A Voice, a Chime, a Chant Sublime

[Cross-posted to By Common Consent]

One hundred and sixty-one years ago, on Christmas Day 1863, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote the poem “Christmas Bells.” This poem, of course, became the basis for the well-known--but not, in my observation, particularly popular--hymn, "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day." It wasn't included in our Christmas program in our Mormon congregation this morning, and I wish it had been. 2024, and specifically those of us who have lived through it and must face its consequences, need it.

The poem that Longfellow wrote is inextricable from the Civil War, and the desperation and despair so many felt during those years. By late 1863, the war had dragged on for over 2 1/2 years, his oldest son had run away to join the Union army without his permission and had been gravely wounded in battle, and the horrors of Gettysburg—Lincoln had delivered his famous Address only a month prior—weighed down the country as a whole. Perhaps it is unsurprising that his reflections that Christmas morning were dark ones, with his final stanza perhaps suggesting more faithful determination than any actual hope:

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
    And wild and sweet
    The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
    Had rolled along
    The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
    A voice, a chime,
    A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
    And with the sound
    The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
    And made forlorn
    The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
    "For hate is strong,
    And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
    The Wrong shall fail,
    The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

It is not Wadsworth greatest poem, but it is a good one. And in any case, within ten years the poem, in various versions, was being put to music. In the 20^th century, Bing Crosby recorded the song; so did The Carpenters. Both of them, like many other artists, dropped stanzas 3, 4, and 5; they removed the songs explicit invocations of the Civil War, and instead turned the poem into an abiding message of peace and good will—one that is doubted, briefly, in the next-to-last stanza, but is re-emphasized, both “more loud and deep” in the concluding one: “The Wrong shall fail!”

I am grateful that the version which made it into Mormon hymnbooks took a different approach—not an unknown one, but not, I think, the dominant one either. It is not, on the basis of decades of observation, an oft-sung Christmas song in American Mormon congregations, but it deserves better, if only because of the wisdom of the arranger in ordering the stanzas 1, 2, 6, 7, and then, and only then, 3. Far better for all of us—for everyone who lives, as we all must, as Longfellow himself did, through catastrophes large and small, through daily mistakes and passing triumphs, through rain that falls on the just and the unjust alike—to reflect upon the message which the miracle of the Incarnation, of God the Son being born as a human being, communicates…and then experience evil and suffer our doubts that’s God’s good message may ever be realized…and then be reminded that’s God’s love abides and calls to us despite all opposition…and then, finally, gird up our loins and begin again, day after day after day.

The Mormon hymnbook is currently being revamped--and if "I Heard the Bells" survives into the new version, I would wish for only two changes: turn “Till” to “Then,” and “revolved” to “revolves.” Embrace the idea that this hymn no longer, if it ever entirely was, one man’s Christmas determination to keep hoping though his nation’s greatest peril, but is now rather a benediction on the message of Christmas, a summation as well as an invitation. Yes, the wrong shall fail, but the defeat of the wrong is something God does with us, through us, day after day, year after year, lifetime after lifetime. As the man said, the bells still ring—still sing, still chime, still chant on their call, their eternal, abiding reminder of God's grace and peace--for those who believe.

Then, ringing, singing, on its way,
The world revolves from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

 Merry Christmas!

Blame Christmas

[Cross-posted to By Common Consent]

Towards the end W.H. Auden’s For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio, written 80 years ago, Auden gives an imaginative narrative voice to a marvelously contemporary and thoroughly professional Herod the Great, the man responsible for the Massacre of the Innocents, at least according to Matthew 2:16-18. The Herod of Auden’s prose-poem is a hard-working, highly intelligent, rigorously sensible man, someone wise enough not to imagine that he knows everything, but grounded enough to be confident in the consequences of even that which he does not know. The story of Jesus, he realizes, whether or not it is true, must be stopped immediately, because the masses of people in the world are delicate, desperate, and often deplorable, and in need of the disciplining, dependable myths which are central to the religious and civic order. Allow them to start thinking about God’s relationship to humanity as a personal Gift, as an expression of divine Love, as fundamentally a Mystery, and madness will reign. In imagining Herod in this way, Auden was perhaps updating, and making more relatable, the equally hard-working, highly intelligent, and rigorously sensible Grand Inquisitor of Fyodor Dostoevsky, but honestly, this man is a figure well-known to many of us, and sometimes--especially for people like me who take traditions seriously enough to think they are worth arguing about--maybe is us as well.

Auden’s Herod wasn’t fundamentally wrong: Christmas actually is a Surprise (and a Liberal one too, in its most topsy-turvy and transformative, not its most cramped and Clintonite, sense: the line from the Lords of Misrule to Scrooge dancing and laughing after his--literally--Spiritual experiences to Drag Queen Christmases is pretty obvious, I think). The surprising (and sometimes even harsh) mysteries of forgiveness and liberality and equality and grace completely defined Jesus’s mortal life, at least so far as the Gospels tell us, from beginning to end. So Herod got that right; he just was wrong in thinking that such Surprises, if they are not Explained and Made Accountable and Properly Directed, are a bad thing. They are, on the contrary, as challenging as they can be to those of us with even a little small-c conservative sensibility, the best things possible. So in the spirit of that grace, and of those best things, let's pass the mic for a moment respectfully to those hard-working, highly intelligent, rigorously sensible, and sadly wrong folk who blame Christmas (even without realizing it) for the madness of our world, and will keep on doing so, right up until the moment when God saves their souls, and ours, at the very end.

