As we head into this second most important of Christian holidays, I’d like to take a moment to reflect on the true meaning of Christmas. Away in a manager, the sweet little baby Jesus was born. His birth was heralded by angels, wise men bringing gifts, and apparently a number of kneeling sheep. His soft olive skin and cute curls were adorable, I’m sure. And up in heaven, God “the father” knew one thing for sure.
That little bastard had to die.
Not in the typical sense of “from dust you came and to dust you shall return.” No, that’s the death that awaits us all, hopefully at the end of a good, long life. Tiny little Jesus was born for a very specific purpose — to be tortured and killed to slake the bloodlust of Yahweh. That’s it. That was his whole reason for being. That angelic little face was just made to be busted up. Those teensy hands, grasping Joseph’s finger? Oh yeah, Jehovah wanted to see some nails driven through those. That would be the only thing that could satisfy his divine sense of justice.
You see, Adam, a man who we now know never existed, disobeyed God long ago. This is known as The Fall. Because of that single, fictional event, all humans are now weighed down by Original Sin and are born damned to Hell. God decreed that only the shedding of blood could atone for sins in his eyes. He was, after all, a jealous and vengeful god. So, after a good many centuries, God impregnated a teen girl with…well, himself…but in the person of his son, the mewling infant Jesus, to be the perfect sacrifice to…well, himself.
So, when everyone sits around cooing over the baby Jesus in the plastic manger and singing all their joyful songs of salvation, remember the plan that their loving and merciful god allegedly had all along. Then consider whether you’d worship such a being, even if any of it was real.
And if this all seems confusing, let Mr. Deity help you sort it out.