Far from being "merry and bright," I often feel that Christmas is an ever-expanding black hole into which I am inexorably drawn by powerful calendrical gravity. It is not atheistic armies that wage the war on Christmas but Time. Behind every door on my advent calendar is an anxious man with a worried expression. He has too much to do and not enough hours in the day and there is a deadline of December 25th that cannot be missed. If only the festive season was a simple and straightforward as just showing up at some lowly cattle shed.
Only bringing a single gift each? The Three Kings of Orient had it easy if you ask me. And I cannot but conclude they put little thought into their offerings to the Christ child. Gold was obviously the ancient equivalent of a Target gift card, Frankincense a cheap department store aftershave, and Myrrh a vaguely festive-smelling lump of tallow picked-up last minute at Yankee Candle. But perhaps they were in a hurry, crossing all that desert on unreliable camels to make in time for the virgin birth. That star of wonder wasn't going to wait around while they shopped for the perfect present and selected just the right card.
And Christmas is on a Wednesday this year, the middle of the working week, also known as "Hump Day" to the commuting masses. Shepherds watched their flocks by night and I'll have to keep an eye on my email inbox in case there is a client crisis. Many people will be working Christmas Eve and even St Stephen's Day ... because, apparently, it doesn't make sense to take Wednesday and Thursday off and then come in again on Friday for the one day. Scrooge would be pleased.
