First Christmas Parable

The Christmas story is full of surprises.  This year near Bethlehem, a parable occurred to me.  Like many parables, it raises questions.  A question for all you men out there: when’s the last time you were pregnant?  Was it because some woman—who can’t be responsible for her urges—didn’t take proper precautions?  Isn’t this the way God punishes people for having the sexual intercourse he created?  Since God gave you an anatomy just like his, you certainly have priority in the cosmic scheme of things, but this pregnancy of yours—what are you going to do with it?  Oh, and don’t look to Onan for answers to your own urges; God stuck him dead for that kind of thing.  But that troubling “what if”… What if Mary had had a choice?  According to the Good Book she did.  “Be it unto me,” Mary said.  She could’ve said “No.”  Many men in your *ahem* delicate condition did not.  The problem with virginal conceptions is that people will talk.

Many people don’t remember at this time of year that Mary and Joseph were immigrants to Egypt.  Had the Nativity occurred today in these States that follow God’s word, Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus would’ve ended up in separate cages.  Wasn’t he born in a cage?  Oh, cave!  That’s definitely an improvement.  One wonders how the Gospel might’ve gone from there.  And what of those annoying buzzing creatures overhead calling for peace on earth?  Shoo!  Trade wars!  Tariffs!  Nuclear threats!  These were the gifts of the three wise men, were they not?  Or perhaps we should get biblical and follow Herod’s mandate.  Killing two-year-old boys isn’t abortion, after all.  After giving birth they’re your problem, not God’s.  You’ve got to get them born—that’s the most important thing.  And since women can’t possibly know what it’s like to be pregnant what are you going to say when they walk out and tell you, “It’s not my problem”?  “Be it unto me,” said Mary.

Shepherds, it should be noted, were the poor.  Ironically that first Christmas the good news was first revealed to them.  Herod, half-insane, kept shifting members of his government around.  He had put away his previous wives—perhaps because they made him pregnant—and assassinated all his rivals.  Unless that’s fake news—the old fox was known for that.  So the immigrant family thought it was safe to return after Herod was removed from office.  Jesus grew to espouse the message of love and acceptance—extending it even to foreigners.  The state, believing itself established by divine right, had him put to death.  It’s Christmas, and we’ve seen all this before.  If only those with eyes would see.  But parables, it seems, have gone out of style.

Dawn’s Early

Early to bed, early to rise, and people’ll think you’re weird. At least in my experience. Making an island into the place where hundreds of thousands have to commute to get to work may not’ve involved a great deal of foresight. My bus leaves early, and I don’t argue. On the days when I work from home I still rise early—I’m old enough that constantly shifting schedules is more effort than it’s worth, so I like to greet the sun with coffee in hand and say to it, “what took you so long?” This time of year I like to jog at first light when I don’t have to commute. As I do so, I notice where the lights are on. You get an idea who sleeps in and who doesn’t.

With all the political nonsense about lazy immigrants, I wonder what time congressional leaders get out of bed. I sometimes go jogging before 5 a.m. The lights I see on at that time of day are often those of the apartment complexes where immigrants tend to live. The affluent houses of the white are generally dark. If you have the luxury of driving to work in one of your cars, you can afford a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest. Immigrants often take the bus. In fact, the majority of early morning commuters, it seems, are not the privileged classes. It may have been Benjamin Franklin who said “Early to work, early to rise,” but it was the foreigners who saw the wisdom of his words.

It’s a sad nation that denigrates its hard workers. I realize I’m looking in the mirror as I write this, but sitting at a desk all day is not hard work. My first job, starting at 14, was physical labor. Most of the time it was light enough—such things as painting curbs, bus shelters, or fences. At other times it involved sledge hammers under the hot sun. The kinds of jobs few people enjoy, but which are necessary. Jobs that don’t pay well, but will keep you alive. Now I sit behind a desk and have to jog just to stay healthy. I see the monied in Midtown walking slowly to their expensive health clubs where they can sweat and let other people see. And I know that there are many out there—immigrants mostly—who are sweating from doing the jobs that likely pay less than the membership fee for this swank gym. And I wonder which is healthy and wise. The wealthy part is fairly obvious, even this early in the morning.

Gaston Avenue Freeze-Out

I was not, as yesterday’s post indicated, looking forward to the renewed commute into New York City. We’ve been having a cold snap here in the Northeast, and although it’s nothing by Midwest standards, standing in it waiting for a bus isn’t the most comfortable of situations. It was cold enough that I didn’t dare take my gloves off to check the time, but my body clock told me the bus was late. The cold was creeping through all my layers and the thermometer said it was in the single digits, and breezy. I’d been a human popsicle for about a quarter of an hour when a pair of headlights pulled in the parking space nearest me. The driver got out—one of the regular commuters on my line—came over and said, “The bus is running late, won’t you sit in my car?” I was truly touched.

It’s easy to think people just don’t care. Those of us on the early morning commute know each other by sight, but not by name. We all awake far too early and put up with expensive, but unreliable bus service. We don’t talk on the bus, each of us using the time as we see fit. It feels like being alone. This offer of kindness was a welcome start to 2018. Many women would be rightfully leery of letting a man they don’t know sit in their car in the dark. Human kindness, however, is a quality that overlooks differences in times of need. She asked what line of work I was in. When I said “publishing” she replied “Ah, so that’s why you read all the time!” I was surprised she even knew that about me. Commuters touch only at the edges, like marbles in a jar.

In the Middle Eastern desert regions there’s a law of hospitality. If you find anyone lost in the wilderness, you help them. It doesn’t matter if they’re a friend, enemy, or stranger. Knowing that anyone might find themselves in such a hostile environment needing help, the tradition is to give assistance. You give water to the person in need. In these days of foreigner-bashing, I feel compelled to note that this woman is not a native-born American. Standing in the exposed cold of my shelterless bus stop I was at the mercy of the weather and human kindness. In a nation bent on expelling “the other” I could’ve had an even more uncomfortable long wait for an expensive government service for which I handsomely pay and which often doesn’t deliver. There are parables everywhere for those with eyes to see.