We were debating about God after dinner. Questioning whether or not He was a spoiled despot, as evidenced by His whimsical and unfeeling treatment of Job in the Biblical book of the same name. It was my neighbor Nigel, always the sage, who pointed out, “Don’t forget, God makes Job suffer for no particular purpose, other than to squeeze Satan’s nuts.”

Later in the evening, Nigel saw that his grandiose idea about Christmas—more an impulse than an idea, really—was the result of a momentary delusion, a brief sensation of contentment, brought on by the delicious meal he and his wife Julianna had enjoyed with us in solitude and peace. More importantly, that sense of personal contentment seems to have led to the unexpected—slightly pretentious—suggestion Nigel made to Julianna at day’s end.  

Had Nigel and Julianna’s children been with them, that evening of extreme contentment, and not at play elsewhere, the evening would have been far less serene, understandably, thereby reducing the likelihood of any well-meaning, Brotherhood-Of-Man–type suggestions crossing Nigel’s mind…or his lips.

But cross Nigel’s lips one suggestion did.

“Darling,” Nigel said softly to his wife Juliana. They were seated in their living room, a familiar face from law night TV staring out at them from the 55” wall-mounted screen. The satisfaction of the evening’s salubrious dinner just beginning to settle on Nigel’s face, he continued, “I think we ought to invite some poor people over for Christmas dinner.” 

“This year?” Julianna asked, click-clacking her knitting needles in a well established cadence. “Poor people? For Christmas?”

“I suppose we could have them over for Thanksgiving,” Nigel suggested with little enthusiasm. “It’s just that Christmas carries so much more of that Good-Will-To-All-Mankind warmth and energy, don’t you think?”

“Yes dear, Julianna said. “But am I hearing you right? For dinner on Christmas, you think…poor people?”

“Haven’t you ever wondered what’s been missing from our Christmas dinner table?” Nigel asked.

“Poor people?” Julianna speculated uncertainly as she looked up from her knitting. “What kind of poor people are you thinking, dear?”

What kind, indeed? 

“And how many?” she added, still looking up from her stitches.

“I don’t know,” Nigel answered with uncertainty, “maybe three or four. Just enough to round out a game of Monopoly, should the evening come to that.  

“I don’t suppose poor people play bridge,” Nigel wondered absently. “Do you think…?

“As for what kind,” he continued, never having given thought to the idea that poor people came in varieties, “Whatever kind we can find, I guess.”

For the next few days, Nigel attempted to locate a modest number of poor people he could invite to share his family’s Christmas Day table. 

Lest he be seen as insincere—after a week’s worth of failing to find even a single qualifying poor person—Nigel feverishly contacted friends, relations, even business associates to see if they numbered poor people among their acquaintance, especially those who might be receptive to a windfall turkey dinner. As luck would have it, the few poor people Nigel unearthed were either already booked for that evening or would require so much financial assistance to make themselves presentable they would no longer qualify as impoverished.

In the end, Nigel decided to forego the irreplaceable pleasure of feasting the poor, the needy and the destitute as he had planned, and instead focused on elevating the consciousness of a few individuals he knew who, in his mind, would easily qualify as totally impoverished on a purely spiritual basis.

It should be pointed out that Nigel belonged to a school of self-development called The Seekers For Truth where the study of sacred Hindu texts taught Nigel and his fellow-students that spiritual wealth was of far greater value to the wellbeing of one’s immortal soul than material holdings.

“And thus to make this world a better place,“ Nigel explained, “we celebrate the birthday of the most generous and courageous human being in recorded history by feeding the malnourished spirits of three impoverished souls.

“That’s actually more meaningful than filling their plates and stomachs,” Nigel explained to Julianna, who was his junior in the Seekers For Truth hierarchy and thus always under her husband’s tutelage. “Those who prey on others,” Nigel continued, as though he were once again lecturing to the Seekers’ senior students, “who only use their God-given talents to benefit themselves surely need spiritual nourishment more than they need turkey, stuffing or jellied fruit salad,” Nigel chuckled, concluding his instruction.

Thus, on the late afternoon of the world’s annual celebration of that most holiest of events back in Bethlehem, Nigel found his table not only ringed by the familiar faces of his wife and three children, but also by the beaming countenances of his three chosen spiritual paupers: a slum LANDLORD, a personal injury ambulance CHASER and a Wall Street ARBITRAGER who specialized in corporate takeovers.

All three, under fair disclosure, were acquaintances of Nigel’s from his downtown business club. All three were drowning in wealth, as well, but, fair to report, so was Nigel. But unlike Nigel, not one of them ever encountered the teachers, guides or scoutmasters they needed to point their lives in the right—or perhaps we might say upright—direction. Three well dressed and impeccably groomed businessmen, as they appeared at Nigel’s door that evening. All dripping in wealth and beggared of altruistic impulse.

