Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” Every time Matthew 6:19–24 is read in church, my husband and I grit our teeth and poke each other. For we are, it must be confessed, incurably, desperately devoted to our cashmere sweaters. It would be embarrassing to recount how deeply we fear the moth, how carefully we store our sweaters in special bags, redolent with lavender and cedar.
One in particular holds a special place in both our hearts: a thick, black turtleneck purchased by my husband from Paul Stuart on Madison and 45th more than twenty years ago. This sweater signified fame, wealth, and a dazzling world of glamor. Most of those hopes never materialized, but the sweater itself is still here. We would never willingly part with it.
Indeed, cashmere aside, we are much too fond of all our earthly treasures. Every Christmas, our family makes worthy resolutions about fewer presents. And yet, the beautiful Christmas tree always ends up presiding over a large stash of new and wonderful stuff. Wretched excess is surely wicked, but should we not also want to please, to bring joy, to light up the recipient’s face? It’s nice to talk about laying up treasure in heaven, but when the baby Jesus is born, the Wise Men show up with gifts. Earthly gifts.
We are, after all, embodied creatures, and it is only meet and right that we should give each other presents. If they are good presents, carefully chosen, they will be imbued with meaning for both giver and gifted. The object will be enjoyed, taken care of, and perhaps remembered in future times with pleasure. It might even, as with Proust’s madeleine, unlock an entire world of memories.
I am especially reminded of the power of objects—that is to say, stuff—when, each year, I bring out and unwrap the Christmas tree ornaments. Every one of them evokes a specific memory and feeling. There are delicate, water-filled, clear glass bulbs purchased by my parents sixty-five years ago, and simple Norwegian straw stars. My mother was a Christmas tree purist, and preferred minimal color, only glass and straw.
With my own family, we tended toward brilliant colors and riotous excess. Animals of every sort are well represented—from snails to pigs and giraffes, and, most notably, a Norwich terrier bought in memory of our beloved Nelson. Moby Dick, Jane Austen, Henry VIII, and of course Lord Nelson are also in attendance. There are ornaments from churches we belonged to, and museums we visited, glass angels from Germany and shoes from the Metropolitan Museum. Some are prominently positioned every year, while the less favored are hidden or obscured.
Now that my parents are no longer with us, all the ornaments have joined together on one glorious, bedizened tree. But there are two that will always exert the strongest hold in my memory.
When I was seven, my father had a sabbatical leave at the University of Heidelberg. One weekend, we drove to the nearby town of Schwetzingen, both to visit the famed palace and to explore their popular white asparagus festival. As we left the palace, I saw, in the small gift shop, the most exquisite ornament I could ever have imagined. Part peacock, part duck, deep purple and turquoise with brilliant embroidery, I longed for it with all my seven-year-old heart. I do not recall ever having wanted any object more.
Alas, it was, my parents told me, much too expensive, and we departed without the bird. Although I was eventually resigned to its loss, I never forgot about it, and next Christmas, wrapped under the tree, was a rough facsimile. My mother had stitched together bits of felt and created her own sort of colorful creature. I knew I should be grateful, and tried to love the bird, but it was not the one in my heart.
For years, when it came time to decorate, I dutifully placed my mother’s bird in the tree, but thought about the original. Then, long after I had given up hope, one Christmas, under the tree, was the bird itself. It was almost miraculous—magic and memory rolled up together in one perfect, fairytale gift.
In The Witness, Borges writes:
In time there was a day that extinguished the last eyes to see Christ; the battle of Junin and the love of Helen died with the death of a man. What will die with me when I die, what pathetic or fragile form will the world lose? The voice of Macedonio Fernandez, the image of a red horse in the vacant lot at Serrano and Charcas, a bar of sulphur in the drawer of a mahogany desk?
What will die with me when I die? Two birds on a Christmas tree?
We are physical beings surrounded by physical objects. Nothing is without meaning. I write sitting at my great aunt’s Minnesota farm table. It is a part of me. Actors require props to make reality on stage. Laurence Olivier prepared for a role by first determining what sort of nose his character had.
Moths may eat the vestments, and rust decay the chalices, but that does not mean they have no value. The church is here, on earth, not in heaven. We live in the meantime, and we, like actors in a play, need props, and embodied ritual—the more beautiful, the better. “Spirituality” unanchored by the physical is deeply deceptive and false. No private meditation can take the place of eating, drinking, singing, and kneeling together.
We can only see through a glass darkly. I do not really know how to lay up treasure in heaven, but I must believe that earthly treasures, too, are important. For now, I will wear my cashmere, decorate the tree, buy too many presents, and sing too loudly. God will have to sort it out.
Kari Jenson Gold’s most recent piece for First Things was “Faith of My Fathers.”
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