Something on my Mind: I Believe in the Spirit of Santa

You've just read the title of this column and you assume the worst: Has Funston, you say to yourself, gone batty? Have his students  driven him around the bend, finally? (Well, “I don't think” and “maybe.”)

Before you rush out to buy me something for my mental breakdown, hold on. Let me start with what I don't mean, as some things are best explained by what they're not.

When I speak of Santa Claus, I am not—I repeat, Not—speaking of some fat guy in a red suit and white beard that defies the laws of gravity, environment, time zones, and AirMiles. Nor am I commenting on his ability to zip around the world on a sleigh, being pulled by a herd of reindeer with goofy names and red noses.

No, Santa is a figment of some ad agencies imagination, no matter what historical roots he has. I understand that there may be a Saint Nicholas from western Europe (Holland) a century or two ago, but that guy bore little resemblance to this guy.

So, no, Virginia, there isn't a Santa Claus.

You will notice that I said something about the “spirit” of Santa, not Santa himself. In fact, I suggest to you that one reason that the myth of Santa is so prevalent these past few decades is because of the lack of the spirit of Santa.

This spirit includes the following (and you may want to add more later):

1. The spirit of Santa is about being there--that mature, well-weathered friend who come around just to be present. He looks like the embodiment of happy wisdom and seasoned life skills. Today, he may be represented by those persons we call grandparents, favourite uncles or aunts, or just long-time friends. There is something inherently special about people who come into our lives simply to be there, even if it's only once a year. They stay around but not for too long, are upbeat but not too goofy. They are a safe and soothing presence in our lives.

2. The spirit of Santa is about giving—giving time, money, presents, even a listening ear. It is so much easier to face the day or the problem when surrounded by giving people. I know for myself that I enjoy being around people who are like that. And I like to think I do that for others.

3. The spirit of Santa is about meeting felt needs. Once the baubles are in the wastebasket, the tinsel is on the floor, and the presents are returned to Walmart, there is still an emptiness at Christmas that presents and turkey can't fill. The spirit of Santa is a person, not a thing; it's relationships, not things.

4. The spirit of Santa is about everything that is real and genuine; thus, it can be copied, counterfeited, and captured by those who want to use it to their own advantage. We see that today, and it's one of my motivations to write about it now. Even if there was a historical figure, it's unfortunate that forces at odds with that fact have hijacked the meaning of that person and have turned him into something quite different.

One of the challenges of loving history, theology, and accuracy, is that it often produces a counter-perspective on life's customs today. Many of you may have an idea where I am going with this, and I welcome your measured (dis)agreement with me. Just make sure you follow the same rules that I do, namely, base your opposition on history, theology, and accuracy.

You see, Santa is a counterfeit of something (better stated, someone) very real. Or better, the myth is the counterfeit, but the spirit is not counterfeit. As stated a few paragraphs before, Santa's presence—no, Maurice, not Santa's presents—reveals that there are some heart-felt humanity issues at stake here, often revealed at (but not limited to) the Christmas season. Part of this is because of the excessive emphasis on fun, family, and friends.

Yes, I believe there was a something resembling today's Santa, but I don't go to Holland to find him. I go to Israel. In terms of disciplines, I use history, geography, astronomy, theology, and economics to confirm everything. I see some daring similarities of what the spirit of Santa is with the one I'm referring to, and I find it a little unnerving. Or maybe that would be exciting.

Do what you want to do with the myth of Santa; just don't forget to embrace the spirit of Santa. If so, your world will be a better place for it, all year-round.

Something on my Mind: Hugs-R-Us

You will not believe one of the latest ventures I just read about. While it may be a new venture, it's not a new practice. It's an old habit that has been turned into a business. Lovers do it, grandmas do it, old friends do it. Even forest-anarchists do it.

It's a word that starts with an “h” and ends with a “g,” and it involves “you” (a terrific play on words, Maurice).

If you said h-u-g, you get to snuggle with a stranger-- that entrepreneurial young woman in Portland, Oregon, who—get this—cuddles with other people for a living. Most of us hug for free—she hugs for a fee.

Based on her rates and her projected customers, she could make thousands of dollars a month Not a bad haul at all. That's almost as much as a hockey player, only they hug just when they score a goal.

That is a bizarre amount, and while probably won't get it on a regular basis, it just goes to show you what a little ingenuity and initiative can get you. The figure was based on the phone calls, texts, and emails that she got. Her rate is a dollar a minute dollars per hour, multiplied by the number of enquiries.

