Would You Kiss A Skeptic Under Your Mistletoe?

Sometimes being a scientist is like a curse.

As a scientist, I’m ever skeptical, filled with doubt even about the most seemingly mundane observations and events in my world.  Who, what, where, when, how, and why are some of my favorite words.  Contrary phrases (for example, “Curiosity killed the cat” and “ignorance is bliss”) give me the creeps for their inherent presumptions and their not-so-subtle condemnation of the intellectual enterprise.  I question everything.  For instance, why do merchants place green witches, plump smiling turkeys (how evil is that caricature!), and corpulent Santas together on their shelves in mid-October?  I find this type of marketing grotesquely ambiguous and self-serving.  I often hear shoppers complain.  Why then do merchants insist on this dubious blending of festivals?  Doubt follows me like a shadow de rigueur day and night.

The profuse symbology of the December holidays is no exception for my blunt skepticism.  As a forest ecologist, I’m especially intrigued by the bountiful plant representation of the season.  For instance, why do we bring evergreens into our homes?  And why do people kiss under a sprig of mistletoe?  What’s a yule log?  To be sure, I also wonder about Santa Claus as an overweight toy-lover in a red suit; and I wonder how reindeer got inserted into the holiday season; and I wonder about those spooky snowmen (coal eyes, carrot nose, stick arms) that look like something out of a “Stephen King” horror flick.  I wonder, too, about the actual birth of Jesus (the Christ in Christmas).  For this column, however, I’d like to concentrate on the profusion of plants during our holiday celebrations.  Can we tease away the recent accretions of cultural and spiritual tradition to locate the core message in the season’s celebrations?

Let me focus on mistletoe as emblematic of my skepticism.

Mistletoes have long fascinated us.  Most folks don’t know that mistletoes are plant parasites, numbering 1400 species, that grow in a broad band of habitats throughout the world, especially in the tropics.  That species common in the Potomac drainage and elsewhere in Virginia is Phoradendron flavescens, a yellowish-green woody parasite on the trunks and branches of maples, locusts, walnuts, and other deciduous trees; its scientific name literally translates, “yellowish tree thief.”  Producing ample nectar and numerous fruit, the world’s mistletoes provide an important food source for birds, mammals, and even invertebrates.  The etymology of the word, mistletoe, reflects the plants’ unseen natural history.  “Mistel” is an Anglo-Saxon word for “dung,” and “tan,” the word for “twig.”  Thus, the word may be translated literally as “dung-on-a-twig,” referring to mistletoe’s seeming sudden appearance after its seeds are deposited in bird droppings on tree branches.  So much for spontaneous generation.

Lacking roots, remaining green year-round, and bearing fruit during cold winters, these plants were revered by ancient Druids who used the plant during their sacrificial rituals.  The ultimate goal for Virgil’s Aeneus was finding the “golden bough,” a euphemism for mistletoes as they age and die.  The burning bush in the Book of Exodus may have been a mistletoe species common on acacias in the Middle East, the fiery red and yellow flowers appearing during the summer when the shrubby parasite sheds its leaves.  Medieval herbalists also recognized their roles as medicinal herbs.  Even modern pharmaceutical companies are studying the plants’ compounds for cancer curatives.  Let me offer a warning here: do not eat any part of the plant; depending on concentration, its toxic leaves and berries can cause gastrointestinal distress and cardiovascular failure.

Other traditions are also wrapped up intimately with mistletoe.  Early Nordic cultures imbued the plant with magical qualities when their god Baldur was killed by another god (fighting over a woman, of course) with an arrow made from mistletoe wood; kissing under a sprig of mistletoe then became symbolic of resuscitation, a celebration of Baldur’s eventual resurrection.  Next we come to the Romans.  Of course, the Romans: are they ever associated with debauchery?  Annually, they celebrated a week-long festival of lawlessness, called the Saturnalia, from 17-25 December.  In addition to human sacrifice during the festival, ancient Roman communities embraced widespread intoxication, sexual license, and the consumption of vulgar-shaped biscuits.  Given that at least some species of mistletoe possess abortifacient qualities, the parasite was long associated by them with uninhibited sexuality.  Finally, we come to Christianity that tried with mixed success to refine or eradicate the practices of Saturnalia, including the assignment of Christ’s birth on 25 December to usurp these bawdy practices.  Even poor ole’ priggish Tertullian, a 3rd century church apologist, warned his fellow Christians against such vile Saturnalian practices as using laurel wreaths, trees, and other evergreen clippings as Christmas decorations.  Kissing under the mistletoe then seems a lingering synthesis of a Druidic cult of sacrifice, the Nordic celebration of death and resurrection, and Roman licentiousness during one of its major holidays.  What a cross cultural mélange for such a little plant!

Similarly, I could demythologize our beloved Christmas trees, wreaths, yule logs, and holly-and-ivy decorations.  They all have dark sides for such a season of light!  But I think the core message for all these evergreens is a hopeful one: we bring the outdoors indoors to remind us during the winter solstice that rebirth, renewal, and the re-greening of a bleak world are just in front of us.

So, if you catch me standing under your sprig of mistletoe, don’t assume that I’m lingering wistfully to catch a kiss.  As a self-proclaimed skeptic, I’m there naturally to examine a remarkable botanical species caught up in ancient cross-cultural ties.  I’m not there for the kiss.  No, really.