FOR THE TIME BEING

The Massacre of the Innocents

I. Herod

...Judging by the trio who came to see me this morning with an ecstatic grin on their scholarly faces, the job has been done. “God has been born,” they cried, “we have seen him ourselves. The World is saved. Nothing else matters.”

One needn't be much of a psychologist to realise that if this rumour is not stamped out now, in a few years it is capable of diseasing the whole Empire, and one doesn't have to be a prophet to predict the consequences if it should.

Reason will be replaced by Revelation. Instead of Rational Law, objective truths perceptible to any who will undergo the necessary intellectual discipline, and the same for all, Knowledge will degenerate into a riot of subjective visions--feelings in the solar plexus induced by undernourishment, angelic images generated by fevers or drugs, dream warnings inspired by the sound of falling water. Whole cosmogonies will be created out of some forgotten personal resentment, complete epics written in private languages, the daubs of school children ranked above the greatest masterpieces.

Idealism will be replaced by Materialism....Diverted from its normal and wholesome outlet in patriotism and civic or family pride, the need of the materialistic Masses for some visible ldol to worship will be driven into totally unsocial channels where no education can reach it. Divine honours will be paid to silver tea-pots, shallow depressions in the earth, names on maps, domestic pets, ruined windmills, even in extreme cases, which will become increasingly common, to headaches, or malignant tumors, or four o'clock in the afternoon.

Justice will be replaced by Pity as the cardinal human virtue, and all fear of retribution will vanish. Every corner-boy will congratulate himself: “I'm such a sinner that God had to come down in person to save me. I must be a devil of a fellow.” Every crook will argue: “I like committing crimes. God likes forgiving them. Really the world is admirably arranged.” And the ambition of every young cop will be to secure a death-bed repentance. The New Aristocracy will consist exclusively of hermits, bums, and permanent invalids. The Rough Diamond, the Consumptive Whore, the bandit who is good to his mother, the epileptic girl who has a way with animals will be the heroes and heroines of the New Tragedy when the general, the statesman, and the philosopher have become the butt of every farce and satire.

Naturally this cannot be allowed to happen. Civilisation must be saved even if this means sending for the military as I suppose it does. How dreary. Why is it that in the end civilisation always has to call in these professional tidiers to whom it is all one whether it be Pythagoras or a homicidal lunatic that they are instructed to exterminate? O dear, why couldn't this wretched infant be born somewhere else? Why can't people be sensible? I don't want to be horrid. Why can't they see that the notion of a finite God is absurd? Because it is. And suppose, just for the sake of argument, that it isn't, that this story is true, that this child is in some inexplicable manner both God and Man, that he grows up, lives, and dies, without committing a single sin? Would that make life any better? On the contrary it would make it far, far worse. For it can only mean this: that once having shown them how, God would expect every man, whatever his fortune, to lead a sinless life in the flesh and on earth. Then indeed would the human race be plunged into madness and despair. And for me personally at this moment it would mean that God had given me the power to destroy Himself. I refuse to be taken in, He could not play such a horrible practical joke. Why should He dislike me so? I've worked like a slave. Ask anyone you like. I read all official dispatches without skipping. I've taken elocution lessons. I've hardly ever taken bribes. How dare He allow me to decide? I've tried to be good. I brush my teeth every night. I haven't had sex for a month. I object. I'm a liberal. I want everyone to be happy. I wish I had never been born.

The Osmonds' Christmas, and Ours

[Cross-posted to By Common Consent]

The Osmond Christmas Album came out 45 years ago today, on December 18, 1976. I'm talking the original double-LP, of course, not the corrupt CD version which cut all of Merrill's and Jimmy's songs and was released 15 years later. For American Mormons of a certain age, the original--all 20 tracks of it--was an essential part of the holiday canon. It generated intense discussions of Mormon-specific trivia (was Donny singing to his then-girlfriend Debbie on "This Christmas Eve"?), gave rise to heated debates about family rules (surely, because it was the Osmonds and it was the holidays, we could play "Sleigh Ride" on Sundays, couldn't we?), and required parental intervention as arguments broke out over who was better at picking up and dropping the needle without scratching the vinyl when it came to skipping over "If Santa Were My Daddy" (which, of course, everyone did). Anyway, listen to the full thing here, if you feel so inclined (I have the original recorded onto a cassette tape--which, miraculously, I think 33 years on, still plays). Or watch the 1976 special, broadcast the day before the album was released. Man, Paul Lynde wasn't remotely Mormon, but I think he kind of loved my tribe, nonetheless.

Christmastime, Still (Sometimes) in the Dark

[Cross-posted to By Common Consent]

I woke up this morning early, the day following last night's arrival of the Winter Solstice, of Midwinter, giving us the shortest and darkest day of the year (at least in the northern hemisphere). The only light in the house was from our tomten display--the nissen and gnomes who watch over our home, every Christmas season. Did someone forget to unplug the lights, as we are supposed to before everyone goes to sleep? Or did our watchful friends want to remind us of something? I wouldn't doubt the latter at all. The whole house is silent, but that's understandable; after all, as Astrid Lindgren taught us long ago, the tomten speak a "silent little language," that presumably only our dog Stella could understand.

Exactly ten years ago, I wrote about the way some of our family's holiday traditions revolve around the silence, and the dark. Well, children grow, and times change (as Lindgren wrote, "winters come, and winters go"). Some of our story-telling traditions have been retired, perhaps to return when our children return with their children. But midwinter still comes every year, and I remember (or am reminded, by our small, silent wintertime companions), of all that is happening out there in the darkness. So I am reposting it below. I teach Sunday school in our congregation, but still, this is not a lesson that I would teach this Sabbath day, the final Sunday of Advent. More's the pity, perhaps. Anyway, there will be family and friends at our home this evening all the same, as some traditions endure, even as they change. So this foggy, silent morning, I listen to the day's most appropriate carol (whether you prefer the majestic version, or the humble one) and I am thankful for a God--and, perhaps, His little servants--who moves in the dark.

