'John, John,' the canon said. 'I know you're upset; I'm not mocking you. I'm just trying to help you understand-about the Vestry elections-'
'I don't care about the Vestry elections!' I said angrily- indicating, of course, how much I cared. 'I'm sorry,' I said. The canon put his warm, moist hand on my arm.
'To our younger parish officers,' he said, 'you're something of an eccentric. They don't understand those years that brought you here; they wonder why-especially, when you defame the United States as vociferously as you do-why you aren't more Canadian than you are! Because you're not really a Canadian, you know-and that troubles Some of the older members of this parish, too; that troubles even those of us who do remember the circumstances that brought you here. If you made the choice to stay in Canada, why do you have so little to do with Canada? Why have you learned so little about us? John: it's something of a joke, you know-how you don't even know your way around Toronto.'' That is Canon Mackie in a nutshell; I worry about a war, and the canon agonizes about how I get lost the second I step out of Forest Hill. I talk about the loss of the most substantive treaty that exists between the Soviet Union and the United States, and the canon teases me about my memory for dates'. Yes, I have a good head for dates. How about August , ? Richard Nixon was finished. How about September , ? Richard Nixon was pardoned. And then there was April , : the U.S. Navy evacuated all remaining personnel from Vietnam; they called this Operation Frequent Wind. Canon Mackie is skillfull with me, I have to admit. He mentions 'dates' and what he calls my 'head for history' to set up a familiar thesis: that I live in the past. Canon Mackie makes me wonder if my devotion to the memory of Canon Campbell is not also an aspect of how much I live in the past; years ago, when I felt so close to Canon Campbell, I lived less in the past-or else, what we now call the past was then the present; it was the actual time that Canon Campbell and I shared, and we were both caught up in it. If Canon Campbell were alive, if he were still rector of Grace Church, perhaps he would be no more sympathetic to me than Canon Mackie is sympathetic today. Canon Campbell was alive on January , . That was the day President Jimmy Carter issued a pardon to the 'draft-dodgers.' What did I care? I was already a Canadian citizen. Although Canon Campbell cautioned me about my anger, too, he understood why that 'pardon' made me so angry. I
showed Canon Campbell the letter I wrote to Jimmy Carter. 'Dear Mr. President,' I wrote. 'Who will pardon the United States?'
Who can pardon the United States? How can they be pardoned for Vietnam, for their conduct in Nicaragua, for their steadfast and gross contribution to the proliferation of nuclear arms?
'John, John,' Canon Mackie said. 'Your little speech about Christmas -at the Parish Council meeting? I doubt that even Scrooge would have chosen a Parish Council meeting as the proper occasion for such an announcement.'
'I merely said that I found Christmas depressing,' I said.
' 'Merely'!' said Canon Mackie. 'The church counts very heavily on Christmas-for its missions, for its livelihood in this city. And Christmas is the focal point for the children in our church.'
And what would the canon have said if I'd told him that the Christmas of ' put the finishing touches on Christmas for me? He would have told me, again, that I was living in the past. So I said nothing. I hadn't wanted to talk about Christmas in the first place. Is it any wonder how Christmas-ever since that Christmas-depresses me? The Nativity I witnessed in ' has replaced the old story. The Christ is born-'miraculously,' to be sure; but even more miraculous are the demands he succeeds in making, even before he can walk! Not only does he demand to be worshiped and adored-by peasants and royalty, by animals and his own parents!-but he also banishes his mother and father from the house of prayer and song itself. I will never forget the inflamed color of his bare skin in the winter cold, and the hospital white-on-white of his swaddling clothes against the new snow-a vision of the little Lord Jesus as a bom victim, born raw, bom bandaged, born angry and accusing; and wrapped so tightly that he could not bend at the knees at all and had to lie on his parents' laps as stiffly as someone who, mortally wounded, lies upon a stretcher. How can you like Christmas after that? Before I became a believer, I could at least enjoy the fantasy. That Sunday, feeling the wind cut through my Joseph-robe out on Elliot Street, contributed to my belief in-and my dislike of-the miracle. How the congregation straggled out of the nave; how they hated to have their rituals revised without warning. The rector was not on the steps to shake their hands because so many of the congregation had followed our triumphant exit, leaving the Rev. Mr. Wiggin stranded at the altar with his benediction unsaid-he was supposed to have delivered his benediction from the nave, where the recessional should have led him (and not us). And what was Barb Wiggin supposed to do with the 'pillar of light,' now that she had craned the light to follow the Lord Jesus and his tribe to the door? Dan Needham told me later that the Rev. Dudley Wiggin made a most unusual gesture for the rector of Christ Church to make from the pulpit; he drew his forefinger across his throat-a signal to his wife to kill the light, which (only after we'd departed) she finally did. But to many of the bewildered congregation, who took their cues from the rector-for how else should they know what their next move should be, in this unique celebration?-the gesture of the Rev. Dudley Wiggin slashing his own throat was particularly gripping. Mr. Fish, in his inexperience, imitated the gesture as if it were a command-and then looked to Dan for approval. Dan observed that Mr. Fish was not alone. And what were we supposed to do? Our gang from the manger, ill-dressed for the weather, huddled uncertainly together after the granite truck turned onto Front Street and out of sight. The revived hind part of one donkey ran to the door of the parish-house vestibule, which he found locked; the cows slipped in the snow.
