The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Those words hung like glittering bobbles of the Festive Season. They seemed to carry as much weight as a holiday greeting. Javan hit the remote to start his car.
He groaned as he crossed the courthouse parking lot, knowing he would be heading into the thick of holiday traffic. The hearing had gone long.
“The truth, Mr. Kirk.”
The grating drone of the prosecutor’s voice still raised Javan’s temperature. Bitterly he thought of going to spend the night at a hotel. His wife would be tantamount to the prosecutor, riddling him with accusatory queries. From one fire into the other, he thought. Why delay the inevitable?
His car was warm when he climbed in and his leather seats cupped him tenderly. He turned on the radio and backed out of his spot.
“The Patriots won last night’s—“
Javan switched channels and hoped he wouldn’t hear about the trial he just left. Conversations from the courtroom raced through his head. . . .
“What exactly do you know, Mr. Kirk?”
“News from Jerusalem today, the terrorists who were killed three days ago have been confirmed as the two who were responsible for a number of car bombings and other malicious attacks. The International Prime Minister has confirmed that the world can rest safe now that these extremists are dead. He gave an address in Tel-Aviv today.”
“Did you know, Mr. Kirk, that you were helping the cause of the Christian Extremists?”
Since the scandal broke, Javan couldn’t relieve the constant shard of pain in his neck. Being the highest up the ladder for that department he’d take the fall, one man, working alone. For the first time in his life he felt pity for these folks labeled and cowed by government regulations. He chuckled at the irony of the whole thing.
“You’re either with us . . . or with the terrorists, Mr. Kirk. Which are you?”
The Prime minister’s voice came on the radio, “The celebrations we’ve had around the world can continue, for the threat to our peace has been dealt a serious blow. No longer must we live in the shadow of fear of cast by these evil men. No longer will their words of hate and division mar the peaceful religion of Christianity.”
Javan shook his head as he saw the string of bright red taillights.
“Together,” the Prime Minister continued, “we can reach any height. Our cities will be united, shining beacons for all time.”
Javan grunted with cynical disbelief. From presidents to Prime Ministers and monarchs to mullahs, each recanted the same jargon. They all promised to lead the world to a new, eternal utopia. With each Camelot, Shining City On The Hill or Thousand Points Of Light, such leaders left their stations with the world having changed for the worse, if at all. Javan was sure the same would hold true for this Prime Minister.
Truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Javan didn’t know what truth was let alone speculate what would hold true for someone else. His truth was that he had to lie to keep his company out of trouble, while most likely hanging among the guilty. He could see it coming from the questions the prosecutor had asked. The man seemed to have inside information, a betraying informant perhaps, helping him target his inquisition.
A World Gone Mad
Javan shielded his eyes as he turned eastward and the light from the comet blazed through the windshield. The thing spurred a strange unrest in him, though he knew it was due to pass the earth without harm.
He drove across the bridge to the suburbs where his spacious 5,000-square-foot home awaited him. Though he wished otherwise, no comfort awaited him at home, no welcome for the king of the castle. Such tenderness would be beneath his wife, whom he tolerated on good days.
He shook his head and hissed bitterly.
Tired of the news he switched to music where he was assaulted by the constant holiday songs that bounced along the airwaves the whole grueling Festive Season. Here Comes Santa Clause was on, a remarkably old song that always seemed to find a market in every generation.
Santa knows we’re all God’s children, that makes everything right. . . .
Before he could be pummeled with too many songs about evergreen fronds endless songs of “All I Want, Want, Want,” he rolled into his heated garage.
He left his car and told the garage computer to lock up. Carmen was home; her black bullet of a car was parked in its spot. From the bags in the back seat, it appeared she had been out shopping again. Perhaps more gifts to celebrate the end of Christian Terror.
“It doesn’t grow on trees,” Javan grumbled.
Despite the shambles of his own marriage, he longed for the ideal: Carmen would have a meal prepared for him and embrace him lovingly at the door after a long day of work, the cherished bride welcoming her groom. The image was laughable and he wondered why he still held such a childish fancy.
Full Wallet, Empty Heart
He went down to his office, took a seat at his desk and leaned back. Glaring lights from his neighbor’s nativity scene blasted in one window, and the comet, or whatever it was blared from the other. He couldn’t get God to listen, if he was up there, but he could get his neighbor to shut out the light.
