Is Christmas Too "Commercial"?

Is Christmas too "commercial?" The parking lots were full today. Today, and in prior days, busy people took time out from their busy schedules, and, using money they usually work pretty hard for (or will in the future), they thought of people besides themselves.

They studied things and shopped and dealt with crowds and fatigue and spent more than they know they should have, seeking just the right gifts; frivolous with time and money.

And frivolous with Good Will, if there can be such a thing. But I think there can be no such thing as frivolity with Good Will toward Men, which is, after all, the Christmas Spirit.

So, if the retail trade gets carried away, and even if it misses the beauty completely, The Invisible Hand is at work; people motivated by thoughts of Good Will toward others are spending dear wages, granting gainful, maybe even rewarding employment, providing for the needs and comforts of life, and the means for a better future, experiencing joy, some even a riot of joy, in the simple act of giving. The giver will not lose his reward.

And so spreading Good Will becomes the Project this industrious people sets itself to in this season, and they carry it off with excellence and gusto, as usual.

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests." Luke 2:14

And yes, His favor has rested on us, has it not? May it always be so. And may we always set ourselves to the spreading of Good Will.

Perhaps the real driver of our prosperity isn't our wits as much as it is our embracing of the Spirit of Good Will to Men.

* reposted from 2002.

the aura of a life well lived

It is my blog, so I can break the rules if I want to.

I'm determined to not turn this blog into anything other than a venue for my observations about life as I walk through it. That means I don't want to make a habit out of simply posting one-liners with links to news stories or anything else. There are enough of those out there, and that's not why I do this.

However, there are two stories here I'd like to flog on my blog. The first one is about Secret Santa (pictured above). Allow me to point out a few things this story highlights: 1) The spirit of Christmas; 2) The duty of man to his neighbor, 3) The truth about Capitalism and prosperity. Apparently this hard working, wealthy white male was absent the day they taught about oppressive white capitalists in Social Studies class.

Speaking of Capitalism and Prosperity, the second story is my humble attempt to honor the man who put forth in the marketplace of ideas the indissoluble link between free markets and free minds and bodies, the great thinker and a great American, the late Milton Friedman (and his beloved better half, Rose).

May I call your attention to the merry light that shines in the eyes of the wholehearted living life well?

History and common sense verify that, had Mr. Friedman's ideological opponents prevailed in that marketplace of ideas, Secret Santa would probably not have had any $100 bills to pass out to the needy in the middle of winter...winter without Christmas, as C.S. Lewis might have said.

Again, we ask, Is Christmas (really) Too Commercial?

And again, we hope to unambiguously imply, "No."  Is it a sin to shower the ones I love with goodies? Is it a sin to think of others, for a change?   Please.

do they know it's Christmas?

Remember when that was the elite cause celeb? I guess it's not cool to ask that anymore. Funny how things go out of style.

Perhaps the remake will be entitled, "Do they care?"

Whitewashed Tombs

This is the day on which the Church, and much of the civilized world, stops to contemplate and celebrate the historical fact of the virgin birth, in fulfillment of ancient Jewish prophecy, of the One man who is God and would later rise from the dead.  In between, He would also save mankind from its doom of eternal separation from its Creator.

And on this day without peer in all of eternity, this day on which there is no end of expression of wonder, awe and gratitude by all kindred, tribe and tongue the world over, what does Fr. Madigan subject his parish to at the noon Mass?  An excerpt from John McCain's book.

That's right. It is the Gospel of John (McCain), the notoriously duplicitous, partisan political operator, that the pilgrim Church is "nourished" with on this most Holy of days.  And because Modernists are nothing if not predictable, Fr. Madigan continued with a lecture on "commercialism" at Christmas (nothing about politicization, though), wrapping up with some boilerplate screed about how Jesus came to build a "better world", a world more inclusive of "people of all colors, faiths and sexual orientations."  No, he really did this. There was even a guy in the pews with a turban on his head.  And to top it off, this occurred at St. Thomas More Parish, which would certainly have the Saint spinning in his grave if he weren't in Glory.