I am responding to this news at different levels, fodder for the rest of this column.

First, I am thrilled to see something different, in terms of a new business. Not frozen sweets, not another fast food outlet, not yet another clothing store. Not part of a chain, not a joint-venture, not a re-making of an old venture.

In other words, no booze, no chews, no hues.

The closest vocation would be a massage therapist, chiropractor, or reflexologist...sort of. However, I think each of these professionals would be up in arms with me lumping their skills in with this practice.

“Up in arms” is a tempting bait for a quip, but I refrain.

Hugs are a commodity that do not involve inventory, shelf life, or back orders—though I'm tempted to (once again) get quippy about the words “back order.”

Second, I am worried that something so innocuous could turn into something vile. Two bodies, tightly wound together, one bed—do the math. Will it happen? I can't judge, but humans tend to gravitate towards depravity, not towards piety, you know.

Everything appears public and under those ubiquitous surveillance cameras, so let's cross our fingers. I am thinking of the type of customer that continuous cuddling may may attract on occasion. I am not thinking of the proprietor herself.

Third, and this is the kicker, why do we have to put hugs in a box, so to speak, and commercialize them? Is there actually a price tag for hugging? Hugging at what cost (pun intended)? I think the very fact that turning hugs into a business venture is clearly an indication of a greater, bigger, and deeper problem in our culture.

I certainly don't hug like I should—but I do send a lot of emails. But that's absurd, thinking that something cold and electronic can take the place of something warm and personal. No matter how many exclamation marks one uses in one's text, emails are not the same as a hug.

We may think that homeless kids, widowed mothers, and disaffected teenagers all need hugs. Very true, but so does that successful businessman, that competent female teacher, that macho rancher. Even a county-famous columnist could do with a hug or two.

Hugs are the cheapest, quickest, and happiest way to express love, affirmation, and connection, all in one simple squeeze. Granted, there are hugs and then there are hugs. The most appropriate in my view between guys and gals are the side-by-side ones. I think being sensitive as to hugging is good; touching in sensitive areas is not good. Today we would call that “inappropriate touching.”

This American hug shop is a clever idea, but it reveals how far we have fallen in terms of appropriate intimacy. Husbands don't hug wives (mea culpa) like they should; parents don't hug kids like they should. Good-byes are often limited to a fairly warm handshake or a simple wave of the hand.

Hugs are close-up and personal; hugs send the message that one person wants to be close to another, without the ghastly inappropriateness that some touching can produce. Like any other form of touching, we need to be careful how, when, where, who, and why.

But there's no question about the what: Arms are made for hugging, not fighting.

Something on my Mind: A Good Death

I don't know if anyone missed me, but I was away in Vancouver this past weekend. I had to drop everything, re-arrange an already-busy schedule, in order to attend a friend's funeral. He wasn't a young man, per se: He was probably sixteen to twenty years my senior, though he never discussed his age with me.

It was a new type of funeral—you know, burial first, then the service. I kind of like it myself. I don't question why people rarely avoid funeral services where the body is present, along with all the accompanying morbidity.

My friend—we'll call him Len—had lived a good, full life. He had raised five children, spent years growing a successful insurance business, and spent many months out of many years helping out in missions work in El Salvador, the birthplace of his wife, Silvia. In fact, he learned the language and the culture well, two things I that never did during my one-year teaching stint there.

Life had a twisted end for Len, at least during his last two years. Despite his years of service, his positive contributions to society, and his pro-active faith, he suffered from all sorts of cancer. In fact, everytime I tried to talk to him over the past year or so, I could literally hear a deterioration in his voice, cognitive skills, and perspective.

One of the greatest blows within those last two years was when he had to bury one of his daughters. He had already buried another daughter years ago, owing to some moral missteps. This most recent death, however, was owing to missteps of another sort, namely, she literally slipped on some steps and suffered some very serious head damage. She succumbed to those injuries just a few days after her fall.

As a friend and a fellow-Christian, I wonder about these circumstances that befell Len. And I know that I am not the first one to ask the big question, “Why?” Why do good people suffer bad things? Why do we suffer so much pain and disappointment, in every sense?

Then there's the question of an apparently impotent Being—I'll call Him God, if you don't mind (and actually, I'll still call Him God, even if you do mind)--Who seems incapable or at least unable to stop the pain.