*****

Each Christmas season, usually right around this date, we have a story night: we get the kids together, and sometimes some friends, and turn out the lights and burn some candles and drink hot cocoa and share stories. Maybe we read them, and sometimes we tell them from memory. Old stories, new stories, fables, poems, scriptures, whatever. Given the ages of our girls, it often descends into silliness, but not always. Anything is allowed, really, just so long at involves something spoken, into a dimly lit room, to chase away the dark.

Christmas is a celebration of light, right? That's part of the old idea, anyway, carried down by who knows how many traditions. Celebrating the birth of the Light of the World right around when the globe turns ever so slightly, and days start to grow longer again, is pretty well grounded historically, besides making perfect theological sense. (Even us Mormons, who sometimes like to make a big deal about rejecting much of traditional Christian practice, can't deny that.) But of course, the light of the season takes place in the midst of darkness--it, in a way, depends upon the darkness, you might say. The star the wise men followed couldn't be seen in the daytime. The shepherds were terrified and entranced by an angelic call and choir coming to them from out of night sky. And, of course, there is likely a deeper darkness lurking through the whole story: Joseph's desperation in his search for a place for his pregnant wife to rest, Herod's implacable determination to murder a prophecy before it can threaten his reign. Clearly, the doubts and dangers of the dark are there, right from the beginning of the story.

And they've never left the story, have they? Jesus lived and died and was resurrected, and left His followers behind, to spread His gospel and bless the world with His gifts. So Christians gave gifts to each other, some of whom--the St. Nicholases, among others--helping to in time to turn an essential Christian principle into something larger. As these gift-givers of all sorts spread throughout the world, they picked up stories to go along with them, and not all of the stories were filled with light. Some, by contrast, were dark. Krampus. Zwarte Piet. Père Fouettard. Belsnickel. And my favorite, Knecht Ruprecht, whose appearance and role in these stories (all having to do with those undeserving of gifts, or who use their gifts dismissively, being punished) obviously ties him to even deeper, older stories, stories of the wintertime and seeking protection and blessings in the midst of the darkness which the gift-giving of the Christmas season only fleshed out and gave greater meaning to: the tomte, hobs, kobolds and goblins throughout Western and Northern Europe, from which our modern interpretation of that power contained in Christmastime draws so much of its force.

We have a tomten in our home. He doesn't come out very often, but come St. Andrew's Day, we make sure he's given a position of prominence. He sits up on a high ledge over our kitchen and living room, every Christmas season, watching (and maybe reporting) on us. I confess I've never seen him move--but then, I wouldn't, would I? Just as I've never seen Santa Claus, but I know he's out there, in some form or fashion, somewhere, I trust that there are tomte all around us. They're likely much older than any of us, but beyond that I wouldn't guess what they're role in the eternal scheme of things may be. But these little guys--lurking about in the dark, unpredictable, maybe irascible, sometimes cute but occasionally frightening, perhaps somewhat damaged by all the time they've spent in the shadows and in the nooks and crannies of our homes and our collective consciousness--seem to be very part of the whole matter of gift-giving, in particular the gift-giving that makes it possible to get through cold winter nights.

Best to trust that they'll do their business, whatever it may be, and leave them otherwise alone, I say. Literature and scriptures alike are full of stories of those who try, usually to their detriment, to get too close to whatever God is doing in the dark. That He is doing something is undeniable; whatever we want to make of the story of Job, we can't pretend it's anything other than God making use of Satan, the tempter and tester, the wicked (but wise?) Adversary who goes "to and fro" across the earth, watching us from dark corners and the recesses of our hearts. Cain got too close to the dark, and he ended up a wanderer too. As did Gollum as well, of course. And the Walker.

You don't know about the Walker? Shame on you, for allowing Midwinter's Day to arrive, and for not having picked up your old copy of Susan Cooper's beautiful, evocative story, The Dark is Rising, which tells the tale of Will Stanton, an eleven-year-old boy, who finds himself caught up in a struggle for the soul of England (and perhaps the world), fighting the power of the Dark, and those it has misled and betrayed, the Walker--a man from the 13th century, who had been doomed to wander the earth until Will, the last of the Old Ones, was born--being only the most tragic example. It's not a perfect book by any means, but it is perhaps perfect for today. And no scene better captures the drama contained in all stories of gifts in wintertime than Will's confrontation, on Christmas Day, with the power of the Dark, as it attempts to destroy him during worship services in his local parish church. Fortunately, he is not alone--and he has gifts (treasured Signs, conveyed through the centuries to his hands) to help him withstand a power that had destroyed the minds of others:

Will, seeing some figures move towards the door out of the shadows, realised that the church was not empty after all. Down there by the little twelfth-century font, he saw Farmer Dawson, Old George, and Old George's son John, the smith, with his silent wife. The Old Ones of the Circle were waiting for him, to support him against whatever lurked outside....

"All ready, Will?" said the rector genially, pulling on his overcoat...

"No," Will said. "That is--no." He was trying desperately to think of some way of getting the two of them outside the church before he came near the door himself. Before--before whatever might happen did happen. By the church door he could see the Old Ones move slowly into a tight group, supporting one another. He could feel the force now very strong, very close, all around, the air was think with it; outside the church was destruction and chaos, the heart of the Dark, and he could think of nothing that he could do to turn it aside. Then as the rector and Paul [Will's older brother] turned to walk through the nave, he saw both of them pause in the same instant, and their heads go up like the heads of wild deer on the alert. It was too late now; the voice of the dark was so loud now that even humans could sense its power.

