Yesterday Michael Medved played a recording on his show of a group of some sort singing a song called “Santa Claus Will Take You to Hell.” It put me in mind of anti-Christmas Christians I’ve encountered in the past.

I do not trust such people.

I remember one guy I met years back who was (I’m not making this up) an itinerant Bible teacher and vacuum cleaner salesman. He had inside information informing him that the Christmas tree is not a pretty, festive symbol of eternal life, but a Tammuz Tree, an idol devoted to the Babylonian god Tammuz (whose festival, oddly enough, was in the summer). Anyone putting a “Tammuz Tree” in their home was delivering their household over to Satan, he informed us.

He said that Easter was a heathen festival as well.

I have a lot of respect for the Puritans, whose contribution to our national development has been, I believe, undervalued for a few decades. But they had their blind spots. One was their rejection of Christmas, on the grounds that the Bible nowhere commands the celebration. The logic is simple—we’re only allowed to do what the Bible specifically permits. Thus the principle (which I’ve read as being a Puritan one; correct me if I’ve been misinformed): “Everything not forbidden is mandatory.”

We Pietists had the same problem. “When in doubt, forbid it.” It fostered an attitude toward life that made people reflexively fearful and reluctant to enjoy God’s gifts.

I think we need to remember that the Bible’s picture of Heaven is not an eternal Bible study, nor even an eternal church service.

It’s a party. A wedding feast. And not a Norwegian Lutheran wedding feast, but a Jewish one, where there would be wine and dancing.

I told the vacuum cleaner salesman, before I stormed off in a cloud of cowardice, “I don’t believe Christ came so that we would celebrate less.”

Once again, the eyes of the nation are fixed on Minnesota. Something strange, almost unprecedented, is going on here.

It’s cold out.

The rest of you know nothing of such things, so I thought I’d bring you up to date.



Tonight, as I was checking out at the grocery store, a guy at the end of the conveyer asked me, “Paper or plastic?”

In Minnesota (oddly, I can’t recall how it was in Florida) our major grocery chains all (by which I mean “both”) have “self-service” bagging. This was supposed to save us money back in my youth when it was introduced, but now it’s The Way Things Are Done, and anybody who suggests change is just a troublemaker. So I was confused to have somebody offer to bag my groceries for me. I told him plastic.

“Are you going to want a tip?” I asked, in my best Scrooge voice (and face), as he packed the sacks.

“No,” he said.

“Do you represent some organization?”

He gave the name of the youth group of a Lutheran church I wasn’t familiar with. By an odd coincidence, though, there was a table with a tip jar near the exit, and I felt obligated to drop a buck in as I left. (Which I could have technically avoided, since these people are supposed to ask first. “Would you like me to bag your groceries?” Not, “Paper or plastic?”)

I bet he’s a salesman. I bet he does well at it.

I bet he has no friends.

Anyway, I figure that, statistically, the church I gave the buck to is probably part of The Very Large Lutheran Body That Shall Remain Nameless.

So my money probably went to send the kids to a Transgender Sensitivity Camp or a Jihad Understanding Conference.

Humbug.

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Today is St. Thomas’ Day, and is the 980th anniversary of the death in battle of Erling Skjalgsson, hero of my novel, The Year of the Warrior.

This evening they are holding a commemorative concert at Sola Church, near Stavanger. Wish I could be there.

On an entirely unrelated note, I’ve complained about Earthlink customer service enough times that justice demands I should make it public that I actually had a good experience with them last night, when I finally had to call about my connection problems. I only spent about a minute in call waiting, and the customer service rep got me connected again in about five minutes.

The title of this post comes courtesy of my late father. It was the name he gave to a concoction he sometimes put together for our lunch, when Mom’s job had turned him into a sort of farmer/househusband. He’d clear all the leftovers out of the refrigerator, stir them together in a frying pan, and call it Slumgullion.

Now that I’ve typed it, it occurs to me that I’ve never written that word down in my life before.

Anyway, the idea is that this is a disjointed post, composed of random events out of a random day.

I note with pride that my next door neighbor is grilling his supper out by the garage right now. After the below zero temperatures we’ve endured this week, today’s 20° high felt positively tropical, and he is responding in a manner typical of the bulldog (or bull seal) Minnesota breed.

I’d do the same thing myself, only I don’t happen to own a grill. Otherwise I’d be out there just like him. You betcha. Continue reading Slumgullion →

I’ve heard the call go out to concerned Christians recommending they avoid those retailers who refuse to wish them a very, merry Christmas. Certainly I would be annoyed as an employee if the word came down from Corporate that we must not let those words slip passed our lips. I would probably ignore it until provoking their wrath, and then I don’t know what I’d do. But you and I aren’t working their now; we’re shoppers. Should we avoid certain stores over this?

No. I suggest it would be far better to teach and encourage Christian shoppers to shop as an act of worship to the Lord who provides for them. Some will take that to mean they should buy a verse for their wall, but whatever the learning curve, leaders of the church should lay aside trivial squabbles like merry-christmas-wishing and teach their congregations, radio audiences, and subscribers how to worship the Lord God wholeheartedly in everything–including shopping. We should shop at places providing good products, ones that treat their people well and invest in their community, ones where people we know and trust work.