Natural Light Network

Jasmine and Jim: Runaway Slaves, 1851

                                                                          Photo by altoarizona.com

I see your dreams clearly

reflected in mine whenever

sunlight parts the clouds...

still strong, undaunted

by our struggle to love

and live as we should.

And when the dark hours

allow us to blend into the night,

I feel you

jogging beside me,

resisting the winds that would

scatter our hopes,

unafraid of the journey

that shall one day set us free!

© Paul Howard Nicholas

 

The Preacher's Mansion

                                                                                                                                            Photo by mymansion.com.au

As the sun slowly settled behind tall trees lining a well-kept street, the wealthy preacher turned his new Mercedes into the long driveway leading to his mansion.  Driving past the perfectly manicured lawns and lush shrubbery, he smiled, thanking God for helping him to rise far above the crowded trailer he shared as a boy with his parents and siblings in a mobile home park.   

He also thanked God for blessing him with another productive day of ministering to his huge flock: praying for the sick and misguided, coordinating a food drive, scheduling weddings and funerals, and putting the final touches on his next sermon. The preacher praised God for all that he had been given, and for inspiring him to give in return.

 

But suddenly his mood changed.  The closer he got to his home, the more he started to sense that something wasn’t right.  Gliding to a stop at the front entrance, the preacher noticed that the massive double door was slightly ajar.

 

“What’s going on?” he wondered aloud. 

 

The house should have been empty. His wife and children were out of town visiting relatives.  And he had given the servants the day off.

 

The preacher eased the front door open and crept through the foyer to the edge of the entry to his huge living room.  On the far side of the room, he encountered a shocking sight!  A lone figure, his back to the preacher, was snatching  framed photos, plaques and awards from a large walnut and glass trophy case, and loading them into a jumbo trash bag!  The precious mementos had been accumulated at various ceremonies over the years, honoring the preacher for his many achievements and contributions to the community.

 

“What are you doing?” yelled the enraged reverend.

 

The startled figure dropped his bag and turned around. 

 

The preacher froze, transfixed by the creature before him.  It was his arch enemy, non other than the devil himself!

 

Summoning courage, the man of God bolted across the room to the closet where he kept a special weapon for just such an occasion:  the golden shotgun with the sacred bullets!

 

The devil leaped toward the closet too, and managed to get a hand on the gun just as the preacher pulled it from its rack. As they stumbled out of the closet, each with a death grip on the gun, a mighty struggle ensued!  The two entities battled ferociously, turning over furniture, making a mess of the magnificently appointed home!

 

But the preacher would not give up.  Calling out to God, he gave one last heave and wrenched the weapon from the devil’s grip!  In a flash of motion, the preacher landed a powerful blow with the butt of the gun to the evil one’s head, knocking him to the floor! 

 

Stunned, the devil instinctively raised his hands to shield himself from the barrel of the golden gun, now aimed at his face.

 

“I’ve been waiting my whole life for this day,” gasped the preacher.  He struggled to steady the shotgun in his trembling hands.

 

“You better think about what you’re doing, reverend!” The devil lay on his back, one hand still shielding his face, the other gently inspecting the bump starting to rise near his temple.

 

“Shut up!” yelled the preacher, backing up slightly.  “Don’t move!”

 

The devil again raised both palms toward the shaking man with the gun.  “Okay, okay!” he stammered.  “But at least hear me out.  You are about to make one of the biggest mistakes of your whole life.”

 

“You are a liar!  The worst liar the world has ever known!”  Salty sweat streamed down from the preacher’s frazzled hair into his eyes, blurring the image on the floor. “Getting rid of you will be the best thing I have ever done. Every man, woman, and child will be so much better off without you.”

 

The preacher wiped his jacket sleeve across his eyes, trying to clear his vision.

 

“Do you really believe that?”  The evil one sat up slowly.  “What about you, Mr. Preacher?  Are you going to be better off when I’m gone?”

 

“Yes!” shouted the preacher.

 

The devil managed an uneasy smile.  “Don’t be naïve.  Who is going to need you if nobody’s afraid of me?  Who’s going to show up at your church, bringing donations and tithes?  How will you pay for this beautiful lifestyle you have grown accustomed to without me around to scare people into your fold?  Will your wife still be able to afford the clothes and the vacations she loves so much?  And your kids.  Are you ready to forget about the plans you’ve made for their college educations?  You have been preaching since you were sixteen years old, and you really don’t know how to do anything else!”

