December 4, 2006
The Other Tree Lighting Ceremony Posted by Ellen Feldman at 02:10 PM EST As we move into the holiday season, citizens will sue local governments over crèches and nativity scenes on town squares; right-wing pundits, who coincidentally are flogging their recent books on the subject, will rail against the lack of Christ in Christmas; and everyone, except retailers, will bemoan the commercialization of the holiday. Some of my colleagues debated the issue here a few months ago. I will eschew argument for the moment in the interest of pure celebration. Last evening, as every first Sunday evening in December for the past 62 years, the annual Park Avenue tree lighting ceremony in New York City brought together just about everybody in a small corner of Manhattan for a moment of joy, hope, and tribute to America’s war dead. The Park Avenue tree-lighting ceremony is little known beyond the neighborhood where it takes place. It boasts none of the grandeur of the Rockefeller Center event, which manages to shut down midtown Manhattan for a good part of the afternoon and evening on which it occurs and features a headline-making, statistically-notable, telegenic tree. (I’m not complaining. I happen to be a sucker for Christmas trees and their lighting in any venue.) Nor does the Park Avenue ceremony have the artistic clout of the unveiling of the tree at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, with its gorgeous baroque ornaments and endlessly intriguing nativity scene. The Park Avenue lighting is a homier and, because of its origins, more deeply affecting event. It begins shortly after dark, as small children ride on parents’ shoulders and gambol along sidewalks, and teenagers struggle to hide their excitement beneath a veneer of ennui, and families and couples and singles pour out of their apartment houses, and dogs, sensing that something’s up, strain at their leashes, as they all flow toward the Brick Church at Park Avenue and 91st Street. Only a few blocks are closed to traffic, and people mill in the street and swarm over the dividing islands. Amazingly, there are no traffic jams, honking horns, or incidents of road rage. Here and there someone wanders through the crowd in a Santa suit, others hold candles, and a few sip eggnog decorously. Finally, officials appear on the brightly lit portico of the Brick Church to lead the singing of the favorite carols you remember from grammar school. It’s all easy camaraderie and good cheer, until the closing moments. A bugler steps forward on the portico, and a hush falls over the crowd. As the mournful notes of “Taps” float out into the cold night, small children stop chasing one another and dogs prick up their ears. The adults feel a chill down their backs. The last note dies, and the minister utters a short inclusive prayer about hope and peace and light. Then, one after another, like a wave rushing down the broad avenue as far as the eye can see, the trees on the islands flare in the night. The first Park Avenue tree lighting ceremony was held in 1944 to honor the men and women who had died during World War II. This year the minister spoke of those who had fallen in Iraq and Afghanistan. There have been many, too many, between. Certainly, the trappings of the ritual are Christian, but the impetus behind it and the emotions evoked by it transcend denominational differences and go to the essence of suffering, hope, and the human condition. I wish I could invite all the litigious local citizens, and cantankerous right-wing pundits, and tireless shopping junkies to join the celebration next year, but I fear they would not only crowd the area but spoil the homey uncommercial ambiance and turn a peaceful coming together into one more noisy take-no-prisoners holiday battlefield.
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