Paul staggered, as if someone had pushed him in the chest, and grabbed a pew for support. "What is that?" he said huskily. "Rector? What on earth is it?"

Mr. Beaumont had turned very white. There was a glistening of sweat on his forehead, though the church was very cold again now. "Nothing on earth, I think, perhaps," he said. "God forgive me." And he stumbled a few paces nearer the door, like a man struggling through waves in the sea, and leaning forward slightly made a sweeping sign of the Cross. He stammered out, "Defend us they humble servants in all assaults of our enemies; that we, surely trusting in thy defence, may not fear the power of any adversaries..."

Farmer Dawson said very quietly but clearly from the group beside the door, "No, Rector."

The rector seemed not to hear him. His eyes were wide, staring out at the snow; he stood transfixed, he shook like a man with a fever, the sweat came running down his cheeks. He managed to half-raise one arm and point behind him: "...vestry..." he gasped out. "...book, on table...exorcise..."

"Poor brave fellow," said John Smith in the Old Speech. "This battle is not for his fighting. He is bound to think so, of course, being in his church."

"Be easy, Reverend," said his wife in English; her voice was soft and gentle, strongly of the country. The rector stared at her like a frightened animal, but by now all his powers of speech and movement had been taken away.

Frank Dawson said: "Come here, Will"....

Each of the Old Ones touched him gently as he came into the group, as if joining him to them, and Farmer Dawson took him by the shoulder. He said, "We must do something to protect those two, Will, or their minds will bend. They cannot stand the pressure, the Dark will send them mad. You have the power, and the rest of us do not."

The resulting confrontation is the most dramatic of many such confrontations in the book; it is the first time the Signs of Power had been properly used in centuries: the first time in many generations which the Light, used by one who fully understood its power, could be used directly against the Dark. And what is to be make of these Signs: crossed circles made of bronze, stone, iron and wood, which Will has found and threaded through his belt?

When the light went out of the Signs, Paul and rector stirred. They opened their eyes, started to find themselves sitting in a pew when a moment ago--it seemed to them--they had been standing. Paul jumped up instinctively, his head turning, questing. "It's gone!" he said. He looked at Will, and peculiar expression of puzzlement and wonder and awe came over his face. His eyes travelled down to the belt in Will's hands. "What happened?" he said.

The rector stood up, his smooth plump face creased in an effort to make sense of the incomprehensible. "Certainly it has gone," he said, looking slowly round the church. "Whatever--influence it was. The Lord be praised." He too looked at the Signs on Will's belt, and he glanced up again, smiling suddenly, an almost childish smith of relief and delight. "That did the work, didn't it? The cross. Not of the church, but a Christian cross, nonetheless."

"Very old, them crosses are, rector," said Old George unexpectedly, firm and clear. "Made a long time before Christianity. Long before Christ."

The rector beamed at him. "But not before God," he said simply.

Rightly said. I think Christmas Day, like any day--including Midwinter's--is a gift to us, a gift that began with a power far beyond ours, a gift that, for all I or anyone knows, involves beings and histories and events taking place well outside of my eyesight, in dark places that He'll light for me, but only when and if needed. I need to be reminded of that. I need to respect that God, and the gift of the Son, born, very possibly, sometime in the midst of the cold and dark, may have had it work that way for a reason. A reason, to be sure, that I don't fully understand...but I can tell stories about it nonetheless.

And so tonight we'll tell stories by candlelight: funny stories, scary stories, Christmas stories. It's the right time of year to do it. Some of the stories we'll tell we've heard before, of course, but that's all right. Even the best and oldest and most well-worn stories--stories about frightened shepherds, and mysterious strangers, and a young couple in trouble and all alone--sound like new, when you tell them in the dark.

Five Silent Nights (Plus One)

[Cross-posted to By Common Consent]

Probably just about right now (or if not now, then within the next few hours), in Oberndorf, Austria, at Central European Standard time, many are or will be celebrating the 200th anniversary of the very first time "Stille Nacht" was ever performed. The lyrics had been written a couple of years earlier by Father Joseph Mohr, while the music was composed by Franz Xaver Gruber, an organist and schoolmaster in a nearby village, for the Christmas Eve services Mohr would be conducting on December 24, 1818. Legend has it the organ was broken, and so Mohr asked for the composition to be for two solo voices, with guitar accompaniment, but the truth of that story is unknown. What is known is that John Denver was right--this song has become, very simply, "the most beloved of all Christmas carols." Here are five versions that matter a great deal to me.



Low's very traditional version is reminiscent of Simon and Garfunkel's approach in "7 O'Clock News/Silent Night," but I think it's better to let the song speak for itself, rather than enlisting it into a rather unsubtle ironic statement, however earnestly meant.



I can't speak much German anymore--never could speak very much in the first place, really; I only had to get to the point where I could do some reading and translating during graduate school. But Melissa and I both have long agreed upon our affection for the carol's original German lyrics, and why not hear them sung by the Wiener Sängerknaben (the Vienna Boys Choir)? "Christ in deiner Geburt!" indeed.



A beautiful contemporary version by Sinéad O'Connor, recorded in 1991. There was a weird video made along with it, which strikes me as having been part of some long-forgotten Christmas special or public service announcement; much better is this live version where O'Connor performs the song with the English [Correction, 1/9/2019--Ack! Irish! My apologies!] group Westlife, and her quiet humor and deep Irish brogue are on full display.



