I’ve often wondered what became of George Bailey. Does he remain a changed man as his living room empties, and his troubles leave the proximity of his neighbors’ minds? As Christmas ends and he returns to work an inherited job in a town he never left, do doubt and regret find their way back into his thoughts, slowly chipping away until he finds himself back at the bridge’s ledge? Does the erasing embrace of cold, sharp waves overshadow the warmth of true community and the salvation that he experiences through them? The transformation of Ebenezer Scrooge provokes similar questions. Is the joy that he experiences on Christmas morning simply an expression of euphoria that comes from narrowly escaping death, or has a new life truly been breathed into his soul?
As a child, stories of Christmas redemption were amongst my most favorite of all stories.
As a child, stories of Christmas redemption were amongst my most favorite of all stories. Home Alone was a yearly watch for my brothers and me. While the hilarity of Joe Peci’s enflamed head played a role in our DVD case receiving much wear, the emotional beats of the story likely played a more significant role. I saw myself in young Kevin as he stood at the top of the steps declaring, “I wish my family would disappear.” I also saw my own mother in Kevin’s mother as they were reunited on Christmas morning (the repetition of the cycle in the sequel also echoed the cyclical nature of my childhood misbehavior). As I’ve grown older, I’ve found myself identifying with George Bailey. His cathartic cries of “I want to live again. Please, God, let me live again,” have reflected my own cries, but only after many shouts of the opposite sentiment.
These moments of self-discovery have been clarified and deepened as I’ve grown closer to the true source of life. Understanding the birth, life, and death of Christ as something greater and more subversive than a moralistic fairy tale, roots the “self-discovery” of these cathartic stories in something greater than myself or an individual character. These stories of redeeming transformation are ultimately stories of uprooting. Characters are inaugurated into a new life, true life. These stories are not those of endings but are ultimately ones of beginning.
Death before Dying
In both A Christmas Carol and It’s a Wonderful Life, there’s a strong theme of what it means to “die” before “dying.” In the case of Scrooge, he bears a severely hardened heart. He treats employees poorly, doesn’t pay mind to the poor, and more or less ignores the celebration of Christ’s birth. In response to being told “Merry Christmas” by his nephew, he responds, “What reason have you to be merry? You’re poor enough.” Scrooge conflates merriness and general wellbeing with monetary wealth, giving no credence to the spiritual. He’s dead and he doesn’t know it.
Similarly, George Bailey finds himself lacking a true appreciation for life or things beyond what he can perceive. If Scrooge’s cloud of darkness is one of constant lingering—never downpouring—then George’s is the opposite. His apathy doesn’t create a consistently observable darkness in his life, but his cumulative regret from a lack of travel and experience, and a sense of being stuck in his hometown, creates the perfect conditions for a sudden cloud of explosive downpour. He doesn’t bear the same hardened heart that Scrooge does, but rather has one that’s primed towards the areas in life that have gone wrong or haven’t lived up to his idealistic expectations.
In both cases, God answers, showing these men what it would mean for them to truly die.
Despite these conditions, we don’t meet these men in a truly final place of spiritual death. Their position, if maintained, can only lead to one place, but hope remains. The quietest part of their souls may whisper in solidarity with the classic carol’s themes to “ransom captive Israel / that mourns in lonely exile.” To be ransomed from the bondage of their hearts isn’t a known concern for these men until later in their stories. Bailey asks God for salvation, but his plea doesn’t come from a place of spiritual surrender; it is instead an appeal to escape a legal and monetary crisis. Despite this shallow plea, Bailey’s daughter is implored by her mother to pray for her father. The resulting prayer is a true prayer. She’s observed the spiritual degradation of her father and asks God to restore him.
Scrooge however, doesn’t seek out redemption. In fact, he acts as if he’s above it. He ignores his well-intentioned employees and his nephew, actively devoting himself to an isolation where he remains exactly as he is. Dickens doesn’t explicitly tell us that Scrooge has saints praying for him, but we can speculate that they exist. They may be his nephew, Tiny Tim, or possibly any other child of God that’s had the misfortune of running into the calloused man. In both cases, God answers, showing these men what it would mean for them to truly die. George is wiped of any origin of existence and shown that the life that he’s subliminally disregarded has truly been a great gift to not only himself, but to those around him. Scrooge is shown the hardships that he’s caused others, and is finally brought to his gravesite, finding himself mere inches from death. These images should remind us all of the spiritual death that we lived in and faced prior to redemption in Christ.
Redemption in Milton’s Poetry
The story of Christ’s birth is one of establishment. The prophet Isaiah speaks of the new realities that the world will experience upon its savior’s arrival. This child will be the ruler of government, peace, and the establisher of justice and righteousness (Isa 9:6-7). It wouldn’t be fair to claim that Dickens’ and Capra’s stories are direct allegories for Christ and his birth, but there are similarities. Without birth, there’s no life lived, and therefore no atoning death. This life marks a turning point in humanity. The babe in a manger would inaugurate his kingdom on earth through his life and teachings and initiate the means of ultimate reconciliation to God through his death and resurrection.
