IN DEFENSE OF YULETIDE COMMERCIALISM

It came upon a midnight . . . and I dreamed this most disquieting dream –

Blustery preachers and crabby commentators had finally gotten their fondest Yuletide wish: Commercialism had been eradicated from the holiday spirit as surely as St. George had slain the dragon. And those who would piously denounce society’s insidious materialism had finally attained all that they had hoped for . . . not.

So, the malls went un-bedecked, no faux-snowdrifts, or robotic nutcrackers, or dewy memory-photos of little Jessica on Santa's lap. The Muzak tinkled yet another chorus of Mantovani’s rendition of I Wanna Hold Your Hand. The First Noel and O Holy Night were banished to the drafty choir lofts and holiday parties, where Aunt Myrtle struggled to remember the words and cranky kids squirmed impatiently,

Only then did we realize how much of our sense of seasonal all's-well-ness, had not been a function of happenstance or Sunday school dogma. No, it had come from being inundated by sights and sounds that touched primal yearnings for home and comfort and childhood, heart tugs driven by the wheels of insidious commercialism.

And our television sets no longer afforded us temporary seasonal respite from South Park and Springer and Geraldo. No more Charlie Brown. No more Grinch. No More Burl Ives. No more George Bailey. No more Miracle on 34th Street and Little Drummer Boy. No more sponsors. No more gizmos and colognes to sell. No more purse-strings to tug.

Only then did we realize that Yuletide was the one and only season each year that could we faithfully depend on the media to offer our homes a steady diet of decency, innocence, honorability, and family values. The opportunity for idealism had been incited not by sonorous pulpit banging, but by godless commercialism.

And our kids got no more frivolous, batteries-not-included, MIT-engineer-to-set-‘em-up, toys. Just meaningful, practical, altruistic gifts. Sure, they were unhappy, but they would get over it. They would get the message. We had struck a blow for the real holiday spirit, and weren’t we proud of ourselves?

Only then did we realize that our kids, God bless 'em, are more like Pavlov's dogs than heavenly angels. They build up a treasury of warm, positive associations through the sensations and trinkets that titillate them, long before they can be brought to appreciate theological subtleties and pious maxims. Then we could have gained entrée to ask them all the questions that Nintendo does not ask, like –

Isn't it also a nice present to be surrounded by people who love you? Isn't it sad that there are children just like you in our town who don't have nice presents like these, or even a place to live, or a meal to eat? Shouldn't we try to figure out some ways to make their lives happier, too? Did you know that the real reason we have these wonderful toys and parties is to give us more opportunity to celebrate the birth of Jesus/the miracle of Hanukkah? Don't you think we should give to charity and go to church/synagogue to thank God and pray for people who are less fortunate?

Only then did we realize that it was not the material doodads but the good we failed to create through them that seemed to make the holiday season so crass and inglorious. Only then did we realize that unless our children are happy at this goodly time, all of the sublime lessons are for naught. And, irony of ironies, these opportunities to build some sense of transcendent good had been driven into our lives on the wheels of sinister commercialism.

So, let the nay-sayers say their nays, and let the self-righteous strike a blow for righteousness. I say, humbug to their humbug. The only thing worse at this beloved, blessed season than commercialism would be its absence. Our pews would be empty. Our spirits would flag. The only guaranteed benefit would be a precipitous decline in post-holiday depression, for come Christmas and Hanukkah, we would be just as depressed as we were all year long.

Now would you please stop whining and pass that bowl of festive red-and-green holiday cheese fadoozles? They’ve got an old clip on TV of Perry Como singing Ave Maria.

After all, ‘tis the season to be . . . jolly!