I
weary of the endless fiscal fantasies of fat fairies shilling for filthy rich
toy factories.
I
long to hear of the simple truth of a poor village priest in an era when a
window was a hole in the wall. In such a
bygone era, very rich people covered their windows with oiled parchment or
vellum. Poor people had only open holes
to let light into the room: perhaps a bit of rag or sackcloth provided some
privacy.
One
such family was reduced to such poverty that they were about to sell their
daughters into prostitution. It was an
era that knew little of mercy.
Prostitution would save the daughters from starvation and
nakedness. The rest of the family might
benefit, or might be left to fend for themselves. Who knows what might have become of them?
Our
poor village priest scraped together a few coins, a silver or two, perhaps even
a gold, from some unknown source. This
pittance was carefully tied in a sack, and in the middle of the night was
pitched through the open window of our poverty stricken family. They were spared from prostitution and
starvation.
Evidently,
such missions to the poor were the regular concern of our poor village priest,
he is reported to have done this at least twice, no one knows for sure.
Eventually,
somebody figured out this terrible crime, a senseless act of random
kindness. The culprit was discovered.
As
the years passed, the historical story was embellished. The truth was diminished, then destroyed by
this embellishment. Today, nobody
remembers our poor village priest. All
we think about is a fat fairy driving hypersonic reindeer. We will not be hoping for a few crumbs of
bread to fend off death. We will be
hoping for a lavish display of riches that would shame a fourth century king.
A
few crumbs of bread, and clothing made of rags is the reality of Christmas.
This
poor village priest is Saint Nicholas.
