Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes by Robert Devereaux Page A

children, the perfect workplace, access to magic time, flying reindeer—the list goes on. But is he content? He is not content. There’s always one more thing he needs. He slanders me in the asking. I have my reasons for allowing suffering. Don’t ask me what they are. It’s no one’s goddamned business but mine. I refuse to be second-guessed. Oh, great. Just listen to him.”
    “Calm down, Father.”
    “He wants all four of them fixed. Jamie’s tormentors, he calls them. It’s clear of course that fixing the parents would save the child, that alone. But, no, he wants the preacher and the bully fixed too. If I do that, if I grant him any part of what he wants, the floodgates will burst wide. Fix their tormentors too, why don’t you? Fix everyone’s tormentors. You’re God, for the love of Christ. You can do anything. Work those miracles, tote that barge, lift that bale, fix that world. Well I’ve got news for Santa. The world doesn’t need fixing.”
    “You’re getting worked up again.”
    “The temerity of the little elf. I ought to demote him is what I ought to do. One swaybacked reindeer I'll give him, half a helper (the lower half), and some hell hole to toil in, sweaty, stinky, and confining—with no reduction in workload!”
    On and on the Father railed, so upset that hints of Zeus, hurler of thunderbolts, peered through his façade of white-robed grandeur, the fire in his eyes, the armor, the fists full of heavenly vengeance. But the Son kept up his soothing words until Santa’s prayer ended. And as the unjolly old elf trudged back to his cottage and the Father checked his temper to ask, “Where were we?” the Son decided to be Santa’s champion, to persuade God to grant him this one small concession, putting reasonable bounds upon it, if need be. He had already made changes for Santa’s sake eight years before. And the ones Santa now requested would serve a good cause.
    But, truth be told, the Son fretted over his father’s health. He was surely eternal. Of that, there could be no doubt. But he ought to enjoy eternity more than he did.
    The Son vowed to do what he could to make it so.
    * * *
    The following day, the Father looked down on his creation, of which the earth and its creatures were the centerpiece.
    It pleased him that the Son existed. For it allowed him to be judgmental, even curmudgeonly, playing off a foil. Could he change things? In an instant, whenever the urge took hold. But he chose not to. “Creation is perfect,” he said to no one in particular. A perfect mess, he thought. But perfection dwelt even in mess and sprawl. The world as it was was good enough.
    Besides, he had sent the Christ child down there with a transparent and unambiguous message of love and forgiveness, of redemption and a firm refusal to embrace the cruelties of dumbed-down moral lemmings—yet they were, on the whole, worse than ever! He had bestowed upon them the greatest symbol, ignoring the Buddha and other worthy avatars, of generosity of spirit they had ever beheld, a savior who had redeemed them through his suffering, resurrection, and rebirth. And still, they warred and hated and sat in judgment like tinpot gods, sniping at each other in the very name of that symbol.
    So that night, when Santa Claus fell to his knees and renewed his mewling prayers, the Father swept into apoplexy. The Son soothed. The Divine Mother looked upon him with compassion. Angel choirs sang calming hymns as they soft-touched harp strings and fleecy clouds wisped along their wing tops.
    But his anger soon passed. As Santa prayed and the Divine Mother observed him with compassion and the Son soothed, there came a shift. I’m God, he told himself. Not only can I do anything. I can un do anything. If I don’t like how certain actions unfold, I can fold them up tight, as though they had never been unfolded at all.
    The Father knew of course that the reversal of any action, once set in motion, was likely not only to be