He snatched up the phone and called the city. It was certainly against code to have a nativity scene if there wasn’t a Santa or elf, or some other deity involved.
“Yeah, I’d like to report a code violation,” Javan said. “It’s at 10052 Pleasant Peak. Nativity scene. No, there isn’t one. Just three plastic guys, a baby, and two parents. No, there’s one male and one female. Thank you.”
Javan hung up and waited to feel satisfied. The light would be going out soon, and he would at least be able to face one direction without having lights shine in his face.
While he waited, he turned and faced the wall where rows of his awards and commendations hung handsomely. The polished wood displayed gleaming metal plates engraved with his name and status. Each one had meant a milestone in his professional life, as well as an increase in pay.
He chuckled to himself. With the Holidays upon him he wondered what Santa might bring. He had everything he ever wanted. He owned a state-of-the-art yacht down at the marina and two separate homes for different climates. His job took him to business junkets in the most pristine vacation spots, like Baghdad, or the World Islands in the Mediterranean. The rest of his vacation was spent on his yacht and around the marina.
The world offered nothing he didn’t have. Yet he was miserable; his accessories seemed more like burdens. His kids filled him with utter disappointment, though he didn’t understand why. They were each successful, more so than he was at their age. They, too, traveled the world and lived comfortable lives. He couldn’t place what bothered him; it shifted like a shadow, impossible to catch. There was something missing in his life, a dissonance that needed a resolving note.
The door burst open. Carmen stood there, as sudden and startling as a jack-in-the-box.
“I see those accounts are still in your name, Javan! When are you going to sign those papers?”
“Not going to, honey,” he replied.
“I will get that money,” she declared in a chilling voice. “It belongs to us!”
“Us,” he repeated with a guffaw. “Whenever you say ‘us,’ it never includes me.”
Ignoring his sardonic humor she said, “You better have those papers signed by tomorrow.”
“What happened to all the money you have in your account?”
“That’s my money!” She left a sheaf of papers on the credenza near the door and left with an icy gust of wind.
Freedom Without Faith?
Lights flashed outside his window. He got up to see the source and peered through the blinds.
“I’ll be—” he said as he looked out.
The police were outside the neighbor’s house and were carrying a large Santa Claus over to the manger scene. Javan smiled and shook his head.
The neighbors came out of the house and stood between the police and the manger scene. The officers appeared to be puffing their chests with air to show their authority. Javan could imagine what they were saying by their posturing.
“Sir, step away from the Santa!” Or, “Let’s keep the wise guys to three, OK sir?”
He snickered out loud when a pushing match broke out with Santa in the middle. St. Nick looked like he had come down the chimney into a mosh pit. The neighbor’s wife got into it, too, and thought she’d pull the officer back while her husband pushed from the front.
Javan pulled back, his smile soured as one of the officers pulled out his gun. The gun-wielding officer seemed bitten with a crazy bug and started waving the pistol around like a tripped out junkie.
A chill ran the length of Javan’s spine when his neighbors fell to their knees and put their hands up in the air. The other officer pleaded with his gun brandishing partner. The gunman then pointed his piece at the back of the husband’s head.
“No.” Javan’s jaw slacked.
He could see that the other officer had said the same thing.
“Dear God,” Javan said, surprised at the sincerity in his voice.
Time stood still as he watched the raging officer move from the husband to the wife with his firearm. The other officer ran over to the Santa statue and picked it up, placing it next to baby Jesus.
“There,” he appeared to say, to placate his rampaging partner.
Though mad about the light, Javan never wanted to call in a death squad over a manger scene. While this might be normal in another part of the world, it was disturbing seeing this in his own backyard. Feeling like a voyeur, he searched other houses in fear of spying eyes. He couldn’t see anyone else and wondered if it was safe for him to be looking in on this scene. Perhaps he should turn around and go back to his computer or watch a movie.
He couldn’t stop watching. Something kept him there with an attitude that dared them to make him stop.
He was sure he must have drifted off to some daydream because the next thing he knew the police had pushed the husband and wife into the back of the squad car. Santa was now safely presiding over the baby in the manger. Everything was right with the world. And still, both lights shone brightly, the manger scene, and the comet.
