One of the distinct Catch-22’s of the lapsed-faith lifestyle is that one cannot entirely reject religious motifs after so strenuously drawing comfort from them in childhood. I think this is part of the point, of course; one is not likely to scorn a god that they can turn to for solace (compared to a wholly punitive god, for example). But this bewildering value schism extends far past the guilt we feel when consciously avoiding prayer (perhaps the central pillar of lapsed-faith rebellion). Christianity, as with Judaism, Islam, etc, is not only a belief system but a grandiose historical perspective. Participants see themselves as the most recent granular entries in a patterned mosaic of prophecy. Breaking that pattern often leads to shame in the least likely of places; for example, rolling our eyes at the underbelly Bible verses of In ‘N’ Out beverages.
But by far the most intense of these internal conflicts occur during the Christmas season. Occidental people of most faiths, or non-faiths, celebrate Christmas, in some cases even those that observe other winter holidays such as Chanukah or Kwanza. Born out of a secular holiday and cozily embellished by Charles Dickens as a general humanist celebration, it has by now become a generic social institution. This is why it is still fought over: were there no diversity cluttering the holiday’s importance, there would be no argument. The battle for control over December 25th and the preceding season has left behind much residual awkwardness that perfectly encapsulates the lapsed-faith duality: remind me again, is it “Happy Holidays” or “Merry Christmas”?
It is the opinion of many that religion should be respectfully omitted from public affairs, whereas others feel that the Christ story is too central to the day’s significance to ignore (indeed, would anyone demand the bowdlerization of the miracle in the Chanukah narrative?). As a painfully nepantla Christian-turned-Atheist, I see accuracy and honorable candor on both sides. But I also know as a Christian-turned-Atheist that consolidating the inalienable rights of a secular world and the unavoidable heritage of an over-zealous community are nearly impossible to do. This is the tension that bristles my head every time I’m confronted with a cross pendant, or Gideon’s Bible, or matzo triangle (ie, the Host). It is the fervent war between logic and tradition, with roots extending back to the birth of modern deism.
This war – which was a very different one in the 1960’s – nearly cost us one of the most endearing holiday TV specials of all time, but, paradoxically, is also essential to its success. The reasons for this are remarkably complex by children’s entertainment standards. But, then, A Charlie Brown Christmas had the advantage of being written by a remarkably complex man who, also, would somewhat abandon Christianity later in life (if we are to believe the few public quotes he made on the topic, anyhow). The friction between the rock of Jesus and the hard place of cruel, quotidian living is perhaps central to the appeal of Charles Schulz’s Peanuts, and certainly to the Christmas special. The nativity comes to us swaddled in such cynicism that it seems hand-tailored for the lapsed evangelical.
The plot is fairly simple, though (unfortunately) timeless. Christmas approaches but Charlie Brown is depressed because of the viral spread of “commercialism”. Concerns over what Santa may bring (the ever-mature Lucy wants “Real Estate,” Charlie’s younger sister simply desires “tens and twenties”) preclude the spirit of the holiday. In this respect, the TV special surely shows its age, as the commercialization of Christmas has become not only a tradition in its own right but a cliché (indeed, American culture in particular is fixated upon the social sacrament of gift giving – were we to curtail this gesture, our economy would collapse). We no longer worry that we’ve succumbed to commercialism; we now obsess over living up to the burden of commercialism’s promise. Can we dare to spend enough? To buy enough? To own enough?. Add to this the copious Charlie Brown and Snoopy merchandise for sale at all your local Wal-Marts and the anachronism appears far bleaker. 
