To resent Christmas sounds unseemly and untimely. And yet some of us do every year.
It has to do with how a year of sweaty thinking and reasoning gets blotted up so quickly in December’s annual sop of feeling and intuiting. For eleven serious months, there are all those New York Times editorials, CNN reportage, academic talking heads, and epic scientific breakthroughs. In effect, one more year of small steps for mankind leaping closer to our cosmic destinies.
But then comes December. With its perennial medley of twinkling lights and sentimental music; all its festive feelings about stars, angels, cribs, and the salvation of that master of no-nonsense hard-headed reasoning: Ebeneezer Scrooge.
Some of us just can’t help resent this. Oh it’s a warm and cuddly season alright; but therein hides the crux of our resentment. How can the mind remain in proper control of the heart, when the season so deliberately drenches us in its magic. We take exception to Scrooge’s salvation, because here is a decent man earning a decent living holding fast to a decent set of facts and figures which help hold this brutish world in place.
But then, in a gush of admittedly appealing sentimentality, he is abruptly snatched away from his productive life of these last serious eleven months. To be replaced by what? Stars? Angels? Hope? Not one of which enhances any 401K, closes any prison, creates any job, or thwarts any terrorist.
So you see our point? The day after we are not a dollar richer or a wall higher. Left only with all these fuzzy good feelings that whisper we can be better in the year ahead. You see, Humbug!
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