Javan left the window and plopped into his chair. He wondered why it was so important to have Santa in the nativity? Somewhat related to that, he thought, why couldn’t they listen to Christmas carols anymore? Wasn’t this country free? Couldn’t he do as he wished with his own time and in his own home?
“Free to do what I’m told,” he said sourly.
Family and finance ruled his life. The more he earned, the better he lived, and the more he had to work. And what did he have to show for it? His company wasn’t standing behind him, and his family saw him as a money tree.
A Taste of True Joy
He stood up and walked out to the hallway where he could access the attic. He walked up through the heavy insulating curtain and walked into the cold storage space. He rummaged through boxes until he found the one he wanted.
It was on the bottom of a number of other things and had dust as thick as lamb’s wool. He tore through the tape and pulled the contents out. He dropped CD cases on the floor until he found what he was looking for: A taped bundle of CDs of Christmas Carols. He scanned the back of the cases until he found the most offensive album he owned. It contained “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” one of the first to be banned, not only for the lyrical content, but the title, too. Also listed was “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” “The First Noel,” “O Holy Night,” “Silent Night,” “Joy To the World,” and others. Unwittingly he searched it to make sure there were no songs to Christmas Trees, Santa Claus or reindeer. Satisfied that the CD was thoroughly extremist, as the judiciary called it, he plucked it from the others and started back toward the stairs.
On his way something on a shelf caught his eye. Despite the heavy dust he knew what it was. More contraband left in his attic largely due to his pack-rat nature. Thus it had escaped the book burning parties five years ago. If use sapped books of value then this family Bible had retained full price.
Javan pulled the book from the stack, his breath disturbing the pollens, making him cough at the plume that puffed into his face. A nervous tremor rose in his gut as he looked at the book’s cover. In each hand he held an illegal item. If he were caught with these the prosecutor could rest his case. In the wake of verdict he’d lose his job—his life.
That would fix her good, he thought vengefully.
He and Carmen’s assets would be frozen and possibly confiscated until they were tried to determine if they were fundamentalists or not.
Seems like everyone is a fundamentalist to some degree, he thought. Just depends what is fundamental to them.
Back in his study he put the CD into the player and eased into his chair, his back to the comet’s intrusive light. The music vibrated through the digital surround speakers, the melody carrying the words about Christ’s birth.
Let nothing you dismay…
To free us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray.
Tidings of comfort and joy.
Joy. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt joy. All the vacations, cars, houses and fine dinners didn’t give him joy.
He followed his thoughts of dissatisfaction hunting for anything that gave him joy. He enjoyed golf, but it didn’t bring him joy. He’d wrapped a few clubs around trees, events that he recalled now as proof that joy was not in golf.
For that matter, what was there that really comforted him? Steak. Steak was comfort food. He once flew to Japan to savor a Kobe steak after a particularly stressful week. Yet the comfort was quickly eliminated by his cholesterol report.
Tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy.
Suddenly, Carmen burst into his private space.
Her collagen lips were pressed tight and her eye-lined and mascara accented blue eyes were thin with bitter disapproval.
“What are you listening to?” she demanded.
“Are you going out?” Javan asked.
“This music could get us arrested! I’ll call the police, Javan.”
“You call and I’ll say you put them in the attic instead of taking them to the burn festivals.”
“You could never prove that. And besides, I’ll tell them that I thought they had been destroyed and that you’ve been hiding them!”
“Apparently with little success! You and your party animals talk about tolerance, but only for what you want. What’s so bad about these songs?”
“You sound like a zealot,” she said with her hand to her mouth in awestruck horror.
“Yeah,” Javan said, reaching for the Bible, “I figured I might want to bone up on religion if we’re going to a church in a few weeks.”
Carmen scanned the windows in a total panic, wondering if anyone could see the book. With a sudden thought her eyes shot to the security cameras. They might see it.
“What on earth, Javan!” she screamed. “How could you save that thing? All the terrible things that people have done because of that book! You’ve always been difficult, but I never saw this coming.”
“Well, I guess you just never knew me that well, did you?” Javan said. “I’m going to start reading from the beginning and go all the way though. Perhaps I’ll figure out what motivated so many of these horrible people in history.”
Carmen marched up to him, leaned over and looked right into his eyes. “You better sign those papers to give me that money or I’ll report all this tonight. And don’t think you’ll be able to hide it. All of this is recorded on security discs. I will be able to prove my innocence.”
