A Non-Theological Christmas Oration, in the Style of the Reverend James

Well, hello everyone! Christ is born, glorify him, yes yes, what what. I'm wishing you a merry Christmas, joyful Nativity, Craciun fericit, Nadolig Llawen, Kala Christogenna (sp?) from rural Wales. Here it has been a gray Christmas which, although similar to a white one, differs in one very important respect. It is much wetter and less festive.

Okay, two respects. The Monty Python fans will no doubt amuse themselves comparing my comments to the infamous 'Spanish Inquisition' sketch, while the better-adjusted, more sociable among you will undoubtedly revile them (and me with them) for the fact that we even know about such things.

Are you finished casting your contemptuous glances, muttering your disgust over the rims of your martini glasses? No? That's fine, I can wait.

Good.

Because Christmas is a time for love, joy, festivity. Where we were it also a time for meat, cheese, wine, mimosas, rum, whiskey, ale, mead, cocktails, beer, lager, stout, bitter, the Reverend James, personal abuse, and, of course, ham.

The Reverend James, by the way, is an ale. A tasty Welsh ale, brewed in the little town of Caergwyddorgwentforwywythdd. That's not a real town name, but it does bear an eerie resemblance to actual place-names in this vicinity. I like Wales, though. The people are friendly with an amusing accent, the towns are colorful--houses and shops painted in pastel and jewel tones--none of that Scottish puritanical 'let's paint it gray' attitude here. The town we're in has an excellent pub where we can procure the services of the good Reverend James; the local Orthodox community has a makeshift iconastis in the vestry of a Methodist curch; and the house we're in has a fresh supply of children--free-range, organic, children. They are pretty nifty, although their energy levels consistently outlast my own.

But when I drop to dangerous lows, I go join our host on his XBox 360 for Gears of War and other such mayhem. My attitude is: Kill 'em all and let God sort 'em out--at least so far as it touches on mutant-alien-subterranean-shopping-mall-zombie types. And Communists. In the virtual world. In real life I am very kind to mutant-alien-subterranean-shopping-mall-zombie types.

I cannot, however, extend such generosity to Communists.

I expect that I will, in the end, find myself greatly indebted to Gears of War for my own doctoral research. I am increasingly of the opinion that my opening should consist of a sort of catena of quotes from the game: 'We should honor the fallen.' and, of course, 'Nothin' but bits.' This speaks profoundly to me of the significance of 'memory eternal' and the apocalyptic visions of universal judgment which we have inherited from the Byzantines.