Ho, ho, ho.

It’s Christmas, and the season of good will to all. Which is why I’ve been dreadfully busy neglecting my customary Advent duties - ensuring My Parishioners purchase me lavish presents as an indication of their Biblical Maturity – for something even more important: preserving the American right to purchase and possess semi-automatic firearms with magazines large enough to kill entire crowds of our fellow citizens.

If the truth be told, however, these past few weeks have been witness to an epic struggle between myself and the wicked, godless, irresponsible, child-of-perdition whom is honoured with the privilege of channelling My Words on this blog. I realize Faithful Sinners will all find this hard to believe, but upon learning of the massacre in Newtown, Connecticut, the foolish liberal actually had the nerve to threaten me to my metaphoric virtual face, saying that there was no longer anything funny about sharing headspace with a Conservative parody of my magnitude.

Indeed, when Bryan Fischer aired what might be flatteringly described as his "thoughts" my wicked scribe even went so far as to say there was no longer any need for a Rev. Dr. Father Troll – reality had rendered my schtick redundant. With Mike Huckabee picking up the refrain, and even James Dobson taking a break from beating his dachshund (Sit down Dr. Freud!! Nobody here finds the symbolism as amusing as you do.) to jump on board the bandwagon, the world no longer needed My Ministry.

Not even reasoning helped: trying to calmly put the murder of twenty-six children and six teachers into perspective against the far bigger risk of finding oneself unarmed in the face of an attack by 18th century British soldiers did nothing to shift My Mutinous Secretary’s stubborn conviction. Explanations that this was only the sixth mass shooting this year meant there was hardly justification for approaching the issue of gun control with undue haste simply fell on deaf ears. And inspired a tirade in which the word “idiot” was used more than even my opposition to universal health care could justify.

Appealing to facts was no more successful. Government statistics show that in 2007 firearms were responsible for a mere 31,224 deaths (see page 11 of the previous link) – which when compared with the truly shocking figure of 23 ,199 alcohol related deaths completely justifies the priorities of my Baptist imitators. Yet the only response of My Disrespectful Typist was to repeat an irrelevant refrain – “The slaughter has to stop.”

Explanations that the Newtown incident would never have occurred if each of those children had been equipped with a .223-caliber Bushmaster assault rifle of their own met with similar disrespect: how can one even begin to engage in meaningful dialogue with someone who refuses to believe that Sylvester Stallone/Clint Eastwood movies accurately depict the reality of a firefight?

Which brings us to where we are today: the anniversary of Christ Jesus’ birth. The terrible troublemaker responsible for bringing you My Words has at last relented, and in honor of today’s significance agreed to let me once again bless the intertubes with My Presence. Yet – although it pains me to admit this – perhaps I am closer to My Scribe than I care to believe. For in closing the only words I can find are these:

Have a wonderful Christmas, and thank you for dropping by here during the year. Amidst the laughter and joy of today spare a thought for those families whose child is no longer present to enjoy the excitement anticipated a lifetime ago, before December 14 – or before any other of countless horrors which have torn us apart in these shadowlands. Never forget that God’s intervention into our confusion and bitterness has meant the darkness shall never win, and that Love is greater than all – including the so-called “right” to own instruments of death.

Take time today to value those around you. Tell them you love them, for you never know hard it might be to do so tomorrow. Turn off the television, shut down the computer for a few minutes, and remember the feeling of the breeze on your face. Sing for joy in the Saviour’s birth, and gasp with amazement at the One God who walks beside you, irrespective of who, where, or what you are. Light candles and eat and drink richly of the courage which comes from the truth that we shall not always see through a glass darkly.

 L'amour est plus fort que la mort.