The Dragon of Nativity
(The Second Sunday of Advent)
“Now a great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet, and on her head a garland of twelve stars. Then being with child, she cried out in labour and in pain to give birth. And another sign appeared in heaven: behold, a great, fiery red dragon having seven heads and ten horns, and seven diadems on his heads. His tail drew a third of the stars of heaven and threw them to the earth. And the dragon stood before the woman who was ready to give birth, to devour her Child as soon as it was born.” - Revelation 12: 1-5
I think it’s time for The Dragon to make an appearance in our Nativity scenes. I mean, The Dragon is way more Biblical than the innkeeper, the donkey, the ox, and the ass – none of whom are mentioned in The Gospel stories of Christ’s birth.
The Dragon is a lead role in The Book of Revelation’s Nativity scene – and we ignore it at our peril. And yet, of course, The Dragon wants to be ignored – like Smaug, in J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit, left alone to sleep in The Lonely Mountain, covered with the dark comforting glow of all that glitters and gleans.
The Dragon is often a symbol of our unconscious self (all those rather primitive, chaotic and shadowy aspects of our psyche that we have buried, hidden, and repressed, in the darkest, deepest corners of our long forgotten inner caves and caverns) - and so it is no surprise that it stirs, seethes, and breathes its seriously hot and bothered fire and smoke, when we dare to birth the divine light of consciousness within, or as Carl Jung writes:
“Birth is difficult, but a thousand times more difficult is the hellish afterbirth. All the dragons and monstrous serpents of eternal emptiness follow behind the divine son.”
For me, I know this to be true. Times of insight, courage, and endurance are often followed by the ferocious fires of fear, lethargy, and lies (or half-lies):
Who do you think you are! It’s not safe. It’s not right. It’s not you. You can’t do this. You will fall. You will fail. You will make a fool of yourself. You don’t deserve this. You haven’t earnt it. It’s dodgy. It’s dark. It’s not the done thing. You won’t stick at this. What’s the point. Take it easy. Play it safe. Play nice. Keep it comfortable. It’s not worth the risk. What if you get this wrong! What will people think! It is what it is. It’s probably all just fine. Don’t rock the boat. You’re overthinking it. You’re spoiling it for everyone else. Stop being selfish! You’re possessed. You’re not your usual self. You’ve changed! It’s alright for you. Actually, it’s not alright. Do more. Be more. Get more. Fake. Fraud. Failure. Freak.
And so, more often than not, we try and run for our lives, with all the willpower we can muster. But, of course, we can’t outrun our shadows - so we trip, stumble, and fall, and succumb to the stories we know, and call it providence, fate, or spiritual attack. All of which are ways of avoiding, deflecting, and denying The Dragon within – which only fuels its potency, prowess, and providence in our lives.
Tempting as it is to run away – we must dare to turn around, and face the flipside of our Christ Consciousness. And perhaps The Mother in The Book of Revelation’s version of The Nativity story offers a way forward:
“Now when the dragon saw that he had been cast to the earth, he persecuted the woman who gave birth to the male Child. But the woman was given two wings of a great eagle, that she might fly into the wilderness to her place, where she is nourished for a time and times and half a time...”
For me, the ‘great eagle’ symbolises insight. Eagles, after all, are rather good at ‘seeing’ things. And it makes sense, that when it comes to doing battle with the ‘unconscious’ our best weapon is ‘consciousness’. It’s not about doubling-down with some serious discipline, willpower, or moral superiority - it’s about understanding the underlying fuel that fires The Dragon’s fear.
We need to speak to The Dragon. Get close. Understand its story. And like Bilbo Baggins, in The Lonely Mountain, as we get closer, we will discover its wound, which is the way to overcoming its dominance in our lives. For me, when I dare to seek the source of my shadowy dragon’s self-sabotaging stories, instincts, reactions, and behaviours – I gain valuable insights that can soften my inner Smaug - making him a little less volatile, vexed, and vociferous. For example, when I began to explore the history of a rather fearfully-lethargic and detached manner towards certain relationships I discovered all sorts of past wounds that weaved their way into the main meaning of my life’s mythology. And when I see that the message of this story makes perfect sense, especially when viewed from the perspective of that child, teenager, or young adult, I can begin to investigate whether the moral of the story is as relevant, helpful, and wise for the new chapters that desperately want to be written.