She turned and left, her hips twitching back and forth under the silk party dress.
Finding the Source of Life
Javan opened the Bible in full view of the security cameras. He did this more out of spite than any desire to study the Bible. Absently he wondered which of his friends had given it to him for a wedding present.
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.
There he had it. All the discussion of where they came from spelled out in simple terms. He stopped and thought about how complicated schools made their origins. Monkeys turning to men, though some stayed stunted, apparently. Millions upon millions of years and yet no new species or changes.
He read on:
And the earth was void and without form and darkness was on the face of the deep.
His life wasn’t much different, Javan thought, empty and formless.
And God said, “Let there be light.”
Javan sat back and heard the lyrics of the Christmas hymn: Late in time behold him come, offspring of the virgin’s womb.
Other lyrics stood out:
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see, hail the incarnate deity!
He read on:
And he separated the light from the darkness.
The CD played:
Born to raise the sons of earth, born to give them second birth …
Javan had a thought. He looked out his window to the jolly Santa waving near the baby Jesus. Jesus had been born to save us from this world, while Santa came to give us more world to enjoy. What gift did Ol’ St. Nick bring God’s Son? Sack full of goodies for every good boy and girl. Yet the wise men only gave one item of value to Jesus: Gold. He seemed to recall that the other spices were for embalming. Could Santa top that?
Javan had no claim of being good, yet he had all the goodies he could want. Funny thing was the more things he had, the more he felt bound by them. He couldn’t risk losing his lifestyle for fear of living without it.
Looking outside again, he couldn’t bear to see the Santa Claus next to the baby Jesus; the jolly giver of material mirth standing next to the babe of spiritual hope.
Yet he felt doubt rise up. The story was so preposterous and was likely a tale made up like legends of Davey Crocket or Paul Bunyan or Johnny Appleseed.
And the spirit of God moved over the surface of the deep.
Let there be light.
He weighed the choice before him. He had everything, yet was empty. He had no relationship with his kids, his wife, or his friends. Everything was as fake as his wife’s youthful appearance and as thin as her party dress.
He knows our needs, to weakness is no stranger: Behold you the King!
Belief in Jesus, though, would destroy his life. He’d die in a cell being questioned about his involvement in the terror underground. He’d be tortured to give up names of others in the group of extremists.
Light and life to all He brings, risen with healing in his wings, one of the songs had said.
Javan turned and looked at the light coming in his window. The comet was burning brighter, and looked more like a star. The light seemed pure and soothing to him. He found that odd, since it was disturbing him earlier. Now he wanted the light.
Son of God, love’s pure light…
Carmen entered again and saw the open Bible.
“I’ve called the police. They’re on their way and I’ve pulled the disc. I’m going to get that money yet, Javan!”
Javan didn’t respond with any of the smart quips that came to mind. Rather he said, “Money isn’t all there is, Carmen. You’ll be disappointed.”
“You spent it all, didn’t you?” she demanded with a trembling voice.
Javan walked out of the office and out to the street. Ignoring the chill, he crossed the street to his neighbor’s nativity scene. He looked at the shepherds, the three wise men, Mary, Joseph, Jesus and Santa.
What doesn’t fit? He thought.
He walked up to the red clad elf and lifted him up. He pulled him away from the scene and tossed him behind some bushes. Images of the crazed police officer with a gun to his head flashed in his mind. He remembered how terrified he’d been when he saw that happening to his neighbor, yet he didn’t fear it now. He felt peace for the first time. He felt true comfort.
Police strobes flashed in the distance and he heard sirens. Day was a number of hours away, but the sky was growing brighter.
Radiant beams from thy Holy face, with the dawn of redeeming grace. Jesus Lord at thy Birth!
The police cars pulled up and four officers got out. He didn’t hear their words. He turned and faced them and saw their mouths moving as if they were shouting at him. The crazy one was there with his gun drawn.
In the east the star that had been shining grew increasingly brilliant like a breaking dawn. Javan looked expectantly at the light and felt exuberant joy fill his heart. He felt the way he always wanted Carmen to feel when he’d come home from work: The cherished bride welcoming her perfect groom!
Let every heart prepare him room.
Heaven and nature sing.
Joy to the world, the Lord is come. Let earth receive her King. 
