Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes

by Robert Devereaux

  “I am Santa Claus. It has been my rare pleasure and duty to be childlike, though ancient, the better to resonate with mortal children. The naughty ones I gave not a thought to, so full of joy was I for the others, for the effervescence of desire that filled their hearts. This was my task, and I embraced it with all my heart.

  “But now, at Wendy’s urging, I have seen how mortals fall as they leave childhood, how even well-behaved children join the grown-up world and make its lies their own. I am the heart of generosity. Now I beg permission to extend my generosity to Wendy herself.

  “She has asked the impossible. Children do that all the time, and I nod and smile, give what I can, and they forget their extravagant wishes and are content. But this time, there is no easy substitute. Wendy is on the cusp of adulthood, yet still she is my little girl. She is pushing me to grow, but I cannot see how. Teach me the way, o Lord. Show me how to save Jamie Stratton and his tormentors.

  “Please, God, do not think that I question for one moment your ways with mortals. There must be some point to the suffering, the cruelty, the cosmic game they play of exalting goodness with their words while committing the most vicious assaults upon each other—all of it must be part of your divine plan, inscrutable as it is.

  “And though the simplest of minds can easily conjure utopias—a wonder it is that not one of these alternate worlds, infinitely better, has been your gift to humankind—I do not question your ways. After all, I and Anya and my elves and, God knows, Rachel and Wendy, suffered much before the awful storm abated. But then, perhaps my second wife and my stepdaughter are more precious for having been won after such pain and suffering. Who am I to judge? So I do not question your ways, nor even expect that the gift I request you will bestow upon me.

  “That gift, dear Lord, is the ability to save Jamie Stratton from his suicide and from the suffering fated to lead him to self-slaughter. If I cannot sway his tormentors to withhold their torment, let me at least somehow divert their negativity.

  “But I dare not stray into particulars. I have made my request. You know best if and how that request will be granted. I leave it in your bounteous hands, assured by faith that you will give my plea your attention and, as always, make the wisest choice. The greatest good for all the universe, whatever it may be, is all I ask.” Santa 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 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 undo 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 challenging but to bring on the unforeseen. Despite the exceptions of the Easter Bunny’s priapic expunging and various resurrections, there were certain elaborate mosaics it were best not to rework, once the tiles were laid in.

  But this day, the Father was in a giving mood. “If Santa really wants to complexify his life, so be it,” he said.

  The Son, surprised and unsurprised, said, “Good. That’s as it should be.”

  “For me, nothing is impossible.”

  “True, Father.”

  “I’ll throw him this one sop.”

  “He’ll be grateful.”

  “As well he might.” God gazed about in annoyance. “Where’s our bumbler?”

  “I appear.” The archangel Michael bloomed full-blown before the throne, haloed and holy. His look bore, as always, a hint of contrition at having allowed Santa and the Tooth Fairy to cross paths while the Father vacationed nearly three decades before. His Hermes side had been tucked back inside, though not as deep as prudence might dictate.

  They allowed Michael access to Santa’s prayers, the one now unreeling and those that had previously flown to heaven.

  “Here’s your chance,” said the Father, “to get back into my good graces. You have carte blanche. Devise a plan to attack this problem, then implement it. Maintain modesty of purpose, and don’t overreach. Is that clear?”

  Michael said it was. Then he bowed and forelocked and hosanna’d and hallelujah’d his gratitude until God waved that away.

  “But...” said Michael.

  “Go on.”

  “Isn’t fixing all four of them more than is strictly necessary? Why not just the parents? Or one parent?”

  “Do you dare question my will?” God’s robes billowed and grew dark. His eyes flared with righteous fire.

  “Calm yourself, Father. Michael, it’s simply that Santa so loves these mortals, not the child alone, that he wants them all fixed.”

  Michael had gone white and cowering, not daring to speak another word. Had he a bladder, it would have been voided.

  Then the Father gave over all threat. “My Son, in whom I am well pleased, speaks true. We are stopping with these few.”

  Fret fell from the archangel, who vowed every effort—carefully considered this time—to carry out the divine will. He bowed and rose on a wing and a prayer, then dropped intently earthward on his mission.

  “Will he be all right?” wondered the Son.

  God looked askance. “I think we both know the answer to that!”

  Chapter 7. Angelic Bumbler Makes Good

  MICHAEL WAS BESIDE HIMSELF WITH JOY. The opportunity for any of them to annunciate came but rarely. Why, the number of angelic annunciations all told could be counted on two hands; the ones he had been involved in, on a couple of fingers.

  Moreover, if memory served, this was the first time any of them had annunciated to immortals. The one made by Gabriel to the Divine Mother had occurred during her mortal years, so that didn’t count.

  The Father had simply said, without fanfare, “Go do it, Michael.” Now here he was, hurtling earthward, his wings alternately buckling for a dive and catching astral currents to slow and direct his descent.

  As he approached the earth, there came thundering into his soul mortality’s great mumble and murmur, its hopes and fears, snips of envy and anger, each slothful tomorrow-is-time-enough, lustful I’ll-seduce-her, and greedy that-object-will-surely-complete-me. Mortals were a confused bunch, a riot of weeds punctuated by random lilies and roses, their potential massively wasted except for the few and far between. Such inertia pulled them all in every wrong direction. And too many errant impulses moved makers of critical decisions. The planet’s survival lay in the hands of madmen.

  In one sense, then, naught but cacophony.

  In another, the most complex interweaving of patterns possible.

  The paths of righteousness in heaven were uncluttered by such diabolical chokeweed. Yet its 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 head, cheeks unblemished, eyes awash with dew, smiled down at them. The angel’s hair was lustrous and shiny, its long auburn locks breaking over the shoulders just ahead of the prayerful arcs described by his wing tops.