I came late to gospel in my life, unfortunately. But now, sometimes, I really need it--and that means I need Mahalia Jackson. So do you.



My sentimental favorite is the recording by Mannheim Steamroller, which delicately, hauntingly, and brilliantly turned Stille Nacht into a song about winter's silences, and in particular about those glimmers of light--dare I say grace?--that come to us, comforting us, on dark winter nights. I first started listening to this version late on Christmas Eves many years ago, and when Advent comes to its conclusion, I still seek it out. I also decided long ago that the bells that quietly come in at the very, very end is, of course, Santa (who is real, by the way) arriving on his sleigh. Listen for yourself. I'm not wrong.

Have wonderful night tonight, everyone. And a wonderful Christmas tomorrow.

(Oh, all right: let's get John Denver and the Muppets in here too.)

The Worst Christmas Specials Ever. Still.

Exactly ten years ago I shared this wonderful relic of the Olde Days of the Blogosphere, by John Scalzi. It was old then, and it's even older now. Still make me laugh, though. Maybe it will you too.

An Algonquin Round Table Christmas (1927)
Alexander Woolcott, Franklin Pierce Adams, George Kaufman, Robert Benchley and Dorothy Parker were the stars of this 1927 NBC Red radio network special, one of the earliest Christmas specials ever performed. Unfortunately the principals, lured to the table for an unusual evening gathering by the promise of free drinks and pirogies, appeared unaware they were live and on the air, avoiding witty seasonal banter to concentrate on trashing absent Round Tabler Edna Ferber’s latest novel, Mother Knows Best, and complaining, in progressively drunken fashion, about their lack of sex lives. Seasonal material of a sort finally appears in the 23rd minute when Dorothy Parker, already on her fifth drink, can be heard to remark, “one more of these and I’ll be sliding down Santa’s chimney.” The feed was cut shortly thereafter. NBC Red’s 1928 holiday special “Christmas with the Fitzgeralds” was similarly unsuccessful.

The Mercury Theater of the Air Presents the Assassination of Saint Nicholas (1939)
Listeners of radio’s Columbia Broadcasting System who tuned in to hear a Christmas Eve rendition of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol were shocked when they heard what appeared to be a newscast from the north pole, reporting that Santa’s Workshop had been overrun in a blitzkrieg by Finnish proxies of the Nazi German government. The newscast, a hoax created by 20-something wunderkind Orson Wells as a seasonal allegory about the spread of Fascism in Europe, was so successful that few listeners stayed to listen until the end, when St. Nick emerged from the smoking ruins of his workshop to deliver a rousing call to action against the authoritarian tide and to urge peace on Earth, good will toward men and expound on the joys of a hot cup of Mercury Theater of Air’s sponsor Campbell’s soup. Instead, tens of thousands of New York City children mobbed the Macy’s Department Store on 34th, long presumed to be Santa’s New York embassy, and sang Christmas carols in wee, sobbing tones. Only a midnight appearance of New York mayor Fiorello LaGuardia in full Santa getup quelled the agitated tykes. Welles, now a hunted man on the Eastern seaboard, decamped for Hollywood shortly thereafter.

Ayn Rand’s A Selfish Christmas (1951)
In this hour-long radio drama, Santa struggles with the increasing demands of providing gifts for millions of spoiled, ungrateful brats across the world, until a single elf, in the engineering department of his workshop, convinces Santa to go on strike. The special ends with the entropic collapse of the civilization of takers and the spectacle of children trudging across the bitterly cold, dark tundra to offer Santa cash for his services, acknowledging at last that his genius makes the gifts — and therefore Christmas — possible. Prior to broadcast, Mutual Broadcast System executives raised objections to the radio play, noting that 56 minutes of the hour-long broadcast went to a philosophical manifesto by the elf and of the four remaining minutes, three went to a love scene between Santa and the cold, practical Mrs. Claus that was rendered into radio through the use of grunts and the shattering of several dozen whiskey tumblers. In later letters, Rand sneeringly described these executives as “anti-life.”

The Lost Star Trek Christmas Episode: “A Most Illogical Holiday” (1968)
Mr. Spock, with his pointy ears, is hailed as a messiah on a wintry world where elves toil for a mysterious master, revealed to be Santa just prior to the first commercial break. Santa, enraged, kills Ensign Jones and attacks the Enterprise in his sleigh. As Scotty works to keep the power flowing to the shields, Kirk and Bones infiltrate Santa’s headquarters. With the help of the comely and lonely Mrs. Claus, Kirk is led to the heart of the workshop, where he learns the truth: Santa is himself a pawn to a master computer, whose initial program is based on an ancient book of children’s Christmas tales. Kirk engages the master computer in a battle of wits, demanding the computer explain how it is physically possible for Santa to deliver gifts to all the children in the universe in a single night. The master computer, confronted with this computational anomaly, self-destructs; Santa, freed from mental enslavement, releases the elves and begins a new, democratic society. Back on the ship, Bones and Spock bicker about the meaning of Christmas, an argument which ends when Scotty appears on the bridge with egg nog made with Romulan Ale.

Filmed during the series’ run, this episode was never shown on network television and was offered in syndication only once, in 1975. Star Trek fans hint the episode was later personally destroyed by Gene Roddenberry. Rumor suggests Harlan Ellison may have written the original script; asked about the episode at 1978’s IgunaCon II science fiction convention, however, Ellison described the episode as “a quiescently glistening cherem of pus.”

