Peace on Earth

Is there a war on Christmas?  For several years, I have been adamant in answering this question with a big “NO!” After all, as an educated, southern liberal married to a Jewish woman, I would certainly have inside information if there was a war on Christmas. Weren’t the conservative Christians accusing the liberal elite of stopping them from saying Merry Christmas?  I am inclined to identify myself with the very people that the poor Christmas-loving victims have accused of attempting to rob them of their Holly-Jollys. If there were such a plot, I would know. I’m on the inside. I would have been brought into the fold on this conspiracy. But alas, no one ever asked me to attend a secret meeting in which we plot to overthrow Santa Claus. However, I have concluded that the war on Christmas is real. Only it’s not the politically-correct liberal elite that have conspired to rob us of real Christmas joy.

In the eyes of the conservative Christian, the biggest piece of evidence presented that battle against all things snowy-and-white is real, is the inclination of some people to be inclusive in their Holiday greeting. According to the Christmas-defenders, saying Happy Holidays is a clear attack on the Christian Christmas. They say that Happy Holidays is politically-correct. You can almost hear them spitting the words “politically-correct” off their tongues, disgusted how those words taste as they say them. After all, they would argue, this is a Christian country and they have the right to not have to worry about offending people. I often wonder why it is that Christians seem so hell-bent on their right to offend people. As one defender of Christmas said, “I’m gonna say Merry Christmas whether you damn well like it or not. Have a f@*%king Merry Christmas.” Take that. 

But if the liberal elite are not waging the War on Jingle Bells and HoHoHos, then who is? In my estimation, the war on Christmas is much older than the political correctness movement. In fact, the real war on Christmas is plotted in secret meetings behind closed doors all over this country. The people responsible are all around us. They work with us, they teach in our schools, and live in our neighborhoods. And get ready for this…..they even go to our churches! Gasp! What??  Churchgoing folk might really be anti-Christmas plotters. Presbyterians, Baptists, Lutherans, and Catholics are diligently working to take the Merry out of Christmas?  From my perspective, it looks more like they are trying to take the Holy out of Christmas. And by “they,” I mean us. All of us. All of us Christians.

Yes, I am Christian. Baptist, to be specific.  But, I don’t believe in flying my religious flag so that everyone can see just how damn proud I am to be Christian. Pride in being Christian is counter to being Christian. To have pride in your righteousness is to lose your righteousness. And isn’t the desire to shout Merry Christmas from the mountaintops just that? I’m not talking about genuinely wishing someone a Merry Christmas.  No one wants to take that right from anyone. Please, by all means, say Merry Christmas to those you love, to the hungry, to the homeless, to the refugee. But say it because you mean it. Do not rant about your right to say Merry F’ ing Christmas to whoever you want. That, my friend, is just an exercise in smugness and pomposity.

Now, back to the real war on Christmas. We recently watched my younger daughter’s performance in her school Christmas program. They did a reader’s theatre version of “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” She played Lucy. As you know, Lucy was obsessed with “Nickels, Dollars, cold hard cash!” Admittedly, this was the most convincing line my daughter delivered during her performance. She could relate.  And I believe that we have all been conditioned to relate to Lucy’s perspective on the value of Christmas. We are pummeled with the capitalist idea of Christmas constantly. Most of our economy is dependent upon the Christmas spirit filling us with fervor to rush out to stores, go online, and descend upon malls to shop, shop, shop.  We must have the latest gadgets. We must out-decorate our neighbors. So, we buy blow-up santas, snowmen, and even manger scenes. We shine spotlights on our decorations and feel happy. “See!”, we shout with our flashing snowflake lights, “I am the biggest celebrator of Christmas on my entire street.” Christmas tradition has become a Christmas competition. Or vis-versa.

So, our fellow churchgoers are secretly meeting behind closed doors and plotting against Christmas. They do it in special rooms, seated around fancy tables in cushy chairs. They plot their war on large screens using Power Point presentations. Power Point is the most devious of tools at their disposal. They use it to make graphs, and charts, and even funny memes to convince those at the highest levels of corporations across this country that Christmas is fundamentally commercial in nature. 