But even for Charlie Brown and Company, addressing commercialization is no simple matter. In the original special, what the “Authentic Christmas Spirit” entails is, for the majority of the running time, excruciatingly vague: Charlie Brown does not even know what it is that he is supposed to feel at Christmastime. After being psychoanalyzed by Lucy, who suggests that he “get involved” to mobilize his self-improvement, Charlie Brown assumes a directorial position above his friends in a Christmas play. The play, however, refuses to gel (it primarily consists of shoulder-dancing), and Charlie feels even worse than before. So much for fellowship. In desperation, he decides to purchase a Christmas tree as a prop, intending to add some authenticity to the proceedings. He famously selects the most homely, emaciated fir he finds (hoping to improve his mood by “saving it”), and the cast and crew of the play ridicule him. He laments. Directing a play didn’t cheer me up. Purchasing a pencil-thin holiday twig didn’t either. What is Christmas all about, anyway? Cue Linus and his ubiquitous blanket to the stage.
The scene where Linus quotes the gospel and imparts the birth of Jesus to the crowd of kids is one of the few religious moments in pop culture that does not make us dismissive, politically uncomfortable, or (at the other end of the spectrum) filled with piety. It is too innocent, too innocuous. There are several reasons for this. First, the mouths of babes are highly forgivable, partially because we do not take them at face value. The confident comfort Linus derives from the Nativity is seen as naïve, but equally heartwarming; unlike beaming Born-Agains, he makes it tough for Atheists to deign to him. Second, Linus recites the Biblical text on a stage, with a spotlight on him – it’s a performance, and much like in the theatrical productions Godspell and Jesus Christ Superstar, Atheist leanings (or Christian ones, for that matter) in no way supersede the entertainment value. 
Finally, and most importantly, the scripture that Linus quotes was clearly selected with care. The Gospel of Luke offers the most mythological, and most humanistic, version of the Jesus story – unlike the awkward political prophecy of Matthew (whose mastery of Greek was comparatively atrocious) or John’s vague sensual metaphors. Luke has a poetic simplicity that recalls the best myths – he’s powerful and pithy without being fanciful. The angels in Luke’s architecture swirl and trumpet not for jihad or cautionary omens but for peace, love, and goodwill towards men. Indeed, practically no distinction is made between the Messiah and these qualities – the spiritual fruit tricolour of Christmas.
Everyone has by now heard the story* that the network executives who screened A Charlie Brown Christmas balked at this scene. The irascible Schulz gave them an ultimatum – either include the gospel, or cancel the special. In truth, this may have been due to Schulz’s natural recalcitrance rather than any religious devotion, but he won the argument, and won it big time (to the tune of a 50 share broadcast, an Emmy and probably millions in royalties for several involved parties). Of course, the network execs that would have just as soon broadcast a preacher on prime-time television expected the special to fail hideously for other reasons (for example, the quality of the animation, which in the digital age emits a charming, hand-made aura), so the contention over that single scene probably struck them as insignificant. In hindsight, however, Schulz’s hissy-fit possesses an editorial logic; frankly, the story of A Charlie Brown Christmas would not function without the turning point brought on by Linus’ “witnessing”. And what follows in the plot might be the most inventive interpretation of the Christ myth on this side of Kazantzakis’ Last Temptation.
Charlie Brown, energized as one typically is by a good sermon, finds peace with himself and his twinkling world. But after taking his stem of a Tannenbaum home to decorate, he finds that Snoopy’s garishly ornamented dog house has been awarded first place in a neighborhood competition (the prize of which, according to the newspaper, is “money money money,” preceding the O’Jays.). Charlie is again devastated – commercialism has won. He puts a single red ball on his scrawny plant and it keels over with the weight, as if genuflecting to commodification. Charlie Brown exclaims that he has “killed it,” and walks away, despondent. His friends gather around and decide they’ve been too rough on Charlie and his sub-par tree, which, as Linus observes, only needs “a little love”. Forming a holy ring of group effort they uproot and transplant Snoopy’s dog house decorations. Charlie returns, shocked, and seemingly happy with the arborist enhancements. The program ends with a hymn, albeit a benign one (“Hark the Herald Angels Sing”).
