shut his eyes, sent his anguished plea heavenward, gave thanks for his blessings, and spoke a final “Amen.”
As he doused the lights and trudged across the commons to the warmth of his marriage bed, his words like moonbeams in reverse traveled through the firmament, up up up through the cloud-covered floor of heaven to the ear of the Father, who glanced down, momentarily annoyed, from his interminable conversation with the Son, tugged at his earlobe, and asked, “Where were we?”
“Some disturbance, Father?”
“Just a whining suppliant. Go on.”
And their never-ending debate continued.
* * *
The Son felt eternally betrayed all the time.
He had visited humankind to save them from damnation. And he’d done his damnedest. Some he had inspired. But far too many perverted his message, using it to justify cruelties of one kind or another. More critical than that betrayal, they betrayed, by denying, what was best in themselves. That squandering of their talents, well nigh unforgivable, made his burden heavier. Since his visit to earth, he always wore a doleful and downcast look, though it never overshadowed his essence as a being most loving, forgiving, and intercessive with the Father.
As for the suppliant God had mentioned, the Son had seen who that suppliant was and, there being no secrets in heaven, his father knew that he knew.
And so the Son, once Dionysus now Christ, kept close watch over Santa Claus, tracking his disturbed sleep and the content of his dreams. He watched him soap and shampoo his capacious body, mournful as he passed his open mouth beneath the shower spray. Through Santa’s long days of industry the eye of Christ was upon him, upon his increased consumption of Coke, his scarcely concealed agitation, and his feverish toymaking, productive days driven by equal parts love of children and anguish over whether God would answer his prayer.
He saw Santa take Wendy aside to assure her he had not forgotten and was going all out to find a solution, though solution there might not be. And he felt Santa’s anguish at the hint of disappointment that passed over her features.
In the midst of these observings, the Divine Mother asked whom he observed. This she did though she too knew all, what was occurring, what would occur, and what her role would be. Even now, her lactose, lachrymose mammaries were readying the milk of human kindness for...but we’ll come to that in due time.
The Son told her anyway.
He comprehended the shape of what had been and what was to come, the great sacrifice he had made for humankind and Santa’s impending sacrifice in the same vein...but we’ll get to that, we’ll get to that.
It’s a challenge, describing the über -temporal in temporal terms, the über -spatial in terms of space. For the Divine Mother was near and far, inside him and he inside her at the same time. And all converse between them was necessary and unnecessary, as it had always been and would always be, world without end.
As that day drew to a close, Santa trudged once more to his workshop, lit a thin candle, fell to his knees, and clasped his hands in prayer.
“Is he at it again?” asked the Father.
“He is,” said the Son.
“That’s right. Be compassionate. It’s your way. And my way is to snap and snarl at him. How dare he ask for anything, he who has it made? He hasn’t thought through his piety, his pretense at fervor. How dare he question my ways, even as he pretends not to? Where was he when the universe was created?”
“His concern is only for Wendy, and for the suffering boy. His heart—”
“Yes, yes,” said the Father. “But he’s out of his league. If I answer this prayer, where will it end? There would be no end. I’d have to fix the whole damned race. They’re never satisfied. Not mortals, and not immortals either. Look at him. Two loving wives, to whom he was married by no less than me, a wonderful stepdaughter, adoring and adorable elves, millions of enthralled
As he doused the lights and trudged across the commons to the warmth of his marriage bed, his words like moonbeams in reverse traveled through the firmament, up up up through the cloud-covered floor of heaven to the ear of the Father, who glanced down, momentarily annoyed, from his interminable conversation with the Son, tugged at his earlobe, and asked, “Where were we?”
“Some disturbance, Father?”
“Just a whining suppliant. Go on.”
And their never-ending debate continued.
* * *
The Son felt eternally betrayed all the time.
He had visited humankind to save them from damnation. And he’d done his damnedest. Some he had inspired. But far too many perverted his message, using it to justify cruelties of one kind or another. More critical than that betrayal, they betrayed, by denying, what was best in themselves. That squandering of their talents, well nigh unforgivable, made his burden heavier. Since his visit to earth, he always wore a doleful and downcast look, though it never overshadowed his essence as a being most loving, forgiving, and intercessive with the Father.
As for the suppliant God had mentioned, the Son had seen who that suppliant was and, there being no secrets in heaven, his father knew that he knew.
And so the Son, once Dionysus now Christ, kept close watch over Santa Claus, tracking his disturbed sleep and the content of his dreams. He watched him soap and shampoo his capacious body, mournful as he passed his open mouth beneath the shower spray. Through Santa’s long days of industry the eye of Christ was upon him, upon his increased consumption of Coke, his scarcely concealed agitation, and his feverish toymaking, productive days driven by equal parts love of children and anguish over whether God would answer his prayer.
He saw Santa take Wendy aside to assure her he had not forgotten and was going all out to find a solution, though solution there might not be. And he felt Santa’s anguish at the hint of disappointment that passed over her features.
In the midst of these observings, the Divine Mother asked whom he observed. This she did though she too knew all, what was occurring, what would occur, and what her role would be. Even now, her lactose, lachrymose mammaries were readying the milk of human kindness for...but we’ll come to that in due time.
The Son told her anyway.
He comprehended the shape of what had been and what was to come, the great sacrifice he had made for humankind and Santa’s impending sacrifice in the same vein...but we’ll get to that, we’ll get to that.
It’s a challenge, describing the über -temporal in temporal terms, the über -spatial in terms of space. For the Divine Mother was near and far, inside him and he inside her at the same time. And all converse between them was necessary and unnecessary, as it had always been and would always be, world without end.
As that day drew to a close, Santa trudged once more to his workshop, lit a thin candle, fell to his knees, and clasped his hands in prayer.
“Is he at it again?” asked the Father.
“He is,” said the Son.
“That’s right. Be compassionate. It’s your way. And my way is to snap and snarl at him. How dare he ask for anything, he who has it made? He hasn’t thought through his piety, his pretense at fervor. How dare he question my ways, even as he pretends not to? Where was he when the universe was created?”
“His concern is only for Wendy, and for the suffering boy. His heart—”
“Yes, yes,” said the Father. “But he’s out of his league. If I answer this prayer, where will it end? There would be no end. I’d have to fix the whole damned race. They’re never satisfied. Not mortals, and not immortals either. Look at him. Two loving wives, to whom he was married by no less than me, a wonderful stepdaughter, adoring and adorable elves, millions of enthralled
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