Bob & Carol & Ted & Santa (1973)
This ABC Christmas special featured Santa as a happy-go-lucky swinger who comically wades into the marital bed of two neurotic 70s couples, and also the music of the Carpenters. It was screened for television critics but shelved by the network when the critics, assembled at ABC’s New York offices, rose as one to strangle the producers at the post-viewing interview. Joel Siegel would later write, “When Santa did his striptease for Carol while Karen Carpenter sang ‘Top of the World’ and peered through an open window, we all looked at each other and knew that we television critics, of all people, had been called upon to defend Western Civilization. We dared not fail.”

A Muppet Christmas with Zbigniew Brzezinski (1978)
A year before their rather more successful Christmas pairing with John Denver, the Muppets joined Carter Administration National Security Advisor Brezezinski for an evening of fun, song, and anticommunist rhetoric. While those who remember the show recall the pairing of Brzezinki and Miss Piggy for a duet of “Winter Wonderland” as winsomely enchanting, the scenes where the NSA head explains the true meaning of Christmas to an assemblage of Muppets dressed as Afghan mujahideen was incongruous and disturbing even then. Washington rumor, unsupported by any Carter administration member, suggests that President Carter had this Christmas special on a repeating loop while he drafted his infamous “Malaise” speech.

The Village People in Can’t Stop the Christmas Music — On Ice! (1980)
Undeterred by the miserable flop of the movie Can’t Stop the Music!, last place television network NBC aired this special, in which music group the Village People mobilize to save Christmas after Santa Claus (Paul Lynde) experiences a hernia. Thus follows several musical sequences — on ice! — where the Village People move Santa’s Workshop to Christopher Street, enlist their friends to become elves with an adapted version of their hit “In The Navy,” and draft film co-star Bruce Jenner to become the new Santa in a sequence which involves stripping the 1976 gold medal decathlon winner to his shorts, shaving and oiling his chest, and outfitting him in fur-trimmed red briefs and crimson leathers to a disco version of “Come O Ye Faithful.” Peggy Fleming, Shields and Yarnell and Lorna Luft co-star.

Interestingly, there is no reliable data regarding the ratings for this show, as the Nielsen diaries for this week were accidentally consumed by fire. Show producers estimate that one in ten Americans tuned in to at least part of the show, but more conservative estimates place the audience at no more than two or three percent, tops.

A Canadian Christmas with David Cronenberg (1986)
Faced with Canadian content requirements but no new programming, the Canadian Broadcasting Company turned to Canadian director David Cronenberg, hot off his success with Scanners and The Fly, to fill the seasonal gap. In this 90-minute event, Santa (Michael Ironside) makes an emergency landing in the Northwest Territories, where he is exposed to a previously unknown virus after being attacked by a violent moose. The virus causes Santa to develop both a large, tooth-bearing orifice in his belly and a lustful hunger for human flesh, which he sates by graphically devouring Canadian celebrities Bryan Adams, Dan Ackroyd and Gordie Howe on national television. Music by Neil Young.

Noam Chomsky: Deconstructing Christmas (1998)
This PBS/WGBH special featured linguist and social commentator Chomsky sitting at a desk, explaining how the development of the commercial Christmas season directly relates to the loss of individual freedoms in the United States and the subjugation of indigenous people in southeast Asia. Despite a rave review by Z magazine, musical guest Zach de la Rocha and the concession by Chomsky to wear a seasonal hat for a younger demographic appeal, this is known to be the least requested Christmas special ever made.

Christmas with the Nuge (2002)
Spurred by the success of The Osbournes on sister network MTV, cable network VH1 contracted zany hard rocker Ted Nugent to help create a “reality” Christmas special. Nugent responded with a special that features the Motor City Madman bowhunting, and then making jerky from, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree, all specially flown in to Nugent’s Michigan compound for the occasion. In the second half of the hour-long special, Nugent heckles vegetarian Night Ranger/Damn Yankees bassist Jack Blades into consuming three strips of dove jerky. Fearing the inevitable PETA protest, and boycotts from Moby and Pam Anderson, VH1 never aired the special, which is available solely by special order at the Nuge Store on TedNugent.com.

What Christmases with Dad Taught Us (Occasionally Even on Purpose)

For us kids, it’s our first Christmas ever without our father, Jim Fox, around–because he really was always around, even if we were far away from him. He would be on the other end of the telephone line, and he would be in our prayers, and we would be in his. And for Mom, of course, it’s the first Christmas without Dad in over a half-century. There’s a gap in all of our celebrations, in all of our thoughts this year, whether large or small (probably both, depending on what else in on our mind at any particular point in time). I don’t want to add to that gap. Instead, I want to fill it, fill it with memories and reflections of Dad at Christmastime that are happy, funny, ridiculous, at most bittersweet, and almost entirely non-fictional. Going around to all the children, asking for things they remembered about and things they learned from Dad, associated with this season, this is what I came up with. It's my Christmas present to my family, to Mom and to all nine of us kids: Samatha, Daniel, Russell (that's me), Stuart, Abraham, Jesse, Philip, Marjorie, and Baden. And, of course, for anyone who remembers Jim Fox and who happens to read it, I guess.

December 23, 2016

Sam

“I remember the love we all had for the Osmond Christmas album [Sam is, of course, referring to the original 1976 double-LP version, not the later, truncated, no-Merrill CD version], and how we would listen to it all through December. Dad would say that their recording of ‘Sleigh Ride’ was not appropriate for the Sabbath...but we all still listened and danced to it. We still listen to that album today.”