Cold, hard cash is the real enemy of Christmas. To paraphrase Reverend William Barber, we celebrate Christmas in the “spirit of Caesar, not the spirit of God.”  And then we ourselves become the real soldiers in the battle to destroy Christmas. We buy into the whole thing. We become more concerned with the giving and getting than we do with the birth of a savior.

The war on Christmas is an American war. It has USA written all over it. In fact, the very idea that saying Happy Holidays is somehow bad would only happen in America. We are a nation of egotists. It’s all about us. In “A Charlie Brown Christmas”, it’s Linus who reminds us of the true meaning of Christmas. And he does it in the simplest way, he just recites the story of what happened in the City of David. Holding his blanket, with the house lights turned down, he says that on this day a Savior was born. It is the quietness of that moment that stands out from all the commercial cacophony. There is a stillness that happens during the Linus scene that is deeply moving. I believe it is in that stillness that we can save Christmas from the real war it faces.

Every year the drumbeat leads us to the inevitably, increasing volume of Black Friday. Black Friday, becomes Cyber Monday, and the world loses itself in a mindless rush to make each Christmas bigger and better than ever before. The growing sounds of 24-hour Christmas stations, decorating parties, and jingling santas sounds like a symphony headed for a crescendo without their conductor. The noise reaches an unbearable point, nearly shattering the glass that protects the real Christmas.  But then, it happens.

Every year. Without fail.

The whole country stops and takes a breath. You can feel it. It’s that quiet stillness that only comes when the house lights are turned down. The moment that a simple story of weary refugees giving birth to a savior, using a manger as a makeshift bed, brings a holy hush over our lives. In that quiet moment, we sit with loved ones, notice the beauty of the stillness, and rediscover the true meaning of Christmas. Love.  It’s the greatest weapon in our arsenal. We can win the war on Christmas. 

Joy to the world. 

Love, Life, and Hurricanes

On September 2, 1999, a tropical wave exited the coast of Africa. Far away to the Northwest a young man and his wife were visiting a Doctor that specialized in high risk pregnancies. The mother-to-be was a petite woman and had stayed petite throughout the thirty-six weeks of carrying a developing child in her womb. This concerned the Doctors. Tummies are supposed to grow big when you are this far along on the course to reach the 40 weeks of a full-term pregnancy. The Doctors had suggested a milkshake each night. The father-to-be greatly enjoyed this suggestion, and eagerly joined his wife in this nightly ritual as an act of solidarity. His tummy grew, but the woman’s belly barely changed. The soon-to-be first time parents were a little nervous, but somehow knew everything would be OK. They supported each other and were deeply in love.

Meanwhile, the tropical wave made its way across the Atlantic Ocean. Two other strong forces of nature were plotting a devious plan as they awaited the warm tropical wave’s arrival.  The other forces, known as anti-cyclone and deep convection, had been battling as the tropical wave approached. The tropical wave had just wanted to peacefully glide across the ocean spreading warmth and peace in its path. But anti-cyclone and deep convection saw an opportunity to wreak havoc by combining their strength with the fast traveling wave of warm air. They could ride this wave eastward to warmer waters which would help them gain strength. Elements of nature longed to be named, and the only way to earn it is to gain strength. On September 7, they earned a name. The combined forces were called Floyd the Tropical Depression. But as with many forms of energy that live and swirl about on this planet, they were not satisfied by this achievement of gaining a name. They wanted more power. They moved further eastward soaking up more and more strength from the warmer waters that they had made their way to.

The child-expecting-couple also had names.  They also had plotted to create a new and powerful force that would bear a name itself. They had not yet heard about the approach of Floyd who had been raised to the category of tropical storm based on the speed of her winds. The couple had already chosen a name for the life force that their love would give birth to. It was a name that was empowered with a meaning that can only result in the development of a strong individual full of love and wisdom. In the language of the Hebrews, the name translated as G-d answered. The name itself implied that the parents had asked G-d himself to intervene in their lives and help them bring a new life into this world. The name expressed a confidence that G-d would honor their profound request. While Floyd was being upgraded to the status of hurricane, the baby had been hiccupping away for thirty –seven weeks in her mother’s tummy. The hiccups were reassuring to the young couple. It was as if the tiny life knew that they needed to know that she was OK and sent out little fluttery signals to help them remain calm. The Doctors had said that it was important that the mother not have the baby until week 38, when her lungs would be fully developed.

