Is This Your King?

The foyer held a picture of Jesus of Nazareth. Every morning, Rick Klahart looked at the portrait and shook his head. He never mentioned to his parents about or anyone else his disgust and embarrassment for the man in the picture. Especially not around this time of the year.

In Delaware, temperatures plunged and families posed for cards. Commercials appealed to the season of trading and wished everyone a merry Christmas!

Rick loved this time. He enjoyed that the most. The fact that someone said happy holidays or merry Christmas didn’t bother him. Both greetings sufficed. What he could not stomach was the idea of baby Jesus in a manger. He already knew what would happen to the baby. And people still took pleasure in crafting Nativity scenes and holding Christmas pageants to honor the “king.”

Rick took extra care keeping his grades up before the “winter” break. And why winter? Because there were other faiths and cultures? Christmas was for everyone, especially nonbelievers in the theory of God like Rick.

He opened the door to his house after school. His whole family was there. Aunts, uncles, cousins, his little sisters and older brother along with his mom and dad all met him right in the foyer. The place was circular so everyone fit. They had grave faces.

“Son,” Mick Klahart announced, “we called this family intervention to help you see.”

“We’re here to renew your faith in our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Rick didn’t roll his eyes but he wanted to.

“Your aunt Edna and Uncle Glamis drove from Allentown just to see you this season. I know we just met on Thanksgiving, but this is urgent.”

Rick stood with his backpack still on.

“Son…we celebrate the birth of baby Jesus. He came down from Glory to free us of our sins. Without this holiday, we would have nothing else, including Easter,” his mother Awaja explained.

“Yeah, man,” his brother Timmison started, “Jesus is cool.”

Rick stood there. He remained a complete statue. He didn’t even take his shoes off yet. He continued to listen. His grandfather, ninety-six-years old, stood out of his wheelchair.

“Boy, you weren’t raised to believe that nonsense they put in your head. You’re a Klahart. We are the faithful. We are strong believers. Passed down from generation to generation, we have known God to see us through. It is the gift of Christ in the form of baby Jesus that unites Christians for this period of the year. Come back to the cross, before it’s too late. You won’t know where you’ll spend eternity.”

“That’s right,” Aunt Edna spoke up, now. “You’re too young now, but when you get to be our age, you’re going to want to hang on to some sense of knowing how you’ll end up! After my second stroke, I thought I wasn’t going to walk again. But to God be the glory! I’m hitting the treadmill every morning.”

Rick was just staring at his relatives. He listened intently at what they had to say. Then he spoke.

“Is this your king? Far removed from the creation of Santa Claus…The association of jolly, happy, relatively healthy, joyous man and a man associated with beatings, scarring, suffering, bleeding and dying…how can you equate the two? They are diametrically opposed. There is nothing that could even come close to Santa. You curse the day you even entertained the thought in my mind. Gladly, you did. I’ll take Santa over Jesus any day. The man in red with the sack is all about happiness and comfort. Your idol you worship is someone who blinded and killed people. Look up what Thomas had to say about that. So, no I don’t hold an iota of faith in my frame. Whenever you prayer, you’re not wasting time, it’s just something you want to do. That’s all it is. It’s a choice.