A Post-Modern Christmas

by Stephen Masty

 

T’was the day after Christmas: a knock at my door

Came loudly and suddenly. I, from mid-snore,

Threw open the portal and found with chagrin

A white-bearded fatso all reeking of gin.

“I gave at the office,” I snapped with a frown

While I gave that old wino the quick up-and-down:

He’d presumably gargled his gin, and some beers,

On a bender begun on the night-shift at Sears.

“Good man, don’t you know me?” the poor fellow cried,

“It’s Yuletide and I should be welcome inside!

“Pray, pour me a toddy, an eggnog and more,

“For I’m Father Christmas!” he cried with a roar.

 

“Then where were you yesterday, buddy?” I sneered,

While the stumble-bum mumbled and pawed at his beard:

“Our stockings hang empty, no fire in the grate,

“And no presents - my ex took the kids out of state;

 “They were sobbing that Santa had stiffed them and so,

“The broad took my Buick and off did they go.

“So, if you’re Father Christmas and telling me true,

“Then, Bozo, you’ve got some explaining to do!”

The man staggered past me and slumped in my chair,

And gave me a miserable, woebegone stare

So tragic I poured him a bourbon-and-Coke:

His mittens stopped trembling as finally he spoke,

And I shall remember for many a day

How Saint Nicholas shuddered and said, “TSA.”

 

For up at the Pole he had loaded his sleigh

As the elves and his Missus cried ‘Up and away!’

While Dasher and Dancer pulled hard as you please,

Some guys dressed in black pulled out guns and cried “Freeze!”

“They handcuffed my reindeer,” he said with no pause,

“Then they donned rubber gloves and they groped Missus Claus,

“Then they de-pantsed an elf, a young fellow named Ray,

“And what they did to Ray I would rather not say,

“But ever since then he has talked in a squeak

“And I doubt the poor chap can sit down in a week.”

 

“Why?” I demanded. Again I asked, “Why?”

And a tear trickled down from the kindly man’s eye.

He said, “In a manner both callous and crude

“They wanted to photograph us in the nude!

“But they left their machine somewhere else, and then so had

“To manually squeeze every soft bit and gonad

“While probing those parts that my reindeer keep private,

“’Til Donner and Blitzen were ready to riot,

“’Til Comet was ready to vomit and Cupid

“Was roaring to gore them and, equally stupid,

“Dear Rudolph began to short-circuit his beezer

“To send umpteen amps up one uniformed geezer.”

 

“They stared at my beard and the cap on my head:

“Asked the cops, ‘are you Mozzlem?’” Saint Nicholas said:

“These gifts are for children,” I begged with a smile,

“Then they called me a pervert, a rank paedophile.

“They unloaded the presents straight off of my sleigh

“Then they handcuffed and hooded me, took me away.

“Just where are we going, I wanted to know,

“Afraid that it might have been Guantanamo:

“I got dumped in a Washington dumpster, you see,

“Having only this gin, which I got duty-free.”

 

So I made instant coffee and gave him a cup

And after a while Old Saint Nick sobered up;

Then I logged onto Skype and the sorry old gnome

Soon spoke to his wife at their cold arctic home:

“Of course I’m not flying back,” Santa Claus said,

“I’m walking! Have you got a hole in your head?
“American airspace is something to fear,

“So American kids get no presents next year,
“But if TSA calls you, then say I’m upset:

“Merry Christmas to most, but not them and not yet!’”

 

S. Masty lives in London and Afghanistan.

Quote of the Day: Christmas Night

[Christmas] night bestowed peace on the whole world; so, let no one threaten; this is the night of the Most Gentle One, let no one be cruel; this is the night of the most Humble One, let no one be proud.... Today the Bountiful impoverished Himself for our sake; so, the rich one, invite the poor to your table. Today we received a gift, for which we did not ask; so let us give alms to those who implore us and beg. This present day cast open the heavenly door to our prayers: let us open our doors to those who ask our forgiveness. Now the Divine Being took upon Himself the seal of humanity, in order for humanity to be decorated by the seal of Divinity. -St. Isaac the Syrian

The Gift by Ray Bradbury

by Ray Bradbury

Tomorrow would be Christmas, and even while the three of them rode to the rocket port the mother and father were worried. It was the boy's first flight into space, his very first time in a rocket, and they wanted everything to be perfect. So when, at the customs table, they were forced to leave behind his gift, which exceeded the weight limit by no more than a few ounces, and the little tree with the lovely white candles, they felt themselves deprived of the season and their love.