 

The preacher wiped his eyes again, struggling to focus on his target.  “Shut up!  I don’t care about that!” he yelled, his hands starting to tremble more violently.  “I’ve got to get rid of you, once and for all!”

 

Sensing a fracture in the man’s fortitude, the devil talked faster.  “If you don’t care about yourself and your own family, think about your friends, your golf buddies! What about the doctor?  Without me there will be no more sickness.  What’s he going to do? Would he forgive you if he knew you could have saved his career?

 

“And what will you tell the lawyer? With me out of the way, people won’t be inspired to commit crimes.  How will he take care of his family?”

 

The preacher tried to block out the words.

 

“Think about it.”  The devil sat upright on the floor, still facing the trembling man.  “You are going to cause a lot of grief if you shoot me.”

 

The preacher’s face was a mask of uncertainty.  And the golden gun was starting to feel like it weighed a hundred pounds.  “I can’t let you go,” he groaned.  “I just can’t!”

 

“Sure you can!”  Eyeing the man closely, the devil started to rise.  He remained in a slightly stooped, subservient position with his hands up.

 

The preacher took another step backward, still aiming the gun at the devil’s head.

 

“Look,” the devil continued, “nobody has to know what happened here. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened. You get to keep all your stuff, nothing got broken… And it’s dark outside now.  I can leave by the back door and slip into the woods.  Nobody has to know.”

 

The preacher’s eyes welled with tears as he glimpsed his front yard through a large living room window.  Daylight had indeed faded into the night. Without the automatic lights illuminating the estate, his home would be engulfed in darkness.  The preacher lowered the golden gun.  Tears streamed down his cheeks and dripped from his chin, disappearing into the plush carpet. 

 

The devil took a few tentative steps toward the rear of the house, still wary of the confused man.

 

“Wait!”  The preacher leveled the golden shotgun at the creature’s back. 

 

The devil stopped abruptly!

 

“I need to know something,” sobbed the preacher.  “Why would you steal things from my home that couldn’t possibly be of value to anyone except me and my family?”

 

“Because it’s what I do,” replied the devil.  “I steal things that can never be replaced.”

 

Again, the preacher lowered his weapon.  Then he walked over to the wall panel that controlled the exterior lights.  With the click of a switch, the area surrounding his home disappeared into the darkness.  “Go quickly,” he said, “ before I change my mind.”

 

Not wishing to press his luck, the intruder made a silent, hasty departure from the rear door of the mansion and escaped into the nearby woods.

 

The man stood quietly for a while, tears streaming down his face.  Gradually he regained his composure and placed the golden gun back in its special rack in the closet.  After a stiff shot of bourbon, he took off his jacket, and started straightening up his living room.

 

By the next day, both the preacher and the devil had resumed their respective careers.

 

© 2014 Paul Howard Nicholas

 

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African American Proverb

"Fear not the weapons of man. The only person that can destroy your soul is you."

-Paul Howard Nicholas

A Two Piece And A Biscuit

With a few minutes to kill before my next appointment, I pulled off Crenshaw into a familiar parking lot, expecting to grab a quick sliced beef sandwich.

But a lot had changed since my last visit to this part of town. Like a growing number of small businesses in South Central Los Angeles, “Mr. B’s Best Bar-B-Que,” a fixture in the community for decades, had disappeared.

Mr. B’s hand painted sign over the door of the small stucco building had been covered by a red and yellow plastic banner flapping in the wind that said: “Julio’s Flame Grilled Chicken.”

I started to leave but the spicy aroma of freshly grilled chicken and my growling stomach provided  me with a powerful incentive to give Julio's a try. They didn’t seem too busy, so I parked and went inside.

My timing was perfect. The place was empty except for two people waiting to place orders.

“May I help you?” The young Hispanic girl behind the counter eyed her next customer warily.

The huge black man in tattered clothes, scratching his scraggly beard, looked at the change in his hand and then at the menu board. “Uh… yeah,” he said. “Let me have a two piece and a biscuit.”

“What did you say?” the girl asked, clearly suspicious of the stranger.

“Two pieces of chicken and a hot biscuit,” the man replied.

The girl surveyed the man from top to bottom. “We don’t have biscuits,” she said.

The big man placed both hands on the counter and leaned forward. “So you sayin’ a brother cain’t git a biscuit up in here?”

The girl instinctively stepped back. “Julio!” she yelled.