I suppose a saint's body could be spinning in its grave even if his soul is in Glory. I tried to imagine if he could cringe or wince at what he saw taking place on earth, in a house dedicated to his name. I thought of praying, "St. Thomas More, when is enough, enough?" And then I imagined him looking back at me, in a silent reminder that he was the King's friend, but he was God's friend first, and for that the King had him beheaded.

Christmas

Imagine learning that the young lady you are about to marry - toward whom you have been steadfastly chaste - is pregnant.  You're an older man who must face that, apparently, youthful intemperance has destroyed your dreams.  Youthful intemperance expressed as betrayal. Being practical, and not the least bit of a vindictive nature, you decide to move on without fanfare.

Imagine you are that young lady.  You did not ask to have an angel sent to you with the notification that you are well regarded in Heaven and will, if you agree, carry and be mother to a baby whose Father is God himself, whose means of conception will not be physical - you are to remain a virgin - but spiritual. Being devout, but not entirely unmindful of the seeming unreality of the situation, you muster your will and reason - and faith - to acknowledge and agree.  "Let God's will be done."

But the angelic presence departs, and there you are alone with your thoughts. "What will my husband-to-be think of me?"

"Mary, it's OK.  I'm very sorry, but in light of this, and despite the fact that it breaks my heart, I must call off our plans to be wedded.  I do not wish to cause you any shame or embarrassment; no one will have to know."

global scorning

Thanksgiving in Manhattan is beautiful this year. The weather is perfect -- it's mild, the sky is clear, the air is delightful. Even though it's a busy day for me, I ordered up a medium cappuccino w/two sugars and took a walk down to Battery Park to enjoy it. How could I not? The weather, the day, the Statue of Liberty -- all were beckoning.

Crowds were beginning to trickle in, vendors were setting up, and those living Lady Liberty replicas were already in place, all in anticipation of a busy day. These sights nudged my thoughts in a philosophical direction. Why should Thanksgiving Day bring big crowds to the Statue of Liberty? In a way, it makes sense, doesn't it? Liberty and Thanksgiving. They go together. And you get to Lady Liberty from...Battery Park. Battery. As in, battle. Battery Park is a war memorial. You don't get to Lady Liberty without passing through it.

I strolled over to the dock and took a seat where I could see Her clearly, basking in the gorgeous weather. Then I had a New York moment. In a flash I thought how such a beautiful day in November would probably send scores of New Yorkers to their therapists to exorcise their mortal fear of global warming. Scores more would probably try to organize protests of anything and everything American -- financial, industrial, useful -- and who knows how many warped ideas will be hatched all because it's a beautiful day in November.

Of course, one can't think of global warming without picturing the ranting, twisted mug of Al Gore, hollering and shaking his fist and pointing his fat, useless finger at someone...Al Gore, on a mission to make beautiful days in November joyless and tormented with guilt. Al Gore -- and, let the reader understand that we are talking of the universal Al Gore, not just the individual -- determined to make the few hours you might spend cruising down a beautiful country road in a Ford Explorer a sin worthy of self-flagellation. Al Gore, the poster-boy for warped ideas, and all his idiot stepchildren, on a mission to make good days in November a cause for national mourning and reparations to third world victims of western imperialism; to make everyone just as miserable as they are. And if he can make a few bucks in the process, well, that's gravy, baby. Soy gravy, of course. Guilt-free. No animals involved.

I have a hunch that his compulsion to infect the world with his personal misery sprung from the world-class humiliation Mr. Gore's life was made by his association with the Clinton presidency; with a sound defeat in a subsequent presidential election that he is apparently still struggling to accept. Because those whose insignificance makes them miserable won't feel significant until everyone's miserable with them. Because hell hath no fury like a fool scorned, he's set about scorning the globe for the beautiful days in November.

One gets the feeling that if he could wave a wand and make it "always winter...always winter and never Christmas,*" he would.

*CS Lewis, The Lion, the witch, and the wardrobe.

is Christmas too commercial?

You can wonder about it, or you can let everyone tell you it is, or you can get the answer here.

Why let the grinch steal some of the only joy you're gonna get all year?

ban this.

Few things are as beautiful as a foggy Connecticut morning with the sun breaking through. Getting a really cool rental car at 1/2 the usual rate is beautiful, too, in a different way. Sitting in traffic can be beautiful, if there’s a good song on the radio that you can sing to.

I heard a great lyric today: “…the only way to see again / is to let love in.” Life can be a really dark place without the light of love.

It’s the day before Christmas-eve. So, what’s that manger scene all about, anyway? What’s up with that baby? Why is he such a big deal? And why do people act a little nicer when the little statues and animals and hay are set up all over the place? Even the weather seems nicer. And the people at Hertz cut you a break. Strangers are nice to each other, when the nativity scenes are out. Who in their right minds would seek to do away with that?

The Baby somehow changes us.

the real tragedy

It matters little,' she said softly. 'To you, very little. Another idol has displaced me; and, if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve.'

'What Idol has displaced you?' he rejoined.

'A golden one.'

'This is the evenhanded dealing of the world!' he said. 'There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!'

'You fear the world too much,' she answered gently. 'All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not?'

'What then?' he retorted. 'Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed towards you.'

She shook her head.

'Am I?'

'Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor, and content to be so, until,in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You are changed. When it was made you were another man.'

-- Charles Dickens, "A Christmas Carol."

Dog Day Afternoon

Well, well. Another noise from the train. And so soon!

I suppose the first thing I should remark on is the dog. Oh, there are two of them. Both fat, little terriers. They came in with a lady who, well, I can’t see her well enough to start shredding her. But I can say that I’ll be glad when people quit treating dogs like babies and babies like animals.

I love dogs. I love animals. I talk to animals. I pet them. I feed them. But I don’t take them around with me on the train. And I think people who do, unless they’re blind, are dopes. But they might be cool after you get to know them.

This subject does remind me of the other great line from the movie “Wall Street:” “If you want a friend, buy a dog.” True enough, on Wall Street, anyway. And even off. My best friend in my teen years was Beano, a handsome dog that appeared to have a bit Shepherd, Chow, Wolf, and Harrison Ford in him all at once. I once composed a poem about The Bean. It was about how he was a “ladies dog.” Beano was the “test” of a person to me. If you “understood” The Bean, you could understand me.

I also wrote a skit about Beano’s owner harnessing him to the front of his camper one hot Florida day to tow it home after it had overheated on the interstate. Beano would have thought it was hilarious. But the Heroic Bean would probably have done the job with flair and panache, had it not just been an idle fantasy I cooked up. I lost these early, raw literary gems. We buried Beano in my backyard, and that is a story in itself. I still dream about Beano.

Interesting, isn’t it, that the two lines from that movie that are most memorable to me are both about animals – rather, both use animals to communicate something about humans. The other line is, “that’s the thing about WASPS. They love animals, but they hate people.” Both of these lines were uttered by the “villain,” Gecko (Oliver, could you have come up with a more sophomoric name for your villain?) Is the villain allowed to utter subtle truths? Oliver’s father was a stockbroker. Oliver obviously has “issues” with Wall Street. But he has bigger issues with film production.

Notwithstanding those flaws, there were some good observations that came from the flick, especially the two heretofore mentioned. Other than that, it’s very “‘80s –Art—Deco.” In other words, a curiousity from a quaint time.

The last time I was on this train it was late summer. Now, of course, it is a week before Christmas. Needless to say, things look (and feel) a bit different. It’s charming, it really is, to cruised down the railroad tracks on a cloudy winter day, when snow is in the forecast. I really like it. Sometimes winter can be dreary. But really, it’s restful.