It's Christmas evening and my favorite crooner, Johnny Mathis, is singing about chestnuts roasting on an... well, you know. Tiny lights shine through the branches of our tree, and warm cookies in star and angel shapes beckon from the kitchen counter. In a culture that is short on tradition and ritual, Christmas offers an abundance of both.

In another nod to ritual, every few years I go to church on Christmas. I do this partially because I have a persistent hope of finding a community that feels like a spiritual home in the sprawling city in which I live. But also, on some level, I'm seeking to recreate the excitement I experienced in childhood. I was raised in a church-going family, and although we five children were shepherded to church every Sunday, there was something breathless and special about Christmas.

It wasn't necessarily so different from the magic waiting at home by the decorated tree. I was more interested in Santa, a mystical visitor who appeared out of the sky, bringing a pile of presents to warm my little girl heart. The adults in church looked to Jesus for another kind of magic, one that would warm their adult hearts. The birth they celebrated was experienced as a gift.

Not so much has changed since then, except that the world seems to need some kind of magic more than ever. I found a little of it in that church this morning — in the singing of familiar carols, the warmth of the priest's welcome, and the burble and squawk of the children who, unlike at other churches where they are isolated so as not to disturb the congregation, were actually invited to the altar to participate in what is considered the holiest part of the ceremony.

With our world in such turmoil, it's tempting for some of us to be cynical. Others continue to look for a savior. Maybe the true magic is in saving ourselves.