A jovial, middle aged man, wearing an apron and wiping his hands on a kitchen towel emerged from the back.

The girl nodded in the direction of the big, intimidating man, now standing up to his full height with his arms folded across his chest.

Julio draped the towel over his shoulder and took the girl’s place at the cash register. “How can we help you, my friend?”

“Like I said to her, I want two pieces of chicken and a nice, hot, fluffy biscuit. Cain’t y’all understand English?”

“This is a Mexican restaurant,” Julio replied. “We don’t serve biscuits. But I tell you what. How about I give you extra tortillas and salsa to go with your chicken?”

Big Man fingered the change in his palm. “Well… okay,” he said. “That sounds pretty good.”

Julio muttered something to the girl in Spanish and returned to the kitchen area.

The girl stepped back up to the register. “What pieces would you like?”

“A back and a neck,” said the man.

The girl stared at him. “A what?” Her fear of the hulking figure was starting to dissolved into frustration.

Big Man turned around, put one arm behind him and patted the middle of his raggity green hoodie. “A back,” he said. He faced the girl again and pointed to his throat. “And a neck.”

The girl closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. “We don’t have that,” she said.

“You don’t have that? How come? What kind of chickens are y’all cookin’ around here? Are they deformed or somethin’? I ain’t never heard of no chickens that don’t have backs and necks.”

Big man glanced over his shoulder like he was checking to see if he could get any support.

The frail black woman in front of me, wearing a greasy trench coat and a brown wig held in place by a bright orange headband, nodded. “I heard that,” she said.

I looked at my watch.

Big Man leaned toward the girl again. “Did you hear what I said?”

This time she didn’t budge. “Julio,” she sang out.

Julio bounded back into the front. “What’s the matter now?”

Big Man was on a roll. “She asked me what pieces of chicken I want, and I told her I want a back and a neck. What’s so hard about that?”

“Okay, look, we don’t want no trouble.” Julio’s patience seemed to be wearing thin. “Here’s what I’m gonna do. Instead of a leg and a thigh, I’m gonna give you a breast and a thigh for the same price. But that’s it, okay? We’ve got to move the line.”

Big Man stood straight up again, scratching his frazzled ‘fro. “Do I still get my extra tortillas?”

“Yes… yes, you get the tortillas.”

“And the salsa, with maybe a few chips?”

“Yes, extra salsa with some chips.”

“Alright, you got a deal.” Big Man fished a few crumpled bills from his pocket to go with his coins, paid the girl for his order, and took a number.

Julio waited until the transaction was completed, then disappeared again into the kitchen area.

“Next in line.” The girl forced a smile as the lady in front of me stepped up to the counter.

Miss Trench Coat braced herself against the counter with one hand and placed the other hand on her hip. “I want a bucket of chicken knees, crispy, a large side of collard greens and some yams.”

The girl stared at the woman. “You want what?”

The woman stepped back from the counter and pointed to her knees. “Knees,” she said. "A bucket of ‘em with some yams and greens.”

“We don’t have that!” sighed the girl. “Chickens don’t even have knees!”

“How come they don’t?” The woman leaned toward the girl. “They got legs, don’t they? And if they got legs, they gotta have knees."

“I know that’s right,” said Big Man, waiting for his order in one of the booths.

“What kind of chickens are y’all serving here anyway?” continued the woman. “Chickens that ain’t got no knees?”

“Julio!” the girl screamed.

Miss Trench Coat glanced back at me and winked.

I checked my watch again and headed out the door. It was time to get back on the road.

I sure do miss Mr. B. He would have handled Big Man and Miss Trench Coat in an entirely different manner. And I would have had myself a great big, deliciously tender, sliced beef sandwich.

© 2016 Paul Howard Nicholas

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How to Tell if You Live in a Poor Neighborhood: Natural Light Network's Top 10 Indicators

Mr. Jack and Mrs. Rosie: Creole Color Games in L.A.

                                   Austin H. "Jack" and Rosie Marcella Nicholas, Silver Wedding Anniversary, 1955

In 1953 my father was the personal barber for a prominent family that wanted to expand their real estate holdings in Los Angeles.

With their assistance, my Creole mother, assumed to be white, purchased a beautiful, three bedroom home on a pleasant, tree lined street near the intersection of La Cienega Boulevard and Jefferson Boulevard in way-way West L.A.

At the time, due to racial covenants in California property deeds, this lily white conclave was worlds beyond the boundaries that constrained Black home buyers in inner city L.A..

