Read Online Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes by Robert Devereaux - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Devereaux
Ads: Link
denizens did not judge those who walked the earth. Judgment was the exclusive province of the all-knowing Father.
Beyond the riotous stew of emotions, Michael also took in the deeds, violent and benevolent alike—the raised fist, the forcings, the addictions, the words that hurt, the pen strokes that set money over people, knife plunges, gunshots, land mines that maimed or put paid to a life. He saw tender embraces as well, sacrifices for the common good, worthy churchmen who did what they could to battle backwardness and ossification in ecclesiastical hierarchies. But Michael’s task lay not in this hopelessly tangled writhe of spaghetti, but in one special place on earth, to which he now sped.
Below him, the enchanting community at the North Pole opened to reveal its wonders. Ah, yes. The simpler, more disciplined mental lives of elves. Of Anya and Rachel in workshop and cottage. Of Santa and Wendy taking their morning walk.
Michael shivered with delight.
He would be privileged to help Wendy, steeped now in anticipated disappointment; and Santa Claus, doleful in the certainty that he would shortly crush Wendy’s faith in him.
Michael, though not incapable of excess pride, skirted far from temptation, doing instead the angelic thing, which was to feel just the right amount of childlike pride in helping another creature, for the glory of God and his creation, and only incidentally noting the glory that would redound upon himself.
As he floated above unseen, Santa and Wendy passed clusters of fir trees through fresh-fallen snow to the Chapel. Santa’s anguish brought an ache to Michael’s heart.
“I must confess my limits to Wendy,” the elf was thinking. “She’ll see how circumscribed I am. No longer will she think me a godlike parent who can fulfill every promise. She’ll know my fallibility as I know it myself. I’ll admit failure, she’ll hold my hand and assure me she understands, and Jamie Stratton will choose death over the daily drumbeat of suffering. The moment of his death will torment me until it occurs, and ever afterwards.”
Wendy broke Michael’s heart. “My poor stepfather,” she thought, “has been crestfallen since my request. He has failed, and he must suspect that I know it. He’ll think he has fallen in my esteem. But the opposite is true. I don’t expect him to be Superman, and I’ll tell him so. Then we’ll weep for Jamie’s fate and agonize afterward, until we resign ourselves to accepting what we’re powerless to change.”
Michael felt utterly tickled, hovering in the treetops, knowing the joy he would shortly deliver. Oh, but how can I be sure, he wondered, my plan won’t go awry? I’ve bumbled before. Badly. Then he realized that the very asking was all anyone, God included, could expect of him. That question, posed and reposed, would keep him on course and quell his Hermes impulses.
Michael took a breath and prepared to manifest.
* * *
Wendy’s shiny red boots crunched fresh snow. The rich aroma of pine infused the air. Then they reached the Chapel, where Mommy had married Anya and Santa eight years before, and where she came often to feel vibrant and alive and thank God for her blessings. She knew what her stepfather was about to say, and she steeled herself, like a brave little girl, to hear it and not dissolve into tears but to accept, accept, accept and to love him even more for his attempts and for wanting to spare her disappointment.
Santa turned to her, his face somber. “Wendy,” he managed. Then he stopped and stared upward.
Wendy felt it almost as quickly. The sunshine grew brighter and more vibrant. There was a bounce in the air, a lilt, a fulfillment of ancient promises. Flower petals, white and pink, floated before her. No, not petals but feathers, laid down one upon the other, curving soft over wide high angles. The folds of a snow-white robe fell to the tops of two boyish feet planted shoulder-high in the air above the snow. And a halo’d
Beyond the riotous stew of emotions, Michael also took in the deeds, violent and benevolent alike—the raised fist, the forcings, the addictions, the words that hurt, the pen strokes that set money over people, knife plunges, gunshots, land mines that maimed or put paid to a life. He saw tender embraces as well, sacrifices for the common good, worthy churchmen who did what they could to battle backwardness and ossification in ecclesiastical hierarchies. But Michael’s task lay not in this hopelessly tangled writhe of spaghetti, but in one special place on earth, to which he now sped.
Below him, the enchanting community at the North Pole opened to reveal its wonders. Ah, yes. The simpler, more disciplined mental lives of elves. Of Anya and Rachel in workshop and cottage. Of Santa and Wendy taking their morning walk.
Michael shivered with delight.
He would be privileged to help Wendy, steeped now in anticipated disappointment; and Santa Claus, doleful in the certainty that he would shortly crush Wendy’s faith in him.
Michael, though not incapable of excess pride, skirted far from temptation, doing instead the angelic thing, which was to feel just the right amount of childlike pride in helping another creature, for the glory of God and his creation, and only incidentally noting the glory that would redound upon himself.
As he floated above unseen, Santa and Wendy passed clusters of fir trees through fresh-fallen snow to the Chapel. Santa’s anguish brought an ache to Michael’s heart.
“I must confess my limits to Wendy,” the elf was thinking. “She’ll see how circumscribed I am. No longer will she think me a godlike parent who can fulfill every promise. She’ll know my fallibility as I know it myself. I’ll admit failure, she’ll hold my hand and assure me she understands, and Jamie Stratton will choose death over the daily drumbeat of suffering. The moment of his death will torment me until it occurs, and ever afterwards.”
Wendy broke Michael’s heart. “My poor stepfather,” she thought, “has been crestfallen since my request. He has failed, and he must suspect that I know it. He’ll think he has fallen in my esteem. But the opposite is true. I don’t expect him to be Superman, and I’ll tell him so. Then we’ll weep for Jamie’s fate and agonize afterward, until we resign ourselves to accepting what we’re powerless to change.”
Michael felt utterly tickled, hovering in the treetops, knowing the joy he would shortly deliver. Oh, but how can I be sure, he wondered, my plan won’t go awry? I’ve bumbled before. Badly. Then he realized that the very asking was all anyone, God included, could expect of him. That question, posed and reposed, would keep him on course and quell his Hermes impulses.
Michael took a breath and prepared to manifest.
* * *
Wendy’s shiny red boots crunched fresh snow. The rich aroma of pine infused the air. Then they reached the Chapel, where Mommy had married Anya and Santa eight years before, and where she came often to feel vibrant and alive and thank God for her blessings. She knew what her stepfather was about to say, and she steeled herself, like a brave little girl, to hear it and not dissolve into tears but to accept, accept, accept and to love him even more for his attempts and for wanting to spare her disappointment.
Santa turned to her, his face somber. “Wendy,” he managed. Then he stopped and stared upward.
Wendy felt it almost as quickly. The sunshine grew brighter and more vibrant. There was a bounce in the air, a lilt, a fulfillment of ancient promises. Flower petals, white and pink, floated before her. No, not petals but feathers, laid down one upon the other, curving soft over wide high angles. The folds of a snow-white robe fell to the tops of two boyish feet planted shoulder-high in the air above the snow. And a halo’d
Similar Books
