Syncretism
Created | Updated Dec 4, 2011
'Tis the season when we all practice it to some extent. But few are aware of the full implication of the word...
Syncretism
syn·cre·tism – the combination of different forms of belief or practice. – Merriam Webster
That's Webster's definition. The Catholic Encyclopedia goes on at much greater length about it, starting with Plutarch and explaining the word's Greek root. The Catholic Encyclopedia needs to use so many words because its authors hotly deny that any such thing is going on in their religion. Caveat lector. That's like my Baptist mom, who knew she didn't believe in transubstantiation, but poured the extra grape juice from the 'Lord's Supper' down the drain rather than let me drink it. I knew better than to argue Greek roots with my mother.
Syncretism is in the eye of the beholder, it would seem. But what does it have to do with Christmas? A lot, and you know it.
This month marks the season in which the hegemony of Western Europe and North America establishes its sway over the internet. Not because of Christmas, mind – anybody can celebrate carol singing and gift giving. No...because of Weather.
No matter how much the Australian enjoys his holiday swim and barbecue, he knows he's in the minority. I spent my childhood in the subtropics wanting it to snow on 24 December. It hardly ever snowed in Memphis. When we got about ten flakes in 1963, I was over the moon, and felt that at last we'd behaved properly. The reason for this meteorological association is both simple, and bogus. Few people realise that the song that dictates our tribal insistence on White Stuff on the Eve has this for a verse:
Yes, people, the definitive Christmas song was written by Israel Isidore Baline, the cantor's son from Russia. Tell me about syncretism. Anybody can enjoy this holiday. But you have to explain it first.
Which makes what I'm about to tell you all the more interesting. Maybe.
Back in the early 90s, I was teaching English as Second Language to a class of delightful immigrants from Vietnam and Laos. They all lived in western North Carolina, USA, and most of them worked in a local textile mill. In addition to drilling verb tenses, I tried to impart knowledge on local lore and customs. My students expected no less from their ESL teacher, and although their admiration for my alleged wisdom was exaggerated (and would certainly have astonished h2g2ers, from whom I get no respect), they were vociferous in their demand to be kept in the know:
Thach: 'You not teach us right English.'
Me (taken aback): 'What am I doing wrong?'
Thach: 'You not teach us ain't.' (Murmurs of agreement.)
Me (striking forehead): 'How remiss of me. No, don't look that up. I'll explain it.'
Looking around to make sure the community college English Department was nowhere in sight, I furtively wrote 'I ain't, you ain't', etc, on the blackboard. It turned out that Practical English lessons in western North Carolina should include the Mother Tongue as she is spoke, rather than the way everyone wishes she were spoke. I also learned to heed the chiding protest, 'That not what they say.' As in:
Me: 'The instructions say, Please push the button.'
Thanh: 'That not what they say.'
Me (smiling): 'Ah. Please press the button.'
Thanh (vigorously shaking head): 'That not what they...'
Me (quickly): Okay, okay, I get you. Let me think...' (Madly trying to imagine Bubba over at Cinderella knits, faced with a lift button.)
Me (grinning broadly): 'I know! MASH the button!'
One dozen Southeast Asians, in chorus: 'THAT what they say!'
You get the idea. Thus it was with trepidation that I faced the coming Christmas season – one, because I knew my students were Buddhists to a man and woman. Two, because the ESL classes were being held as part of a state-mandated program (else they wouldn't have shaken loose the ten dollars an hour). The separation of Church and State is taken seriously around here.
I made lots of worksheets with Santas and reindeer on them. I explained about the presents, and the carolling. I even went into detail about that great American Christmas tradition, The Nutcracker ballet. But the dreaded question came, anyway:
Hanh (mother of two): 'What are my kids doing in that Christmas pageant?'
Uh-oh. As it happened, my students were tolerant people. They also wanted their children to be happy. So, when the Baptists came around on Sunday mornings with a church bus full of their school friends, the Buddhists were glad to let their kids join them for Sunday School. They cheerfully honoured the local gods as long as they weren't asked to do anything unethical. The Christmas pageant was fast approaching, the parents had invites. Having no clue as to what their kids were doing in this pageant, and being somewhat confused by garbled accounts from eight-year-olds involving angels and people in bathrobes, they wanted to know the story, so that they wouldn't embarrass themselves in front of their neighbours. And, as with the ain't saga, they weren't taking no for an answer.
'All right,' I said. 'I will let you in on the story. But you have to promise me you won't tell anybody. I could get arrested.' Big eyes. Fervent protests of omerta from my students. They were very loyal, and I could trust them not to breathe a word of this to the Authorities. Having ensured their silence, I began to explain. We found Israel on the big world map, I pointed out Nazareth, and then I started.
I didn't get very far.
'Now, Mary was a young, unmarried woman,' I began, somewhat unfelicitously. 'She got pregnant. But she told her fiancé, It's okay, it was an angel...'
Hanh (nodding sagely): 'We had a girl like that in our village.'
It was an uphill battle after that, but afterwards, my students assured me, they were much better prepared to attend the pageant, armed with information as to why that doll was lying on a box full of straw. They added, generously, that it was a very nice story, indeed. I was off the hook until Easter, when my demonstration of the Resurrection almost involved CPR.
Syncretism? Bring it on, I say. The Buddhists and I are ready.
Fact and Fiction by Dmitri Gheorgheni Archive