The beautiful mother’s tummy had still not grown as much as the Doctors had wanted. The baby hiccupped and said, “I’m fine.” She was cozy and snug in her Mommy’s small tummy. But this did not stop the Doctors’ nervous glances at each other. As week 38 approached, the baby’s wise grandfather had been watching the atmospheric conditions. He knew that pressure systems could influence peoples’ lives in unexpected ways. He had lived a long time and had witnessed many hurricanes. The expecting couple had also felt the effects of Hurricane Hugo which had passed directly through the Queen City where they lived, deeper into the mainland than most hurricanes traveled. There had been power failures, trees had fallen, houses had been destroyed, and roads had been blocked. The Grandpa-to-be became worried and warned every one of the approaching storm. It was on a similar path to Hugo and all members of the family began to get nervous. What if Hurricane Floyd came to the Queen City? What if the drop in atmospheric pressure caused the labor cycle to begin before week 38 arrived? And what if the roads were blocked and the hospital couldn’t be reached.

On the day that week 38 arrived, Floyd was hesitating just off the coast of South Carolina as if she could not decide where to make landfall. The expectant parents went to the Doctor for a regular weekly check-up. They were happy that the baby was still just fine and sending out sonic signals via hiccup. But the Doctor was worried about the approaching storm. She had also survived the wrath of Hugo. After the check-up, she said that she did not want to risk the arrival of the storm and with it the chance that we might not be able to get to the hospital. She announced with a big smile, “Go home and pack your bags and check-in at the hospital. You are going to have a baby today!” The expectant parents were very excited and the Doctors cautioned that the new baby would barely be bigger than a peanut, but that she would be fine since they had made it to the 38-week mark.

They went to the hospital. The labor inducement methods took much longer to work than expected. Hurricane Floyd finally made up her mind and moved further east before making landfall. It was a very large storm though and its effect on air pressure and wind were felt in the Queen City, but most of its havoc was wreaked upon the cities, barrier islands, and capes far to the east. 

The baby named “G-d Answered” was born on September 15 just as the storm moved back out to sea never to return. The cold waters of the Northern Atlantic Ocean snuffed out the hurricane by starving it of warmth, much like lack of oxygen lack of oxygen starves a flame. But G-d had answered and brought warmth and light into the new parents lives in the form of a little-larger-than-peanut-sized baby. All the forces of nature had aligned in the perfect storm that gave them the most precious gift. A daughter.

What makes a baby grow to be the individual they will become? This child grew to be a kind, compassionate, smart, loving, loyal, and beautiful young woman. She took on the best qualities of each parent and was destined for greatness. It is widely known that by age seventeen she had already accomplished greatness. She became a passionate reader, artist, and scholar. She was a loyal friend. And she was loving of and loved by her younger sister. Did the hurricane winds stir the air and dust in such a way to help create a such an extraordinary person? Her father thinks it did. But her mother and father know deep in their hearts that their love for each other played a role as well. But most of the credit for this child’s accomplishments belong to her own strength and conviction.

The moral of this story is that if you want to have a daughter as wonderful as the cosmos itself, make use of the forces of nature and make a request of the creator of all things. Time the delivery of the baby during hurricane season. Drink milkshakes. Create life from a place of deep love. But just remember, there will only ever be only one child like this one. She was born to be special and the conditions that created her were unique, maybe even mystic. She is one of a kind and always will be. And the world will be forever a better place to live because she has walked upon it.