The boy was waiting for them in the terminal room. Walking toward him, after their unsuccessful clash with the Inter-planetary officials, the mother and father whispered to each other.

"What shall we do?"

"Nothing, nothing. What can we do?"

"Silly rules!"

"And he so wanted the tree!"

The siren gave a great howl and people pressed forward into the Mars Rocket. The mother and father walked at the very last, their small pale son between them, silent.

"I'll think of something," said the father.

"What...?" asked the boy.

And the rocket took off and they were flung headlong into dark space.

The rocket moved and left fire behind and left Earth behind on which the date was December 24, 2052, heading out into a place where there was no time at all, no month, no year, no hour. They slept away the rest of the first "day." Near midnight, by their Earth-time New York watches, the boy awoke and said, "I want to go look out the porthole."

There was only one port, a "window" of immensely think glass of some size, up on the next deck.

"Not quite yet," said the father. "I'll take you up later."

"I want to see where we are and where we're going."

"I want you to wait for a reason," said the father.

He had been lying awake, turning this way and that, thinking of the abandoned gift, the problem of the season, the lost tree and the white candles. And at last, sitting up, no more than five minutes ago, he believed he had found a plan. He need only carry it out and the journey would be fine and joyous indeed.

"Son," he said, "in exactly one half-hour it will be Christmas."

"Oh," said the mother, dismayed that he had mentioned it. Somehow she had rather hoped that the boy would forget.

The boy's face grew feverish and his lips trembled. "I know, I know. Will I get a present, will I? Will I have a tree? Will I have a tree? You promised ---"

"Yes, yes, all that, and more." said the father.

The mother started. "But ---"

"I mean it," said the father. "I really mean it. All and more, much more. Excuse me, now. I'll be back."

He left them for about twenty minutes. When he came back, he was smiling. "Almost time."

"Can I hold your watch?" asked the boy, and the watch was handed over and he held it ticking in his fingers as the rest of the hour drifted by in fire and silence and unfelt motion.

"It's Christmas now! Christmas! Where's my present?"

"Here we go," said the father and took his boy by the shoulder and led him from the room, down the hall, up a rampway, his wife following.

"I don't understand," she kept saying.

"You will. Here we are," said the father.

They had stopped at the closed door of a large cabin. The father tapped three times and then twice in a code. The door opened and the light in the cabin went out and there was a whisper of voices.

"Go on in, son," said the father.

"It's dark."

"I'll hold your hand. Come on, Mama."

They stepped into the room and the door shut, and the room was very dark indeed. And before them loomed a great glass eye, the porthole, a window four feet high and six feet wide, from which they could look out into space.

The boy gasped.

Behind him, the father and the mother gasped with him, and then in the dark room some people began to sing.

"Merry Christmas, son," said the father.

And the voices in the room sang the old, the familiar carols, and the boy moved slowly until his face was pressed against the cool glass of the port. And he stood there for a long, long time, just looking and looking out into space and the deep night at the burning and the burning of ten billion, billion white and lovely candles....

A Fine Christmas Tale....The Invention of Lefse

by Robert M. Woods

So it is that time of year when the "seasonal" reader is bombarded with lots of maudlin Christmas tales with the main objective of giving that warm, sappy feeling. It is always refreshing when a rare story comes along that gives a window into another time and place and gives the reader a reason to appreciate the simple gifts of life.

