Marc Chagall

What I find ironic about resisting Jesus is that it’s nothing new. When Jesus began to preach, he accompanied his words with miracles. The blind saw, the deaf heard, and lepers were healed. His enemies could not dispute his miracles—too many witnesses—so they disputed his words. They do so to this day. I say let them. When I come across atheist scum, I do not reach for my gun, nor do I reach for the crucifix around my neck. Someone better than the little Greek boy will take care of them later on, or perhaps sooner than they think.

The West’s success, including the rise of science, rested entirely on religious foundations, and the people who brought it about were devout Christians. So says Rodney Stark in his The Victory of Reason. According to Stark, Christianity alone among the world’s religions conceived a coherent world which worked through applying reason and logic. Nothing new, says the great religious scholar Taki. In their mistaken idealism, even the Ancient Greeks accorded their genius to gods, however human they made them out to be. Once Jesus was revealed, it all made sense. 

A godless Christmas seems to me a very sad and morbid occasion. For strutting atheists, it is a very bad time. And it’s getting worse. The war on Christmas has failed as stores, schools, and public places have had enough of the secular bullies. Christmas trees are again called Christmas trees rather than holiday trees, and it’s fine to wish someone a happy Christmas without being called an anti-Semite or a bigot. As always, the bad guys overplayed their hand. 

Which I did, too. Too many Christmas parties have left me looking like Peter Lorre after Bogie got through with him in The Maltese Falcon. The Big Bagel knows how to celebrate Christmas. Everyone gives parties, and at times it seems everyone invited the poor little Greek boy to shorten the time until he meets his maker. It started on December 2nd, on my son’s birthday party in his Brooklyn flat, where I met a beautiful 24-year-old named Flora from Edinburgh University. Of course, nothing can compare with my Low Life colleague’s meetings with the “Cow Girl.” My English friends who came over for a brief visit couldn’t wait to read the next installment. “What about High Life?” I asked them. “Don’t you find it fun anymore?” “Oh, yes, it’s OK, but I literally can’t wait to read what happens next with old Jeremy,” said his onetime host Tim Hoare as he finished the third bottle of very expensive vino. 

Oh well, Jeremy Clarke is more fun to read and less preachy, but that’s because he’s 20 years younger. To all of you, a very happy Christmas and New Year.