The tree’s trajectory is clearly meant to parallel that of Christ. It is found in an ordinary setting and hardly seems an exemplar of its species, but its vulnerability offers Charlie Brown hope. And it is only after being “killed” by Charlie Brown and dominated – betrayed, one might say – by commercialism that the tree can be resurrected as an immaculate being. Like most Christmas stories, the theme of this one is salvation – not only of Charlie Brown and a gang of avaricious sinners, but of mankind, by way of metaphor. 
The irony sets in, however, when we consider what the “tree” – as well as the gospel recitation – is saving Charlie et al from. It should be offering deliverance from the commercialization of Christmas, and yet the tree is only considered a resounding success when it becomes aesthetically pleasing – showy, even. Much like the infamous indulgence of the Catholic Church, the simplicity of Christ’s message is obscured by meretricious distractions. That this alone satisfies Charlie Brown and provides closure is a curiosity; his cohorts seem to have already forgotten the Meaning of Christmas, including Linus. This plot hole of sorts was no doubt unintentional, but the metamorphosis of the tree has become one of the most memorable moments from A Charlie Brown Christmas (once hilariously spoofed by Robert Smigel in a Saturday Night Live cartoon): perhaps because it mirrors our inevitable embrace of commercialism?
Audiences remember the Christian moral of the story, but connecting it to the special’s denouement is exceedingly difficult – indeed, the two events are as tonally distant as Jesus’ birth and crucifixion. Part of the trouble here is that Linus’ quoting the Bible does not have the intended effect – it puts Charlie Brown at peace momentarily, but ultimately cannot solve his problems. The knowledge of Christmas’ “true” meaning becomes a dim piece of trivia against the ebullient, worldly neon of Snoopy’s dog house – which is, in turn re-appropriated to improve the sacrificial tree (the cause becomes the cure). What we could extrapolate from this ending rings unnervingly true: faith-based consolation has a short shelf life, and sooner or later we return to the mother’s bosom of ephemeral stimuli (which may have been the source of the disturbance in the first place).
But perhaps this is too cynical an interpretation of such a touching ending. I find myself respecting the religion of A Charlie Brown Christmas year after year because the ultimate assertion is not at all transcendental. It’s not piety or mythology that brightens Charlie Brown’s spirits, but the neighborly support of his friends. The alternative to the evils of commercialism is not spirituality, as we might expect, but fraternity – in fact, the suggestion seems to be that the additive of brotherly love has the effect of purifying materialism (the Peanuts gang never truly recant their superficiality, they simply find more appropriate ways to express it).
And what I choose to personally take from these final moments is the truism that faith is inherently meaningless – it’s the sweat of human kindness that makes a difference. The Christ figure – Charlie Brown’s tree – does not resurrect itself after three days but is pumped full of new vitality by a group that manipulates it for their own purpose. It is, much like the modern Jesus, a passive messiah – a man-made metaphor for salvation rather than a corporeal manifestation of it. Only when the others resolve to embody rather than simply parrot the true meaning of Christmas does the “spirit” of the holiday take hold and allow the plot to conclude. The content of the Bible without an attitude of compassion is quite literally a parable with no moral – a vacant gesture.
Whether consciously disenchanted with his faith or not, Schulz may have unwittingly birthed a new form of moral entertainment with A Charlie Brown Christmas; one that refreshingly does not assume the easy street of salvation or downplay the eternal hardship associated with Good Samaritanism (are you listening, Veggie Tales)? It is hard, in fact, to imagine a children’s franchise quite so philosophically hip, matching with subtle skepticism the angular chords of Vince Guaraldi. We feel the nihilist sting every time Charlie Brown’s foot circles upward and trips him rather than connecting with Lucy’s football; we identify with Linus’ frustration over the Great Pumpkin’s silence even more than pleas for divine intervention in Bergman films. Schulz may have initially imagined his characters as illustrations of the universality of the Christian message, but we love them because they represent the universality of human suffering.
Merry Christmas...urr, Happy Holidays, everyone!
*Read a more in-depth discussion of this battle, and a wonderful tribute to animator Bill Melendez, here.