Talented author, Larry Woiwode offers a story revealing the innocent longings of a precious child, the heartbreaking realities of life and the spirit of due diligence. Through out the reader is given numerous morsels of goodness and beauty.

This lovely little book would be perfect Christmas reading to be read aloud for the whole family. It would remind older hearers of harder times, and possibly teach the younger listeners that Christmas is about much more than the longed for technological acquisition.

This essay was originally published on Musings of a Christian Humanist and appears here with Dr. Woods' gracious permission.

"The Gift": Ray Bradbury Short Story is Perfect Seasonal Read

by Robert M. Woods

She simply asked, "so have you ever read Bradbury's The Gift"? Honestly, I had not and worse, I had never even heard if it. It was not long after that question before I made it my goal to find and read this story. This was a few years ago and since that time I have read Bradbury's The Gift around Christmas time repeatedly and I also read Colossians 1:15-19.

He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross.

I encourage you to read both and be moved to gratitude for the gifts that surround us all.

This essay was originally published on Musings of a Christian Humanist and appears here with Dr. Woods' gracious permission.

The Grotesque Iconography of Lady Gaga

by Julie Robison

This Sunday marks the fourth week of Advent; in a week, it will be the feast of the birth of our Lord. My mother has been blasting Christmas music. In between choir boys singing "Silent Night" and Bing Crosby, the radio DJ, told his audience that the number one performer of 2010 is Lady Gaga.

Lady Gaga is more than a manufacturer of pop music and catchy tunes. She came into the music scene two years ago, infecting the senses and causing a strong urge to move it-move it with her first single, "Just Dance"-- closely followed by more hits: "Poker Face," "Paparazzi" and "Telephone" (with Beyonce). She has become, in the most secular use of the term, an icon. Her image is a mosaic: outrageous, loud, provocative, creative and unabashedly out there.

Just to get an idea of how culturally embedded Lady Gaga is, let's use the technology litmus test. Of her 21 uploaded videos on YouTube, the lowest viewed video has over 1 million clicks and her highest is over 319 million (the music video for "Bad Romance"). At present, the LadyGagaVevo channel has 342, 426 subscribers and over a billion total upload views. She has over 7 million followers on Twitter and almost 25 million people "like" her on Facebook.

Now let's compare Lady Gaga's popularity to, say, the Roman Catholic Church, who has over a billion members worldwide. The Vatican has its own channel on YouTube. It has 900 uploaded videos, mostly excerpts of speeches by Pope Benedict XVI, translated by a voice over. The most viewed video has over 105 thousand views; the lowest has a few hundred. The Vatican joined YouTube on November 21, 2005 but only has 26, 392 subscribers. On Twitter and Facebook, its fans and followers are collectively below 12,000.

The Twelve Days of Christmas by Russell Kirk

In city after city, I have seen Christmas parades on Thanksgiving Day!  One might think that we were celebrating the birth of Mammon, rather than that of Jesus, the enemy of money-changers in the Temple.  Though I applaud the pleasant custom of present-giving at Christmas, Christ did not die on the cross to enrich shopkeepers.

The earliest date on which there is justification for commencing the Christmas season, according to the ecclesiastical calendar, is December 16.  More precisely, however, Yuletide extends from Christmas Eve, on December 24, to Twelfth Night (January 6), which honors the Three Wise Men, or the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles.  Churches may retain their Christmas decorations until February 1, or Candlemas  Eve—February 2 being the anniversary of the purification of the Virgin.  So, if pressed, I will permit the department-stores to put Santa Claus in their windows as early as December 16, and even to keep him there until February 1.

But to exhibit him on Thanksgiving?  A thousand times NO!

Don’t mistake me for a spoil-sport:  on the contrary, I should like to revive all the good old customs genuinely associated with the joyous season of Christmas.  In getting and spending at this time, we have forgotten that merry-making has more to it than buying a pile of plastic toys to be smashed by bewildered children on Christmas morning.  But your Christmas tree shouldn’t go up before Christmas Eve, and it shouldn’t come down until Twelfth Night – when it is supposed to be burnt.