Free Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes by Robert Devereaux

those steeped in bigotry back onto long-abandoned paths of righteousness.
    Through a copse of trees, they caught glimpses of the bedroom replicas and the buzzing multitude poking and probing at them. And when the elves saw them approaching and ran to meet them, Santa’s excitement redoubled.
    Raising his hands as though to ward off an attack, he said with a laugh, “All in good time, lads. Talk to Wendy, why don’t you? It’s her doing.” Then he slipped through the crowd to kiss Anya and Rachel, encircle their waists, and draw them aside. Wendy began, “You’re not going to believe this,” at which the elves burst into babble.
    Santa tuned them out. “Oh my darlings,” he confided, “we were visited by an angel, the archangel Michael, to be precise.”
    Rachel put a hand to her face.
    “Land sakes, Claus,” said Anya, “is it about your prayers?”
    “It is indeed.” He repeated Michael’s every word, relating what stance he took, what expressions passed over his face, how unbearably beautiful he had been, how utterly sad and joyful they grew as the archangel left them. “But now I’d better address the troops.”
    They returned to the buzzing throng about Wendy, who was laughing and clapping her hands and conveying, by mimicked word and gesture, the task the archangel had charged them with.
    Santa bounded onto the central platform, where the sunlight struck bright and bold. “Friends, colleagues, brothers,” said he. “We have been blessed yet again by the Holiest of Holies. There are no guarantees in this business of salvation. But we will do our utmost to save the life of Jamie Stratton, a wonderful nine-year-old, gifted, thoughtful, as gentle and generous as one could wish. We shall bend all of our persuasive powers toward convincing four mortals to awaken, in an area where they wander blinded, bewildered, and astray, to the divine generosity that once burned bright at the hearth-center of their souls. They slumber, but shall be roused. They hurt the sinned against, but shall themselves be healed. They dare to denigrate God’s rich and varied creation, but soon they shall exalt it, they shall revel in it, they shall burst the bonds of wretched habit and form new behaviors, boldly challenging the waywardness of similarly straying mortals.”
    Though the elves cheered often as he spoke, Santa sensed a kind of disquiet, or discomfort, perhaps even disunity among them. Not of course about sexual orientation. There wasn’t a prejudicial bone in their bodies. But something was in the air. Should he probe? Best not. Whatever it was, they would sort it out on their own. They always did. It always proved to be something trivial, blown out of proportion and quickly faded. Barging in might only fan the flames.
    “What I have stated,” he went on, “is our grand goal, mine and Wendy’s. Aim high and your arrow hits a target far more distant than if your bow arm declines at a more modest angle. Or as Holy Scripture says, whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.
    “The bedroom behind me belongs to Matt Beluzzo, a twelve-year-old whose life is a war zone and who bullies children who have it better than he. Him shall we first visit. On my right is Jamie’s parents’ bedroom, on my left that of Ty Taylor, a preacher whose prejudicial lenses distort and discolor the truths at the heart of the gospel he pretends to preach.
    “Fritz, you and your bunkmates are to head up a workforce to decorate and make magical these replicas, so that our visits carry more weight than our poor words can. Wendy and I will confer with you, in the days ahead, as to how we’d like them bedecked at each visit.”
    Fritz, red-haired, gap-toothed, and ageless, beamed.
    “But be inventive. Trust your creative instincts. Remember, all of you: We dedicate ourselves to saving the life of a good little boy. The delivery of Christmas cheer has always been our primary concern. This one small task, granted us by God