But how should one approach such a sensitive and surly beast?
Perhaps we should adopt Bilbo’s artful approach to talking with dragons:
“This of course is the way to talk to dragons, if you don’t want to reveal your proper name (which is wise), and don’t want to infuriate them by a flat refusal (which is also very wise). No dragon can resist the fascination of riddling talk and of wasting time trying to understand it.”
It sounds very wise to me. Keeps them cool and curious, rather than fiery and flamey. Play the fool. Play for time. Play around with parables, symbols, and paradoxes. Don’t be so serious: far less threatening, triggering, and exacerbating than the literal, legalistic, and no-laughs-out-loud, language of prescription, description, and litigation.
In my experience, the more I have tried to assert my will on my inner dragon, the greater I have aggravated, inflamed, and activated their destructive fires of fear, defensiveness, and woundedness. Indeed, the more zealously-preachy I am, taunting my dragon with worthy, wise, and wonderful resolutions, the more intense, intolerant, and insidious The Dragon’s revenge and fury will be. Perhaps that is why Christ, like Bilbo, encourages a more tricksy, stealthy, and cunning approach:
“But when you do a charitable deed, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.”
In my experience, if I tell my rather fearful and lethargic dragon all my plans for greater growth and meaning (that will no doubt threaten his core desire to hunker-down and hoard stuff) he gets, understandably, highly panicked and prickly. Indeed, more often than not, he gaslights the hell out of me with his fire balls of fear and doubt. For example, if I boldly declare to myself that I intend to meditate every day for the next year, I will soon be reminded of the enormity of the mountain I have set before me, and with it, all the evidence, logic, and logistical concerns as to why such a worthy mission is flawed and ill-fated. I will soon be faced with 365 days of toil, effort, and work! Not much fun. The goal will soon defeat me.
And Christ says: “…do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.”
What if I don’t say to myself, I am going to do this every day for a year, or whatever – and just do it today, and say to The Dragon (my lethargic, fearful, greedy, hateful, ignorant, paranoid, mistrusting, shame-ridden little self): I imagine I won’t feel like it tomorrow – can't be bothered with all that faff and folly – but who knows, we shall have to see! I might well die in my sleep, anyway! Let’s see what happens. But I may as well do it now, since we’re talking about it. I’m boring myself. Let’s get it out the system.
And then tomorrow comes: well, maybe just today I will have a little meditation – it won't do me too much harm. Fingers crossed. Probably a waste of time anyway - a load of old woo-woo. But hey ho, I’ll no doubt leave it on the pile of all the other silly stuff I have dabbled with over the years. It’s probably all meaningless. No real point. And so on and so forth. Each day a playful dialogue with an old friend or relative you’ve learnt to humour, cajole, and coax with riddles, games, and silliness. And, without realising it – a week may pass, or a month, or a whole year – and The Dragon is none the wiser! But who cares! We are.
‘Be as wise as serpents’, says Christ.
Like Bilbo, there is a time for some sneaky, sly, and slithery sorts of chitter chatter. And what better time is there, than when conversing with our spikey, scaly, and horny mythical beasts within!
So, perhaps, if you are making Nativity scenes, cards, or plays this year, consider casting The Dragon as a main part. And instead of waving swords, spears, and scripture in its frightened face - throw the old beast a joke, a riddle, or a cheeky little trick tucked away in the tissue paper of a cheap Christmas cracker. It’s worth a try. And try we must. For The Dragon is a large, dark, part of our divine plotline. As my dragon-analyser Carl Jung writes:
“Only one who has risked the fight with the dragon and is not overcome by it wins the "treasure hard to attain." They alone have a genuine claim to self-confidence, for they have faced the dark ground of their self and thereby have gained themselves. This experience gives them faith and trust.”
The Good News is, it seems we don’t have to slay the dragon to win the treasure within – only not be overcome by its fears, lethargy, and lies.
So, instead of trying to beat our unconscious self over the head with more sedatives, pseudo-science, seven-year plans, systems, certificates, statements, and strong-arm soundbites – let’s be playfully curious, conversational, and child-like in our fireside games of charades:
Film
Six words
First Word
One syllable
Beings with ‘F’
Sounds like
Ear
Fear
“Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”
[My Dragon is rich in 90’s references.
And for that I am most grateful.]
‘Love your enemies’
Amen