As soon as the deal was signed, real estate agents canvassed the whole neighborhood, warning home owners that "coloreds will be moving in soon."

When the rest of our very clearly Black family, my father, my two sisters, two brothers, my niece, and I showed up to move in with mom, panic stricken white folks staked "For Sale" signs in their front yards overnight and vanished in droves.

The real estate family, as planned, made a killing, snapping up premium properties at fire sale prices from desperate "evacuees."

My parents did okay too.

© 2017 Paul Howard Nicholas

Do You Live in a Poor Neighborhood? Natural Light Network’s Top 10 Indicators

We often hear people say they didn’t realize they were poor growing up because everybody they knew was in the same situation.

To assist our readers in determining the current economic status of their respective zip
codes, Natural Light Network presents the following top ten indicators of a poor neighborhood:

#10: You leave your barbeque grill unattended for a few minutes and somebody swipes a handful of chicken wings.

#9:  A lot of the mothers pushing strollers aren’t old enough to drive cars.

#8: The ice cream trucks all carry condoms, BC Headache Powders, fruit-flavored cigars, triple-X rated DVDs, and Zig-Zag cigarette papers.

#7: Pizza shops cancel your order when you tell them where you want the food delivered.

#6: The custom wheels on your neighbor’s car cost more than the car.

#5: A fellow shopper at the local market offers to sell you a hundred dollars worth of food stamps for $45.00 and a ride to the dope house.

#4: Everybody knows where the dope house is, except the police.

#3: People throw all night parties when loved ones get out of prison.

#2: You try to stop a guy from choking his girlfriend and they both attack you for getting in
their business.

And the #1 indicator of whether you live in a poor neighborhood is: 

The guy on the bullhorn in the police helicopter knows your neighbor's son's name, as in “Yo, Ray-Ray, put those chicken wings back, dude! We got you on tape!"

© 2016 Paul Howard Nicholas

African American Proverb

"It is better to be laughing with friends in a studio apartment than crying alone in a hilltop estate."

-Paul Howard Nicholas

African American Proverb

"If you believe you can achieve your dreams, you probably will. If you believe you can't, you probably won't. "

-Paul Howard Nicholas

Tempo

With every tick and tock

the clock clocks the distance 

between the second we arrive 

and the moment we depart. 

-Paul Howard Nicholas

Santa’s Kids

My earliest recollection of associating white people with supernatural powers did not originate with images of Jesus or other biblical heroes.

Like many of the kids I grew up with, I first learned about the existence of a super-powerful caucasian during the Christmas holiday season.

The Yule Tide celebration marked the time of year when an all-seeing, all-knowing deity would reward the “good” with gifts, and give the “bad” their just due. His image and likeness was represented as a kindly white grandfather who reigned from a magic village at the top of the Earth.

According to adults, he was truly amazing. He could appear in several different stores at the same time, and could be counted on to remember the names of every child that sat on his lap, or wrote him letters, as well as what they wanted for Christmas. He knew when everybody was asleep, when they were awake, what they were doing, and he had the power to visit every home in the world in a single night!

When children misbehaved, parents invoked his name to remind them of his ability to monitor their every move.

The proposition for young children who wanted to cash in on their gift lists was enticing: believe in him, be good, and receive the gifts you want.

If a child had doubts about the truthfulness of these teachings, the story became overwhelmingly convincing on Christmas morning when toys and gifts that weren’t there the night before, magically appeared beneath the Christmas tree.

And so, like many other Americans similarly indoctrinated, I became a true believer in the “god of Christmas,” the first supernatural being I trusted to fulfill my wishes.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t our Heavenly Father, or His Son Jesus, that I first placed my faith in. It was Santa Claus.

Some might argue that this is a harsh description of the ritualized story of Santa Claus and Christmas. They say it is merely a fable, a fantasy to nourish the imaginations of children.

But is this true? Is the legend of Santa Claus a harmless pastime for children?

A fable is most commonly defined as a story that ends with a lesson or moral instruction. The Hare and the Tortoise, for instance, teaches about the dangers of over-confidence, and the importance of staying focused. In The Ant and the Grasshopper, we learn about the value of hard work, and the folly of laziness. The Boy Who Cried Wolf offers a powerful lesson about personal credibility.

The most appealing attribute of a fable, however, is that it can provide insight that will help children of varying economic backgrounds gain a better understanding of life in the real world.