Because Christ has been born, because he has died and risen, Milton knows that earthly loss is temporary.
John Milton, the great English poet, crafted a catalog of lyric poetry that, at a meta-level, conveys what it means to live and perceive life through the reality of Christ’s birth. His first (inaugural) poem is entitled, “On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity” and it explores the tide-turning nature of Christ’s birth. He understands the implications of Isaiah’s prophecy as he pens the lines, “But peace was the night / Wherein the Prince of light / His reign of peace upon the earth began” (61-63). The poem itself covers an array of themes, including the supremacy of this baby over the “gods” that permeated ancient thought and belief.
Milton understood that this child’s birth carried drastic implications for all that exists. His understanding of this “reign of peace” displays itself in the posture of his later lyric poetry. Much of Milton’s poetry is focused on his earthly trials—the deaths of his wife, his friend, his newborn, and the loss of his sight. These poems always reframe earthly sorrow under the supreme reign of a risen savior. In “Lycidas,” he proclaims that his drowned friend is now “mounted high.” In his sonnet, “When I consider how my light is spent,” he realizes that despite his loss of sight, he is not abandoned by God and still has the capacity to serve him. Even the somewhat elegiac sonnet “Methought I saw my late espoused saint,” which includes no surface level hope, leaves the reader with an understanding that Milton has been granted a glimpse of his late wife in a new and heavenly form. Because Christ has been born, because he has died and risen, Milton knows that earthly loss is temporary. These poems may lack the aesthetics of Christmas festivity, but they are intensely founded upon the realities that Christmas celebrates.
Life After Redemption
I opened by asking what becomes of George Bailey’s life. A Christmas Carol and It’s a Wonderful Life both operate within a mode of realism, meaning that their endings can’t simply be understood within the fairy tale trope of “and they all lived happily ever.” Some might argue that these men’s spiritual trips would disqualify the works as that of realism. As a Christian, I would argue that these spiritual components are closer to our reality than we may expect, but that’s a conversation for another time.
[Scrooge] and Bailey are symbolic representations of “new creations” in whom “the old has passed away; behold, the new has come.”
These men live lives that are detailed and nuanced. Bailey escapes his nightmare and immediately experiences transformation. He repeatedly exclaims, “I want to live again,” a seemingly simple statement that is really quite profound. He wants to go back to the things that he so recently disregarded and was ready to terminate. At this point, he has no idea that his financial burden is being relieved through the generosity of his neighbors. In fact, we can see that he welcomes prison. When he returns home, he opens a letter, shouting, “I’ll bet it’s a warrant for my arrest. Isn’t it wonderful? Merry Christmas!” It’s a somewhat humorous line that tells us that Bailey has truly changed. The breath of new life has given him the chance to appreciate life at its most basic level. No longer is he drowning in concerns about things that are, in his new perspective, quite trivial.
Scrooge’s awakening is similar but has its differences. He doesn’t have any outstanding payments, but seeks to do what he can to make right with those he’s wronged. Dickens writes, “Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in!” Scrooge isn’t excited to live to run his business in the miserly way that he did before; he’s excited to live because of the works of reconciliation that are before him. Ephesians tells us that,“We are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them” ( Eph. 2:10). Scrooge’s new life is a life of understanding what he’s been made to do. He proceeds to send a turkey to Bob Crachit, gives him a raise, and joins his nephew for Christmas dinner. He and Bailey alike are symbolic representations of “new creations” in whom “the old has passed away; behold, the new has come” (2 Cor. 5:17).
Christ’s Inaugurated Reign
It can be easy to lazily enjoy Christmas and its accompanying aesthetics and festive traditions. A Christmas Carol was the first classic that I read as a young boy, and I completed it on a May drive to North Carolina. While reading it, I yearned for the colorful nature of Christmas and its immediately redemptive arcs. It’s easy to perceive peace amidst a world of colorful and warm lights, softly falling snow, and celebratory gatherings. These things aren’t bad, in fact they’re wonderful. However, we can’t let them distract us from what we’re truly celebrating. The realities of Christ permeate the entirety of our lives. We live in a state of inaugurated eschatology. Christ’s reign has begun, and I eagerly anticipate when my families’ meat platter on December 24 is exchanged for a feast surrounding the Lamb of God.
A Christmas Carol ends with an invitation of sorts. Sitting on Scrooge’s shoulders, Tiny Tim exclaims, “God bless us, Every One!” This invitation reflects the broader invitation that Christmas brings. Through Christ, we can all receive the salvation that George’s redemption points to. Fix your eyes on the baby that Milton writes of, but understand that the Christ who walked the earth didn’t stay there. Watch him calm the seas, prevail over the temptation of Satan, and bring a dead man back to life. Watch as he suffers the death that you and I deserve and rejoice as he rises from the grave, triumphant over death. Follow his teaching and commands, learn to love him deeply, and find yourself in his graceful arms, eternally resting in praise of him at his table.
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