Not so, of course, but we have erased God from the public arena, with Christmas being the latest event under attack. Not sure how much I can develop this thought in a column without some of the populace getting up in arms. However, I'm sure many of my readers have a spiritual bent.

Back to Len. I was amazed at the upbeat nature of the funeral service. We will all miss him, but we all had fond memories of a life well-lived, of a death well-faced. According to his understanding of the Good Book, he knew where he was going, to a place called heaven, where there is no pain or disappointment, no grief or sorrow.

And no angels strumming harps on fluffy clouds, either.

This funeral was a reality check for me at different levels. I saw many of my friends from the past and noticed how they had aged. Of course, I had too. I saw the sadness yet the joy in those left behind, and most of them shared Len's hope of life beyond life, if you will. And I saw life (and death) in a slightly new perspective: We're not here for a long time--nor a good time, by the way. We are here for a full time, and we need to make the most of it.

I feel fine today, but that may change by tomorrow. Three years ago, Len would have said the same thing. He didn't anticipate a two-year run of cancerous masses, excruciating pain, and constant trips to the hospital. He didn't know that the next significant death on his timetable within those two years would his eldest daughter.

He was here, and now he's gone. We're all better for the gift of his life, and strange to say it, the gift of his death. It was good to reflect on the things that matter, and dying is one of them. We try to avoid it, re-name it, excuse it, and deny it, but it does happen once in a lifetime to all of us, 100% of the time.

It is my earnest desire that when it comes to my turn to pass on, there may be as many people moved to tears and laughter, fond memories, and impact statements as I saw the other day. I would think you want the same.

I also want to make sure that when it comes to dying, I will have no regrets, no remorse, and give no resistance.

Something on my Mind: A Matter of Missing Meanings

As an admitted wordsmith, writer, and teacher of writing, grammar, and vocabulary, I'm into words in a big way. Words are to me as tools are to a carpenter, pots and pans to a cook, and cows to a rancher.

I am aware that words have shifted meanings over the centuries. It's hard to know what words once meant, compared to what they mean today. I'm sure there's a legitimate reason for the change.

In other words, if this were a history lesson, I would discuss the re-working of “awful,” “presently,” and “peer.” For the sake of my fellow-lexophiles, “awful” once meant full of awe (not terrible), “presently” meant in the future (not the present), and “peer” as someone in the social strata above you (not at the same level as you).

Then there are the broken rules, with texting being a good (or bad?) example--so “are you” becomes r u). Or when a new meaning is applied (eg., a “six-pack” morphs from being a small case of beer to some hunk's muscular abdomen). Does that mean if you drink too many six-packs yours becomes a one-pack? Confusing, I know, but don't blame me.

My main thrust today is about those other words whose meanings have shifted simply for the sake of convenience. Some have taken such a shift that I hesitate using them for fear of misusing them, then having some twit out there snickering—and I hate being snickered at.

Remember, for instance, when “gay” used to mean happy? It means anything but happy today. You will recall when “cool” once meant not warm. Someday I should write about the shift in the meanings of “hot,” and “chill.”

A few other words come to mind as I write this missive. These are hot-button words, loaded words, politically-correct words. My complaint is that words have shifted meaning for apparently no rationale reason. Bad enough to create confusion (the opposite of clear communication), but for those who don't embrace the new meaning, they are considered social outcasts or moral pariahs.

For instance, I remember when I was once able to use the words “boy” and “girl,” and everyone knew what I meant. Boys always dressed like boys, acted like boys, and went into the boys' bathroom. Not so any longer in certain circles. The same applies to girls.

Another word that's taken a beating is “absolutes.” We can no longer hold to absolutes apparently—and we've been told that in absolute terms. There's a serious flaw in that camp, whereby those who claim we can no longer be absolute about anything anymore...state it absolutely. If absolute doesn't mean rigid, firm, and definite, then don't ream me out rigidly, firmly, and definitely. That's called a double standard; worse, it's called hypocrisy.

Whatever happened to my next word, namely, “tolerance”? Tolerance used to mean allowing for differences, putting up with opinions and viewpoints opposed to your own. I think I've done my fare share all my life. However, today I must “tolerate” certain lifestyles, habits, and vices, but notice how those who demand tolerance of me are, well, not very tolerant of my view, if it's different from theirs. Hypocritically, tolerance seems to go only one way.

Worse yet, I hear how we must be tolerant of each other and allowing for differing views (repeated for effect, thank you), but then it stops when it comes to same basic moral issues. In fact, I am seen as an enemy of the state for having a differing view.

