The Stranger Who Didn’t Do Christmas


The lonely figure trudged across the frozen, bare field. The soil was rock hard. The wind bit at his face, too cold even for the geese cutting across the sky.

It was Christmas Day.

At the far end of the field stood an elderly Scandinavian man, who greeted him gently:

“Merry Christmas.”

“I don’t really do Christmas,” admitted the stranger.

“Neither do I,” said the old man with a smile. “I do this weird Neo-Pagan Yule Blót thing.”

The stranger blinked. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s Norse-inspired. You’d like it.” The Scandinavian man’s eyes twinkled. “We modern heathens hold a blót—a kind of ritual offering to Odin, Freyr, and the ancestors. There’s mead. My favourite part. Fire. Runes. It’s to honour the winter solstice. We party over this instead of Christ’s birth. Great fun.”

The stranger listened politely, then gave the man a self-conscious hug. “Thanks, but no thanks.” He smiled, and continued on.

In the next field stood a circle of ancient stones—perhaps original, perhaps lovingly reconstructed. Around them were modern-day Druids, quietly chanting and drumming. They wore these white costumes and held hands.

“We’re welcoming the reborn sun,” one of them told him, in a voice as gentle as snow. “It’s all part and parcel of a kind of multi-day solar rite.”

“Is that so?” the stranger said, nodding. “Quite extraordinary.” It wasn’t what he’d expected to see.

Then things took a darker turn.

In the woods nearby, a group dressed entirely in black were holding what they called a symbolic Satanic solstice ritual. Black candles, reversed carols, and readings celebrating what they insisted everyone understood as rampant rebellion and individualism. They assured him it wasn’t theistic—it was philosophical, they asserted.

Still, it gave the stranger a chill deeper than the wind.

Not far from them, another group had gathered—eccentric, intense, and dressed like characters from some arcane opera. They were performing a Thelemic Gnostic Mass—apparently in honour of the solar rebirth. One of them stared down his nose at him.

“What’s all this about?” asked the stranger quietly.

“Well,” the man who had been looking down at him sniffed, “think occult symbolism merged with Egyptian sun myths and Hermetic philosophy,” he said haughtily.

The stranger nodded, understanding nothing, and moved on.

Further up the hill—yes, it was all happening that day—he came across a Wiccan ceremony. He didn’t know they still had these. They were reenacting the mythic battle between the Holly King and Oak King. There were cloaks, antlers, even some playful combat with foam swords.

“Seasonal magic,” whispered one of them, eyes shining.

The stranger smiled. “It certainly is.”

Then came the Humanists. They were playing music in the next field. It was similar to Brian Eno’s early ambient music. A neat little circle of solemn faces and flickering candles they were. “We’re holding a Ritual of Reason,” they said proudly. Their ceremony included not just the Eno-like music, but readings, and reflections on human progress

“Science,” said one.

“Enlightenment ideals,” added another, smiling knowingly.

The stranger didn’t entirely follow, but he respected their sincerity.

“I must be on my way,” he said.

As dusk fell, the sky cleared to a deep indigo, and stars began to blink awake.

In this improbable alignment of events, the stranger now found himself approaching a New Age galactic meditation, where people from every corner of the world—it was a United Nations of cosmic espousal—sat in serene silence, eyes closed, as if dreaming together under the open sky.

“We believe Christmas is a key moment for energy downloads,” whispered one woman, breaking her trance. “Planetary ascension, you know.”

The stranger smiled, bowed his head, admiringly, and still moved on.

Soon after, delicious and fetching smells—he was hungry after all this walking—drew him towards an Ancestor Worship Solstice Feast. Was there no end to all this? “East Asian–inspired,” someone called out, as he watched. There were incense offerings, family altars, and platters of steaming food.

“This is to honour those who came before us,” one woman explained.

The stranger nibbled something delightful. Then another piece. “I didn’t even know you lot existed,” he said honestly.

A little farther on—he was nearly done—he stumbled across a clearing. This time surrounding a living tree was a group of eco-spiritualists standing hand in hand. They were reverently honouring the evergreen as a sacred being. “It embodies resilience and continuity,” one whispered. “It lives through winter. So can we.”

“Good luck,” said the stranger, nodding.

At last, he reached what he’d quietly intended to find all along—a modest open-air art installation. It was called “Anti-Christmas Liturgies.” A kind of ragtag group of artists and activists—climbing boots, lots of woollen hats with holes in them, great-coats. They chanted advertising slogans like Gregorian hymns, burned receipts in metal buckets that did the rounds, and staged these absurd nativity parodies with mannequins.

“It’s performance art,” someone told him, not realising he knew. Though he often cringed slightly at such things, he enjoyed their point. “It’s a critique of consumerism. Tongue firmly in cheek,” announced someone else.

The stranger chuckled. “Of course.”

As the firelight danced in the wind, he sat for a while on a cold bench, thinking.

Across the world, others sat in darker places—shelters, trenches, far from home—caught in wars that made this quiet corner feel impossibly distant. He knew that.

He still didn’t know what any of this meant. But he’d enjoyed every strange, surreal, and unexpectedly human moment. There was something oddly beautiful in it all—so many people trying, each in their own way, to bring light to the dark.

He looked up at the stars. They looked brighter now. Or maybe it was just him.

Then, almost without thinking, he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out an old matchbook, and lit a tiny candle he found tucked beside it.

It flickered once, then held steady.

“Merry Christmas,” he said softly.

To no one in particular.

The post The Stranger Who Didn’t Do Christmas
 appeared first on CounterPunch.org.