A Story for Christmas

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.