egypt or serving medicinal purposes. It’s difficult to imagine that Mary had that gold made into a necklace for herself.
God loves a cheerful giver. But was that “giver” ever meant to be the supplier of gaming consoles, stuffed stockings and piles of candy?
Across the Gospels, Christ’s teachings return repeatedly to two spiritual dangers: the exaltation of self and materialism. Over and over, he tells us not to serve mammon — the spirit of wealth, accumulation and material excess. Yet Christmastime has become prime time for mammon.
Christ’s relationship with money is almost humorous. I have to turn around anytime I forget my wallet; Christ never carried one. To pay the temple donation, Jesus had to ask Peter to retrieve a coin from the mouth of a fish.
And let’s not forget the table-flipping incident at the temple. Christ seems to view money and its accumulation with a mix of apathy and disdain.
Instead, Jesus encouraged us to let go. He pointed to the lilies and birds as examples of trust and dependence on God, and said to his first missionaries: “Carry neither purse, nor scrip, nor shoes” (Luke 10:4).
This is strong stuff. I’m certainly not planning to send my son on a mission without shoes. But perhaps the strength of Jesus’ words could convince me that he doesn’t need a new pair of Steph Curry shoes every year.
Christ said, “A man’s life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth” (Luke 12:15) and “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also” (Matthew 6:21).
Could our desire for a bigger hoard of material treasures be turning our hearts away from the far better heavenly treasure?
We live in a time of abundance — almost anything we want can be delivered to our door. It’s easy to get sucked into consumer culture, convincing ourselves that we need every box that arrives from Amazon.
Ask a child what they received last Christmas — many cannot remember. Even a brand-new car feels ordinary after a week. The problem runs deeper than fleeting excitement. Each new possession carries weight — physical, mental, spiritual: more arguments over screen time, more clutter and broken toys, more storage challenges, more maintenance, batteries and lost pieces.
John Ruskin said, “Every increased possession loads us with a new weariness.”
As I dug into Christ’s teachings, I found myself thinking, “If I actually lived the way Christ advises — won’t I be a killjoy?”
Yet, of course, as we attempt to apply Christ’s teachings in our lives, joy is just what we can expect to experience more deeply. Perhaps I should trust God enough to risk a little disappointment.
As technology does more for us, we develop a strange dependence — and even a kind of uselessness. When menial tasks vanish, we tend to fill the space not with contemplation, creativity or charity, but with consumption.
But our spirits were not built for endless TV, video games and dopamine-driven distractions. And when this is what we deliver to our minds and hearts, the result is shorter attention spans, a craving for novelty, and dissatisfaction with what we already have. Suddenly, we wish we’d gotten something else for Christmas.
And the only “solution” our culture offers is more things, newer things — even better things!
Progress itself in modern culture often seems to mean “more people consume more things.” Yet as we’ve seen in dystopian stories — from “WALL-E” to “The Matrix,” “Terminator” and “Brave New World” — a recurring theme is that humans become enslaved by the very creations meant to serve them.
The creators of AI and other technologies often fear the consequences of their inventions most, yet innovation presses on relentlessly. Our wildest fears seem to be coming true all at once. We see what is happening, but we feel powerless to stop it, telling ourselves we “can’t stop progress.”
In the pursuit of even more, the primacy of relationships, nature and love is increasingly crowded out by efficiency, consumption and economic growth.
As author Paul Kingsnorth observes, “Everything that lives is being crowded out by everything we have made.”
Every day, it seems a new RV and storage unit complex is erected in our town to house all that “we have made” but can’t find room for anymore.
“What is made” also produces 2.1 billion tons of waste every year. More than 8 million metric tons of plastic waste pollute our oceans annually. Christ needed nothing beyond what was essential; yet we fill the world with things we barely need, but ceaselessly want.
The earth was not made to accommodate the endless accumulation of unnatural goods our materialism requires.
Christ saw all of this — the dangers of overconsumption, the distractions of wealth, the lure of “things.” And his example stands in contrast to modern life: living simply, walking about Galilee, communing with God in nature, and teaching the timeless truth sure to never go viral: “Ye cannot serve God and mammon” (Matthew 6:24).
None of this is meant to shame those of us who love Christmas, gifts and all the trappings of the season. But a shift in perspective or outlook can often be more meaningful and lasting than a reactive rebellion against traditions.
Maybe that upgraded vacuum starts to seem unnecessary. The gaming tablet looks more like a distraction than a delight. When we are humble enough to question ourselves, we create space for God’s inspiration.
When followed, our homes may notice a subtle but profound shift — a growing simplicity and a lighter emphasis on possessions. And simple joys will be left: family gathered, meals shared, the poor remembered, children laughing, the quiet labor of caring for one another, and grateful hearts for the truly weighty things.
Remarkably, the creator of all, the King of Kings, the most powerful being ever to walk the earth, lived simply and rejected excess. This Christmas, as we celebrate his life, we too can begin to re-evaluate what is of most worth. In the "Lord of the Rings" movie series we are told, “It is no bad thing to celebrate a simple life.”
And there is no better way to celebrate Christmas than simply.