Ms. Theologian noted a story about an
Oregon Washington man who put up a Santa crucifix in his yard, to protest the commercialization of Christmas. Great idea.
But rather than getting het up about Jesus getting left out, I feel for St. Nicholas, who has become a shill for shopping and saturated fat. The real man, a Christian bishop, is someone to celebrate and emulate. There was an op-ed in the New York Times on Christmas Day, from which comes:
And what of the throwing of the bags of gold down the chimney, where they landed in the stockings and little shoes that had been hung up to dry by the fireplace? Charming though it sounds, it reflected the deplorable custom, still prevalent in late Roman society when the Byzantine church was struggling to establish the supremacy of its values, of selling surplus daughters into bondage. This was a euphemism for sexual slavery — a trade that still blights our world.
Little wonder St. Nicholas is the patron of brides: a cloaked reference to women who escaped sex slavery. And there are other stories like this.
If you missed it, go back and read “St. Nick in the Big City” by John Anthony McGuckin.