But can the same be said for the legend of Santa Claus? What lesson is there to be learned by the “good” child of poor parents who receives little or nothing for Christmas, or the “bad” child of wealthy parents who gets everything he wanted? This common scenario fails to deliver a meaningful message about positive behavior and self worth to both the rich child and the poor child.

But, enough about what the Santa Claus story fails to accomplish in modern society. Let us, instead, examine the manner in which this so-called harmless fable could possibly affect the developing mind and spirituality of a young child.

One of the most important responsibilities of any given human generation is to enhance existing knowledge and to improve methods of transferring accumulated knowledge to succeeding generations. It is the method by which mankind has evolved from cave dweller to space traveler.

An essential element of the successful transfer of information from one generation to the next, however, is the credibility of those providing the information. As is apparent in all human relationships, credibility, once damaged, is difficult to repair.

With this in mind, we should question the motivation of a culture that encourages its infants to believe in a mythical being that will eclipse the presence of God in their lives during the early, formative years. What is the upside, and the downside, of our children knowing far more about Santa Claus than they do about our Heavenly Father and Jesus?

The upside, according to many people who participate in the presentation of their children to Santa Claus, seems to be that they take pride in continuing a cultural tradition. The occasion also provides an opportunity for them to show family and friends that they are responsible parents who will sacrifice time, energy, money, whatever it takes to make sure their kids have a great Christmas.

But what is the downside of this practice?

Obviously, credibility is a vital part of any meaningful human interaction. And, in the case of parents and children, it should be as important as love and companionship.

Most people, however, never seem to appreciate the irony of a parent instructing a child not to lie because the parent wants to believe everything the child says, and then going to extraordinary lengths to orchestrate a hoax designed to convince the child of the existence of an imaginary being.

And what happens to a child’s relationship with parents and others entrusted with his or her development when the child discovers the truth?

Whether it is a huge disappointment, or merely a confirmation of something they already suspected, most children are able to rebound and carry on with their lives. But there will be a seed of doubt forever planted in their minds regarding the credibility of their elders, a subliminal reminder that information received from adults may, or may not, be factual.

And this seed of uncertainty, subconsciously embedded during a critical period of development, may come back to haunt the parent-child relationship at a time when the parent really needs the child to accept the parent’s instructions about the many dangers in the world such as drugs, alcohol, promiscuity, gambling, and so on.

While it may be true that there have been no scientific studies to determine if the celebration of the traditional American Christmas creates a negative impact on a child’s perception of adults, common sense would seem to indicate that programming our children from an early age to mistrust authority is not conducive to the successful transfer of knowledge from one generation to the next.

Another down side of the Santa Claus legend is the fact that parents don’t receive the gratitude and respect they deserve from their children for providing the toys and gifts they asked for. The truth regarding the often heroic efforts of parents to make their children happy is a much more inspiring story than the time-worn saga of “the jolly old elf.”

The most damaging consequence of perpetuating the Christmas myth, however, is that, once children realize they have been deceived about the existence of a supernatural being, they may become more inclined to question the existence of our Heavenly Father.

After all, if the Santa Claus they could see and touch turned out to be phony, how could anyone realistically expect them to readily embrace the concept of an invisible God?

© Paul Howard Nicholas

The Christmas Tree

                                                                                                                                           Photo by Malene Thyssen

 

The custom of decorating a tree to celebrate Christmas, or Christ’s Mass, as it was originally called, is believed to have originated in 16^th Century Germany. Church records from 1539 in the Cathedral of Strasbourg contain the earliest known account of a tree being erected to commemorate the birth of Jesus.

 

The use of decorated trees in religious rituals, however, according to the Old Testament of the Bible, predates Jesus’ arrival on Earth by at least 600 years.The prophet Jeremiah, in condemning the practice, offered this message to his followers:

 

"Thus saith the LORD, Learn not the way of the heathen, and be not dismayed at the signs of heaven; for the heathen are dismayed at them. For the customs of the people are vain: for one cutteth a tree out of the forest, the work of the hands of the workman, with the axe. They deck it with silver and with gold; they fasten it with nails and with hammers, that it move not." (Jeremiah 10:2-4, KJV).

 

As the tradition of celebrating the “return of the sun,” or winter solstice, with feasts, festivals, and decorated trees spread to pre-Christian Europe, the evergreen tree became the tree of choice to mark such an important event.

 

Pagan worshipers believed that evergreen trees possessed supernatural powers because they did not die during winter like other trees and plants. And they believed that if they adorned an evergreen with precious metals and images of their gods, they could absorb the magical life force of the tree.