“Welcome, welcome,” Nigel said cheerily at his apartment’s front door. “Come in. please…,” he enjoined with a sweeping gesture, stepping back. Then he opened his arms and sang, “Come in, come in, come in, come in. Come in, you’re welcome tonight” to the tune of “Sit Down You’re Rockin’ The Boat” from Guys and Dolls, a longtime favorite of Nigel’s ever since he played Nathan Detroit in a high school production.

You are right in interpreting Nigel’s attitude to be improbably theatrical and certifiably awkward. 

For a long moment, when they first arrived, Nigel’s three visitors just stood there, in the foyer, frozen like city dwellers about to enter the darkest wilds of the jungle. If the three visitors shared one obvious characteristic, aside from their awkwardness, it was a certain feral worldview that showed in their faces. They had been schooled to see the world as a dangerous place and, like crafty animals, they had learned to strike their enemies before their enemies struck them. And to gather whatever necessaries they might need should they find themselves caught in a sudden storm. 

It was a worldview first revealed through their eyes, which seemed to automatically shift furtively in search of either a.) danger and threats, b.) sudden opportunities or, in a more hopeful light, c.) unwary victims.

At the risk of dehumanizing these unfortunate human beings, but on advice of my STONE’S THROW blog attorney, we will forego use of their real names and refer to them simply as the slum LANDLORD, the ambulance CHASER and the ARBITRAGER.

Dinner was, as one might expect, a festive and lighthearted affair, the three guests proving superbly adept at conversing with those for whom they clearly felt little empathy or interest. Their host, ever mindful of his obligation to nourish his guests’ all-consuming spiritual hungers, had planned a spate of recitations by his children, each recital focused upon a theme reflecting either the bitter fruits of avarice and selfishness or the bounteous rewards laid up in Heaven for those who follow the path of righteousness and generosity.

The first recital occurred after a minor incident in which Ellen, Nigel’s younger daughter, angrily called out one of the guests—the LANDLORD to be precise—for hogging the jellied cranberry salad. The accused had been caught with a mountainous portion of the jellied salad on his plate heaped so high it shook and shimmied without pause. 

It took some moments for the arguments, protestations and sketchy explanations to die down, a darkly grayish mood hanging over the dinner table like an unwanted smell that refused to dissipate or blow away.

Once the equality of the jellied fruit salad portions was restored to everyone’s satisfaction, Nigel’s 9-year-old son, Patrick, stood up and recited, “The Highwayman.” This oft-recited poetic tale of the gallant rogue who hijacks baubles and coins along the King’s Highway, riding… riding … riding… up to the old inn door, served as a perfect prologue to a discussion about another inn door, one that was slammed shut more than two thousand years earlier to a family whose mother was ripe with child. 

Oh, the enrichment possibilities of the Christ’s Nativity, Nigel thought! The perfect subject for discussion when one seeks to serve a heaping side dish of spiritual nourishment along with the traditional roast turkey and giblets to one’s honored guests.

Somehow—and Nigel could only assume the fault lay with the CHASER—the conversation was quickly steered to the legal ramifications  and financial liabilities for an innkeeper turning away a woman who was pregnant—ripely pregnant—with child. Though a good measure of sympathy was clearly offered to the woman, it was agreed by all that the most grievous fault lay with her husband, poor dolt, who neglected to make reservations on a holiday weekend. 

They also determined that the innkeeper could hardly be blamed for not violating his occupancy permit, even under such extenuating circumstances.

“In fact,” the CHASER opined, “you could easily sue the pants off the husband for the all the damage he’s done to the innkeeper’s reputation over the ages.”

While this uplifting conversation ensued, soup was brought out from the kitchen and served. Ever-mindful of the cranberry salad incident, Ellen kept a vigilant eye upon the LANDLORD as he ladled soup into his bowl. 

“Will you stop watching me!” the LANDLORD angrily insisted.

“I will when you stop taking my share,” Ellen snapped back righteously.

“Young lady,” the ARBITRAGER cut in, with a helpful gleam in his eye. “How much would you charge to relinquish your entire share of the soup?”

“What’s it to you?” Ellen replied, the edge of her disdain chilling the air.

“Why nothing,” the ARBITRAGER answered with a laugh, “It’s just that I’m always looking for a good deal.”

Ten minutes later, after a furious sympathy of soup slurps, sips and cooling outbreaths, the soup bowls were emptied and quickly cleared. Nigel noted the ARBITRAGER had ended up with three empty soup bowls where everyone else had but one, or less. 

Now that the main elements of the meal had been brought out, Ellen noted, with rising irritation the way the LANDLORD and his companions filled their plates with piggish occupation, and, most offensively, never waited till they finished even half their heaped offerings before grabbing at side dishes and bread slices to augment their declining mounds of food.

Ten minutes later, to listless cries of delight and muted surprise, Lisa, the middle child, stood up and recited a verse chosen by her father from the Gospel of St. