Dead Santas
A crisp wind gusts over the snowscape and swirls cold, white ghosts into existence, ghosts that appear, dance their death dance and fade away as swiftly as they came. The sky is battleship gray, a fitting color for the bleak landscape we observe. The bodies are everywhere. Flattened. Lifeless. Lungs collapsed. The light in their eyes gone. Their breath taken away slowly, slowly until they melt, dead, into the snow-covered front lawns, their white beards, black belts, red bellies, black boots, crushed by the season. Everywhere you look, it is a wasteland, “a heap of broken image ( ) and the dead tree gives ( ) no shelter ( ) the dry stone no sound.” (Hard to resist veering towards T.S. Elliot.)
Ok. It’s a little dramatic but, can you blame me? I am obviously not a fan of blow-up lawn ornaments. No offense to you guys who like them or, more likely, whose kids like them, but I am not a fan. I don’t care if Mickey Mouse is twelve feet tall and in a Santa suit or if the original Claus is clinking beer mugs with Rudolph or not. Because, while they may look great for the three to five hours after dark that their households decide to foot the electric bill to keep them inflated and lit—although I could debate their inflated and lit beauty too—they look like crap for the ten hours of daylight the morning after when they are lying like red, white, black and green trash on the front lawn.
Bah humbug, you say? Yeah, maybe. But you can’t argue the junkyard look, even if it is in red and green, of the deflated Kris Kringles and their reindeer strewn about the Christmas battle field even if…giving the benefit of the doubt…they look nice at night. Dead Santas, the inflatable, or rather deflatable, Christmas look we see most of the time, is anything but joyous, festive, happy, holy. It is like all the Santas went to the neighborhood Kristmas Karol Karaoke Party at 1853 Stonehenge Drive, had fifteen eggnogs too many and couldn’t quite make it up the front steps. And they do it every night. And to their poor pets too. It’s appalling. I can only imagine what our Jewish, Hindu and Muslim neighbors think.
But Dead Santas teach a fine Christmas lesson. Unlike the Dead Santas—this could be a good name for a punk band--Christmas isn’t superficial. Something you blow up, light up and animate for small parts of each day from the week before Black Friday until the stroke of midnight on the 25th. Unlike them, Christmas is not supposed to be something that lights up and shines sometimes. Turns itself off most of the time and, then, turns itself on to look good for a few more hours. If we Catholic Christians really believe this stuff about Jesus being born like us so that we could be like Him, we try to “shine” all the time, day or night, Christmas or not.
And it’s hard. Like you know how keeping the Santas looking good in the day AND the night is costly? So is taking Christ’s light into the world costly. It takes energy and power. It is difficult to try and put your needs behind those of others. It is time-consuming to feed the poor at times other than the holidays. Or give people the benefit of the doubt. Or not say the mean thing. It is difficult to stand-up and say, “Yeah, I really believe this stuff.”
And then there is the ridicule of those that think God is as dead as the Santas, and that faith is a fool’s errand, would rather believe in zeroes and ones, and believe those that fear God are Neanderthals. If we decorate our lawns to the 9’s—or much less in the case of deflated Santa and his colleagues—and turn around and don’t act like Christ, maybe these naysayers have a point.
Let’s prove the skeptics wrong, do the opposite of those lawn ornaments this year, and act like we believe in Jesus’ message all year, rather than just during the season. And with conviction. And with actions. Yep, we will, like the Dead Santas, deflate from time-to-time but we can reinflate ourselves, with God’s help, and get right back up. “My yoke is easy. My burden light.”
And if you want to get me a present next year, neighbors, leave the Santas in the self-storage unit. And put up a wreath with a spotlight. (Note: This idea might just be my Christmas present to you.)
Show A Little Faith.