Why is it that at Christmas, whoever wears nothing new is worthless?

When December 25th arrives and we dress up for Christmas dinner, there's a custom many of us take for granted: wearing something new, be it a dress, a shirt, or, in the most minimalist gesture possible, a pair of underwear or socks. Catalan sayings as eloquent as "At Christmas, whoever wears nothing new is worthless" or "Whoever doesn't wear something new at Christmas is worthless" remind us of this. If we consider the current experience of the holidays, marked by rampant consumerism that has often erased any trace of religious meaning, it's easy to interpret this practice as just another expression of Christmas consumerism. However, the fact that these sayings from Catalan oral tradition were documented in writing as early as the 19th century suggests a very different reality: that of a much older social norm, probably rooted in the Ancien Régime or, at the very least, in a pre-industrial domestic economy.

The idea of wearing new clothes has long been associated with various festivities and significant moments of the year, with a clear intention of symbolic renewal. Changing clothes thus materializes the transition to a new phase of the annual cycle. In this sense, the Christian celebration of Christmas is situated within a context that already included winter solstice celebrations, such as the Saturnalia of Ancient Rome, dedicated to Saturn, one of the principal gods of the Roman pantheon, and linked to the end of a cycle and the rebirth of the year. With the spread of Christianity, the celebration of Jesus' birth was fixed at a time of year close to these festivities, facilitating a less abrupt cultural transition. Within the framework of the Saturnalia, banquets, the exchange of gifts, and the wearing of exceptional clothing were all part of the extraordinary nature of the celebration.

If we examine centuries of painting history, we find a generous display of kings and nobles adorned in their finest attire. This was clearly due to a courtly dynamic based on social advancement through ostentation. However, for most of the population, opportunities to wear exceptional clothing were far rarer and closely tied to religion. The finest garments served to separate ordinary life from the sacred and, at the same time, to discipline bodies according to the moral norms of Christianity and the social order it legitimized.

Dressing up for Sunday didn't necessarily mean wearing luxurious clothes, but rather the best clothes available at home. This practice, known in Victorian England as Sunday bestIt stemmed from the idea that attending Sunday mass required presenting oneself in a decent state. Sunday clothes thus became a stable category within domestic attire, reserved for sacred time and clearly differentiated from everyday clothing.

It's also worth remembering that these celebrations had a profoundly communal dimension. Sunday was the great social showcase for communities, and the church functioned as the quintessential public space. Sunday attire revealed who had prospered, who had fallen into poverty, and who maintained moral and familial order. When significant holidays like Christmas or Easter arrived, this logic intensified: if Sunday already demanded one's best clothes, a more solemn occasion could justify wearing something new.

It wasn't until the second half of the 20th century that Christian liturgy ceased to have a decisive influence on dress codes. From then on, the act of changing clothes and wearing new ones became increasingly governed by leisure, fashion, and individual choices. But it's clear that if, this December 25th, your aunt shows up in sequins, your brother-in-law wears his best cashmere sweater, and the cleaning lady wears patent leather shoes, we'll know that, beyond mere appearances, it all has deep roots that reach back centuries.