Have you thought of the shift in the meaning of “choice”? The term “pro-choice” apparently means balanced, wise, and selective. Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth. It simply means to choose to kill a helpless baby, conceived by selfish, unrestrained sex. The correct term is pro-death. Even writing this term should get a few people upset (which is not my intention), but it is the correct term. Sugarcoating it with fancy talk doesn't change the meaning behind the message.

So, when it comes to absolutes, tolerance, and choice, it appears their current use goes only one way—the opposite direction, you might say, from all civil, rational thought. By adjusting the meaning, moral imbalance and ambivalence becomes the norm.

The list is endless, or at least so it seems, so I must wind up. One more word: “friends.” Thirty years ago, friends were people you felt safe with, dropped your guard with, got deeper with—usually in person and over coffee.

These days we can have 200 “friends” on Facebook. There are some noble uses of Facebook (quick dissemination of news, for one). But equating folks who make regular, shallow comments on a computer as “friends” is a stretch. Not sure I want to be friends with those who spend inordinate amounts of time hanging out over a computer screen.

So what do you think, wasn't this a “swell” column?

Something on my Mind: The Worst E-Word Ever

In a world of human rights, preferential treatment, and “me-first” mentality, I am happy to announce yet another winner in the “worst-word-for-that-letter” category. These words are meant to tease and provoke you. If you're better for it, then I'm better for it, as I will have reached my goal.

You may recall that we discussed the F-word recently. Now we look at an E-word. With the help of an active, creative mind, I may actually make it through the alphabet over the next, say, year or so—depending how much the wit machine gets lubricated.

When was a kid, I had a lot of “E's” on my report card: A friend told me that “E” stood for “excellent” and that “A” stood for “awful.” Needless to say, I felt very, very good about my grades for years. It wasn't until my third go-round in grade nine that I clued in to the realities of the grading alphabet.

While E could stand for a number of words, I suggest it stands for “entitlement,” that sense that you deserve something that you don't, or that snitty, arrogant sense that something should be yours.

In other words, it's the assumption of rights without responsibilities.

In a free society (something we once enjoyed), there should be a general catalogue of privileges that all people rightfully enjoy. I speak of freedom of (and from) religion, of safety in everyday living, of respect and dignity. These go without saying; however, they are not the thrust of today's column.

Let me expand a little: In a free society, I should have the right to worship as my faith and conscience (and Bible) allows, and so should you. There should never be a heavy-handed, top-down demand for a a state faith, a confined truth, or a denominational standard—not to be confused with an ultimate faith, truth, or standard, of course.

The liberty to worship God is a timeless opportunity that has been a hallmark of every free society for the past 10,000 years. When that freedom is eroded or even encroached upon, that society is less free than it realizes.

Beyond the scope of so-called religion, I think of personal safety. There is a fundamental principle that allows me to be able to protect my family and possessions from anyone who would endanger us. That's why gun control is so flawed.

I hesitate to use the word “entitlement” when discussing the above, unless I recognize the complimentary qualities of rights and responsibilities. Disconnect them, and it's seriously flawed.

You see, when you take on a new job but expect the same rights that a twenty-five-year veteran has, that's flawed entitlement. Or when you walk into any relationship—dating, marriage, employment, ownership, etc.--with the sense of receiving all the rights but none of the responsibilities, that's flawed also.

The shoplifter will feel he or she is entitled to have the item (rights) without paying for it (responsibility). The philanderer will want the gratification (rights) without the duty of fidelity and parenthood (responsibility). The lazy student wants the good grades (rights) without the effort (responsibility) to earn them.

My way or my demands, these assumptions of personal rights, are components of entitlement, and they contribute to a myriad of challenges that plague our planet today. If we are ever going to discuss human rights, we should really discuss human rights and responsibilities—but we never do.

Unfortunately, there are too many examples all around us: For starters, road rage (= my right to harass you because you irritated me) and abortion (= this life growing within the womb is going to destroy my pleasure, so I must destroy him or her).

Let me add a couple more: bullying, namely, the right to harass others without taking responsibility; petty lawsuits, where when there is a mere whiff of an offense, it goes to court. There's more, but I'll refrain for now.

I can see that learning through life's lessons and working with a variety of people is one of the best ways to offset this evil of entitlement. If nothing else, I think I am at least entitled to that opinion.

And for that matter, maybe I was “entitled” to those crummy marks in school, after all.