Wreaths on our heads...
Ph.D.s live such a joyless existence--stuffed shirts strictly maintaining that He has not made us, but we have made ourselves. What crushing liberty of thought, to deny God formed that one man Adam from the ground and Eve from Adam's body. What impoverished visions, young men finding old drones serving as Charles Darwin's amanuenses, Jack Collins, Tim Keller, and Peter Enns hectoring seminary students on myths' historical superiority. Poor Manhattan. Poor seminaries. Poor Wheaton.
Where is Father Christmas?
God gives joy--it is strictly His turf and His prerogative to share it. Never has He granted that splendid garden of delights to rationalists out to improve the sophistication of the human race.
So away with men who talk loudly in restaurants and use big words! It's the Holyday season and we will celebrate every last truth those impecunious drab rationalists have set out to kill. We will party around a bonfire lit in joy over... the Christ-child knit together in the Virgin's Womb! We will blow up M-80s in hilarity over the Wise Men's star. We will drive long distances in honor of Father Joseph's trek down to Egypt, to save his wife and Herod's nemesis, there at her breast--the King of the Jews!
There has been no rationalist festival, no rationalist ecstasy. Men are still in black for the death of God. (Rationalists) have not set up a single new trophy or ensign for the world's merriment to rally to. They have not given a name or a new occasion of gaiety. Mr. Swinburne does not hang up his stocking on the eve of the birthday of Victor Hugo. Mr. William Archer does not sing carols descriptive of the infancy of Ibsen outside people's doors in the snow. In the round of our rational and mournful year one festival remains out of all those ancient gaieties that once covered the whole earth. Christmas remains to remind us of those ages, whether Pagan or Christian, when the many acted poetry instead of the few writing it. In all the winter in our woods there is no tree in glow but the holly.
A man who has faith must be prepared not only to be a martyr, but to be a fool. It is absurd to say that a man is ready to toil and die for his convictions when he is not even ready to wear a wreath round his head for them. (Heretics)
So listen up! Here in Bloomington we're gearing up for our sixth annual Christmas Sing-A-Long. We will have joy. We will make merry! We will smoke cigars and pipes--outside, of course. Far from the women.
There will be hot drinks and dairy products and hundreds and hundreds of cookies with generous portions of icing on top! Join us! We will laugh around the bonfire! Bring your rosy-cheeked chilluns and beautiful wife and handsome husband! And if our Loving Heavenly Father has granted you sadness this past year, all the more reason to join us as we are happy over the Babe of Bethlehem Who killed death dead, and has prepared a place for us.
So make plans now. Y'all come!