Blue Cars and Red Cars- A First Car Story

I started my first job with one goal in mind. Save enough money to buy a car when I turned sixteen. I was twelve at the time. I worked at a campground/marina on a large lake in North Carolina. I cleaned bathhouses, drove the garbage truck, mowed grass and slung weeds. For three summers, I spent all day Saturday and Sunday manning the gas dock. I started out at $1.85/hour and worked my way up to $2.85/hour. Several weeks before my sixteenth birthday I started shopping for a car. It was 1981 and I had saved $2,250. I would check out the classifieds every Sunday to find a cool car that I could buy with my savings. Every car that I liked was a little out of my price range. At the rate I made per hour, it would take months to have enough money to get the car I wanted.

 I watched as my friends showed up at school in Barracudas, Mustangs, Camaros, and Trans Ams.  Their parents were footing the bill. My Dad had promised that if I saved enough to buy a car, he would cover the insurance.  Just as I was losing hope, I found a car that was close to my price point. It was a “68 Mustang. Custom painted a deep red with lots of clear coats to make it look even redder. It had glass pack mufflers that made a beautiful rumbling sound as it idled. The price tag was $2500.  I talked to my parents. Dad arranged for my mother to pick up the car and bring it home so he and I could test it out and have his mechanic check it out.  I was excited! Mom reported that as she drove it to our house someone had challenged her to a drag race!

I fell in love with that car. Dad’s mechanic did not. He rattled off a whole bunch of work it would need and I’m sure that sealed Dad’s opinion. The seller was firm in his price of $2500. I asked my father to loan me $250 so that I could buy the ’68 “sure to be classic” car.  Dad asked, “Why would you pay all that money for an old car that needs a ton of work?” He pointed out that our neighbors had a nice car that was only three years old and they were selling it for $2,250. I could buy it and not have to borrow any money. Besides, it was newer and would not need all that work. So, I bought the neighbor’s car. If you know anything about cars, you will know what happened next when I tell you that my very first car that I spent my entire life savings on was an Audi Fox.

On my sixteenth birthday, I passed the driving test. License in hand, I drove my new European car to the rural high school I attended. My friends thought it was the funniest car they had ever seen. “What is that?” they chuckled. And, “Oooooh…it says BLUE FOX on it!” Ugh. We had not had the mechanic check it out because it was newer and we trusted the neighbors. When it started misfiring, I took it to the shop. The mechanic came up with a full-page list of work the Audi needed. Number one on the list was a broken strut. I did not know what a strut was, but apparently, this car was equipped with very expensive, but fragile McPherson struts. I don’t remember all the details, but the estimate was close to $1,000.  I think Dad coughed up money for the repair bill out of a guilty conscience.

I hung on to the Fox through high school. I found that if I shifted quickly into second gear I could make the tires bark. That had my friends rolling. My friends also loved to see me pull up to the Handy-Pantry to buy a quart of oil every other day. When I would unscrew the oil cap, a billow of smoke would rise out like I had rubbed a genie lamp. No wishes granted. But it did give my friends a new line, “Hey Scott, that is really cool. The Fox has an overhead cam smoker!” More rolling and knee slapping. I endured it though, and they didn’t complain when I drove places so they could drink as much as they wanted.

I took the Blue Fox with me to college high up in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It got me and a couple of buddies that had previously laughed at my car up and down those mountains many weekends. The electric cooling fan quit working, so we would watch the engine temperature gauge climb as we made our way up steep grades and then watch it fall with relief as we coasted down the other side of the hills. One of the high beams shot way off to the right side of the road and often helped us spot deer along the roads as we made our way between home and dormitory life.

The following year I moved back home and attended the local University. The Fox threw a rod and that was all she wrote. My Dad sold me his old diesel pick-up truck for a bargain. Thus, began my lifelong pursuit of the perfect car. I think I have been trying to make up for losing out on that deep red Mustang my whole life.  However, I always end up putting practicality over what I really want. So, this week, some 36 years later, I bought a deep red convertible!  It’s not a Mustang, but it looks sporty. But I kept it practical. It has a backseat. Underneath the sporty exterior is a Toyota Camry. Dad has a Camry. 

The car is cool, yet practical. Just like me and my dad.