Moving on to the next thing

The Column: 12.12.24

A guy whom we Christians think about every Christmas is John the Baptist, who announced, “Prepare ye the way of the Lord,” but when people came from Jerusalem to hear him preach and to be baptized, he called them a “generation of vipers,” not a welcoming thing to say, and because he wore rags, had a long beard, and fed on locusts, he’s not celebrated at Advent. He was too adventurous. We don’t serve locusts for Christmas dinner, not even in a pie or as seasoning on turkey, so poor John is cast aside, even by Baptists, and we focus instead on shepherds and angels, who are kindly and better dressed.

Seeing how much attention irrelevant elves and snowmen and reindeer get at the holidays, you’d think the mystic who announced the forthcoming miracle could at least get an ornament on a tree, but this is how a consumer society deals with mystics. We want them to have nice hair and speak softly and not eat insects.

Another guy left out is Joe, the dad who traveled afoot while Mary rode the donkey and who surely deserves some credit for the virginity of his betrothed, but no, he’s only a bystander like the sheep and the cattle. I’m not saying he should be worshipped but how about respected?

I was a failure as a mystic and chose comedy instead, which is the opposite of mysticism, and I wasn’t a good father or husband, and I contemplate this on Sunday sitting in my pew, but we Episcos don’t belabor confession, we don’t take cold showers or whip ourselves or sleep on a hard floor, we just say the prayer of contrition and are absolved and then we shake hands with each other and go on to Communion. I like this about Anglicanism, the briskness. Don’t devote yourself to remorse. Repent and move on.

My father was a bystander at Christmas, observing, waiting for the next event. The gifts I got from him had my mother’s fingerprints all over them and were beautifully wrapped by her; my dad was a carpenter, not a gift wrapper.

My problem with the holiday is the gift-giving. For children, okay, but grown-ups? I don’t think so. Poor people? Sure. Clothing and groceries, the necessities, but most Americans have much too much stuff already and need to discard. I get email ads for T-shirts with humorous sayings and I delete them and delete the ads for candy and pens and cookware and books. I look at my bookshelves and see dozens of books I’ve been meaning to read, P.G. Wodehouse, The Oxford Book of English Verse, Dante’s Inferno.

It made me feel awful, the sight of books I’ve neglected, and so I put on a coat and took a walk down Columbus Avenue and felt better immediately. I grew up among overly remorseful people and New Yorkers aren’t that type. They walk ahead boldly, not looking back. They don’t say, “Oh, excuse me, I’m sorry” every time they walk near someone.

Thanks to the ubiquitous iPhone, I go for a walk and listen to other people’s conversations, and New Yorkers talk loud. A woman says, “We’re going to Phoenix for Christmas. Steve’s sister’s there, she’s the one who thought she was nonbinary and then she met this guy—” and then the light changed and she crossed and I kept going straight.

I went to a two-chair barbershop for a haircut. I’ve gone to stylists for years but felt like being barbered for a change so I walked in. It made me feel young, the paper tissue around the neck, the spritzing of the hair, the razor, the snipping. The barber was foreign, perhaps Middle Eastern, and had asked me something at the start and I said yes and now as he was busy trimming, I realized I’d agreed to have my hair cut short.

I put on my glasses and looked in the mirror and saw a guy from the early Fifties. No mystic there at all. I looked more like a geometry teacher. He charged me $40 and I tipped him $25, it felt that good to be shorn. I’ve had enough of styling and just want a haircut. The Lord cometh and the valleys shall be exalted and I am lost in the hills. Lord, do for me what you did for the Wise Men from afar. Show me a star.

Fifty years ago, a Minnesota writer took a detour into radio, creating A Prairie Home Companion and a world of stories, music, and laughter. Now, Garrison Keillor celebrates the show’s legacy with an album recorded in St. Paul, where it all began, during his 20-show tour celebrating the big anniversary.

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