 

With the emergence of Christianity, and the absolute failure of its leaders to deter converts from participating in certain winter solstice rituals, tree decoration eventually merged with Christian practice after the Church proclaimed December 25^th as the birth date of Christ.

 

This year, as we prepare to celebrate another “return of the sun” with elaborate feasts and wild parties, Americans will cut down millions of perfectly healthy evergreens to help keep the customs of our pagan ancestors alive.

 

The following “Parable of the Christmas Tree” is dedicated to a better understanding of what we’re actually doing.

 

On a cold, windy December morning, a man set out to find the perfect Christmas tree for his family.Trudging through the snow near his new mountain cabin, the man spotted a magnificent Douglas Fir, standing about seven feet tall, in a group of lesser trees.

 

With a well-practiced smile, the man approached the trees, and made a proposition to the Douglas Fir.

 

“I’ve come to take you away from such a boring life and make you a star.” said the man.“You will dwell comfortably for the remainder of your days in my home, adorned with the finest decorations. And you will be cherished by my family.”

 

The smaller, scrawnier trees looked on with suspicion.

 

“And why would you do such a thing for me?” asked the curios Douglas Fir, its branches swaying away from the man in a sudden gust of wind.

 

The man knew exactly what to say:“Because any family would be honored to welcome a beautiful tree like you into their home. Here…” he continued, retrieving a glossy magazine from his jacket pocket, “take a look.”

 

Standing next to the tall tree, the man flipped through the magazine’s Holiday issue filled with beautifully lighted trees in well-appointed homes.

 

“But how would I live if I am separated from my roots?” inquired the Douglas Fir, obviously impressed by the healthy looking, gorgeously adorned trees in the photos, many of them standing over brightly wrapped packages, in the company of adoring men, women, and children.

 

“Take a good look,” responded the man.“Do these trees seem to be deprived of anything? We have watering and nutrition systems that can provide you with everything you need.”

 

“Don’t do it, Doug!” one of the smaller trees blurted out. “It doesn’t sound right!”

 

The man shot a menacing glare in the direction of the other trees, but quickly regained his composure. He turned to a marked page in the magazine.

 

“Look at this one.This is a picture of America’s First Family with their tree,” he said, holding the magazine up to the big tree.“Now you’re not quite as big as your cousin here, but then again, I’m not the President of the United States. You would be perfect for my home.”

 

The Douglas Fir felt a flush of excitement as he pictured himself surrounded by adoring fans, living a glamorous new life.

 

“Snap out of it, Doug!” another little tree yelled. “There’s something wrong with this man’s story. We need our roots to live.”

 

The man moved in to close the deal. “Are you going to listen to these losers, and miss out on the chance of a lifetime? Look at your so-called friends. Who would want to take pictures with them? They’re jealous! Can’t you see what they’re doing?”

 

Folding the magazine and stuffing it back into his pocket, the man started to walk away, but stopped after a few steps.

 

“If you’re not interested, I’m sure there’s another tree around here that will be happy to accept my offer.”

 

The man turned away from the trees and started walking again.

 

“Wait!”shouted the Douglas Fir over the roar of the wind. “I’ll go with you!”

 

“That’s better,” the man replied. He hastily pulled a wood saw from its sheath and started to cut the tree away from its base.

 

The tingle of the saw blade as it sliced through his skin, awakened something in the Douglas Fir that made him wonder it he had made the right decision.

 

Of course, we all know the ending of this fable.The man, true to his word, did present this beautiful tree to his ecstatic family. And together they did adorn and adore the tree, and place treasures at its feet.

 

But what the tree didn’t know, and what the man failed to tell him, was that the tree, like all living things, would grow weaker by the day after being disconnected from its source of life, and that, following a brief period of being worshiped, the once magnificent Douglas Fir would be unceremoniously discarded as a needle-shedding nuisance and a dead pile of trash.

 

With the world losing trees at an unsustainable rate, and considering the enormous strides human beings have made in overcoming the spiritual misguidance of our pagan ancestors, perhaps the time has come for an honest evaluation of whether the preservation of an ancient tradition, based on a belief in magical evergreens, is more important than the health of our planet, and our freedom from superstition.

 

"The Parable of the Christmas Tree" is an excerpt from Extinguishing the Flames of Hell: A Journey of Spiritual Evolution

 

© 2006 Paul Howard Nicholas