When I describe Dad to other people, as I have done often over the past months, I use words like charismatic, confident, commanding, and so forth; I talk about his determination, his focus, and the clarity of his vision of life. The conclusion which most people immediately come to is that we were raised in a strict home–and that’s always a little hard for me to process, because while others may have experienced differently than me, I never really saw Dad as strict, as a hard-nosed rule-enforcer. Rather, there were the certain things just absolutely had to be done–like all of us going to church, for example–and then a whole lot of stuff which Dad was...well, maybe a little too busy to follow up on. He clearly had opinions about music, movies, books, art in general, but he was not Puritan, not someone who was going to make a federal case about a rocking Christmas song or two, even on a Sunday! In a surprising number of ways, Dad really did follow Joseph Smith’s dictum: teach them correct principles, and let them govern themselves.

Dan

“One of the great Christmas memories is the time of THE GREAT SNOW FORT up at Foxhill.  What an incredibly fun time we had building this awesome fort that you could literally stand up in.  In the end it was something like ten feet tall!”

After some investigation, we’ve determined that this was the winter of 1999, when Dan and Lori’s family, and Abe and Betsy’s, joined Marjorie and Baden and Mom and Dad for the first Christmas up at Foxhill. What an appropriate occasion for the storm! Everyone agreed that Dad may not have actually enjoyed cold weather itself, but he enjoyed the challenge of snow. He took pride and pleasure out of plowing up, helping others drive in it (multiple memories of Dad leading the way up to Foxhill in his truck as the children slowly followed in their cars, occasionally with him chaining the cars behind him to his vehicle as he confidently drove up through the snow)–and he loved being able to enable his kids to play in the snow, whether that was plowing a massive sledding hill at the house on Saltese Rd., or getting together, as Daniel remembers, with his kids to make a snow fort. Dad was a builder, and loved the challenge which nature posed when he aimed to impose his constructive will upon the world.

Russ

Of course, “imposing his constructive will upon the world” doesn’t have a perfect track record, because, you know, sometimes the world doesn’t want to be imposed upon, and resists. And sometimes you just have to declare a draw. So one year, at the house of Saltese, Dad really came through: he came home with a tall, sparse pine tree that had to have been more than 15 ft. tall, maybe more than 20 ft. As the living room in the Saltese home had an open ceiling that went way up high, we had room for it...the problem was, how on earth to get it into the living room in the first place? Taking the front door off its hinges wouldn’t give us any more space then just opening it; what about removing the sliding glass doors on the deck? Alas, that would involve some serious damage to the siding. So instead, we just bent back the branches and rammed it through, shedding thousands of needles and hundreds of tiny twigs everywhere on the living room carpet. But at least it’s inside! Then there’s the problem that we don’t have a tree stand that can handle a monster like this. So, get the ladder and some twine, and we’ll connect lines of support from the to the ceiling beams that ran across the room. It was very difficult to decorate, because our step ladder was limited in its ability to get us up close to the branches the higher we went, and I don’t even remember if we got a star on top (I’m not sure we could see it if there was one, anyway). In the end, we lost probably a third of the walking space in our normally huge living room, and the ceiling looked like there were giant spiders living there, but hey: Dad got his way! As he usually did. (Whether it was a way worth pursuing is, well, a different question.)

Stu

“One Christmas Eve at the Timberlane house, I was three or four at the time I think, I remember being half asleep late at night and thinking I heard Santa downstairs. I recall having the covers up to my nose, afraid to look at the doorway--I slept on the bottom bunk in that upstairs room. Finally I got brave enough to turn my head, and there was a massive shadow in the door. SANTA WAS LOOKING IN MY ROOM! I turned quickly away, a little scared--but also reassured. Santa was here--he was watching over me--and there would be presents. All was well in the world.”

I wouldn’t want to compare Dad with Santa Claus, or Jesus for that matter–but he really was a watcher, wasn’t he? He was a recorder of the family, always keeping track of what we were up to, following up on us, knocking on our bedroom doors, asking us about our thoughts and plans and activities. Dad geeked out over the VHS camera, just as he had geeked out over the 35mm film camera he’d had before that. He would sit and record our Christmases, just as he would record our family vacations, the trips he and Mom would go on to pick up their children from missions, and so much more. He was not, to be sure, the most skilled of cameramen; Phil or anyone else who has gone through the hundreds of ours of videotape which have survived the decades will testify of that. Similarly, he probably wasn’t necessarily the most skilled or compassionate or open-minded or witty of interlocutors; there are few experiences that any of kids could relate that wouldn’t, sooner or later, be brought back to a well-worn gospel lesson or something Dad learned from a business deal or a golf game. But so what? He was watching, listening, recording, responding–he was there. We always knew Dad was going to be there. As that really did mean that, “all was well in the world.”

Abe

“One Christmas that I remember very well was the one when Dad let me stay up WAY LATE with him, both of us watching The Sting on Christmas Eve.....me watching more than he because he was putting together Marjorie's MASSIVE Strawberry Shortcake Dollhouse....and it took the WHOLE movie. That’s a cherished just Dad and Abe memory of mine. I seem to feel like it was just the two of us there in the room, watching....but maybe another older person or two were with us. But definitely no one younger than me was there. It was special that he let me stay up with him.”

Dad was a busy man, we all know that. (I can remember quite clearly thinking, when I was just a child, way back when Dad was in a bishopric for the first time, “Why is Dad so busy all the time?”) And yet, his busy-ness never stopped him from, every once in a while, without warning, choosing to throw the “rules” to the wind and treat us with something special–maybe something one-on-one, something we didn’t expect, something which we treasured all the more because it was so unlike Dad. I can remember Dad shocking Daniel, Stuart, and I one time by offering to play a game of Dungeons and Dragons with us–we all have stories like that. Abe’s memory fits with this element of Dad. For all of us who have stayed up late assembling our kids’ presents before: can you picture Dad, with the instruction manual laid out beside of him (but of course he’s not looking at it, because he never did; it was just a way to get it out of the way), the movie playing on the television set, the rest of the room quiet, with Dad diligently going about Santa Claus’s work...and Abe–being judged instantly by Dad as old enough, and responsible enough–being invited to sit down and be part of the late night project? I can picture it–and it bugs me that I think I’ve never done the same for any of my children, instead preferring to send them back to their beds. Sometimes, you just need to be willing to change things up, I guess.

Jess

“Three years ago we had the idea to cut down a tree on Foxhill for our Christmas tree. The first year we went out was a success and we found a perfect tree. To our surprise and enjoyment, Dad had just made a batch of vegetable soup with sliced sausage. We were all cold and tired from the hike and cutting down the tree, and so our whole family happily devoured the soup with Mom and Dad. They loved listening to our kids talk about the experience of cutting down the tree, etc. Anyway, things went so well the first year we decided to make it a tradition and go again. The following year, Dad had the soup all prepared and we loved the whole experience again. We even came across a tree that had fallen and was blocking the trail. I and a few of us stayed behind after we chopped down our tree to clear the path. When Dad heard that we were still on the path cutting up a fallen tree, he jumped on a four wheeler and came to the rescue with a chain saw. He cut up the tree swiftly so we could all come back to the house and enjoy his soup.”

Going along with Abe’s memory above–Dad knew that there were things expected by us kids, and he knew that sometimes he needed to challenge us in our expectations, goad us, encourage us, push us...and then sometimes, he knew (especially as we got older) that he just needed to be there, and play his role, and allow the expected memories to happen. Dad was our ringleader in so many ways, but sometimes–in the same sort of treasured, unexpected moments such as Abe mentioned above–he would become a supporting player, someone who was ready to serve and support us as we went after our own goals, with our own families and our own plans. For someone with as inexhaustible energy levels as Dad, it must have been an odd transition for him to move in the direction of letting his kids decide things, with him being an enabler of us kids, rather than an instigator. That’s something which Melissa and I struggle with today, as I’m sure all of the older children (one of whom is already a grandparent herself!). But Dad sometimes knew he had to do just that, and did it very well.

Phil

“I am not 100% confident in this memory, but I believe my love for The Story of the Other Wise Man came from Dad’s love for that story as well.”

Dad’s approach to the gospel wasn’t doctrine and scriptures, doctrine and scriptures, doctrine and scriptures, all the time, even if it sometimes seemed that way. No, Dad also had a sentimental, even cheesy side–and sweet, simple stories like van Dyke’s (which other families confirm Dad did know and like, and would share with his grandkids on occasion) were an important part of his faith, along with all the books written by general authorities and all the books those general authorities themselves would often cite. Can anyone else remember the stories he would read, when we older kids were young, from He Walked the Americas? A bunch of Native American folktales, re-told and re-purposed, into something that he could weave into gospel lessons that he would draw out of the Book of Mormon. Ditto for this quaint, lovely, faith-promoting story of Christmas; it’s the sort of thing that fit that less remarked upon side of Dad’s own testimony of God very well.

Marjorie and Baden mentioned the same memory, or at least the same context for the Christmas/wintertime memories they shared, so I’m putting them together:

Marj

“Those one-on-one chairlift rides while skiing were so memorable. We had wonderful one-on-one conversations. I remember being on the chairlift with Dad once, just talking, and he told me that, for him, it was never a question of ‘if ‘ he was going to make $1 million; but ‘when.” He taught me about having the right mindset. And also, those trips showed us that Dad was the hard worker with the right priorities. One time, I found out that Dad had been at the office working until 2 AM, getting everything done that he needed to, so that he could take the following day off, to take us skiing. It made me feel so loved, that he would work so hard, so that he could spend an entire day with us.”

Bay

“Probably some of my more fond memories with Dad, winter, and Christmas are wrapped up with our skiing trips. I am scared of thrills in general so there was a lot about actually skiing that scared me. But Dad always stuck with me. We went slow but we had fun. Whether it was at Heavenly, Big Sky, or Park City, he was always with me, going slowly along, steadily. I think I finally left him behind for uncharted powder at Heavenly one year; it was only then that I was brave enough. Of course, it wasn’t just the skiing. I remember one time driving up to Mount Spokane in the red, old, stick shift Subaru. I was 15, I think. There is a spot on the way up where there is a long curve that meets up with the intersecting road. There is a stop sign before the road connects. I remember slowing a little and then just running it because there was no one around. Dad just said ‘no!’ with his low serious tone and I think I said ‘Sorry, I won't do it again!’ But we still had a fun day skiing.”

Dad was a constant teacher, even while doing something fun, something outside, something in the cold weather! But maybe even more important than what he taught all us kids, was how he taught us. Dad modeled for us the kind of teaching (patient, observant, conscientious) we should strive to make a part of our lives, and the kind of work (determined, efficient, responsible) that would be an essential part of that teaching–and, last but not least, the kind of disciplining (“reproving betimes with sharpness” indeed!) we might need to make use of in connection with that work and teaching as well. How well have any of us absorbed all these lessons which Dad taught us, and the example he provided for us, on those ski slopes and throughout all these Christmases over the years? (Particularly those of us old enough that we mostly missed out on the skiing years, grumble, grumble?) Almost certainly the answer is: not as well as we should. But we’ll keep trying–and fortunately, we have these memories to help us along the way.

Merry Christmas, Mom and everyone. And merry Christmas to Dad as well! Whatever else he may be doing, I’m sure he’ll spend the holiday watching, and working, and laughing, as he always did. Let’s all do the same.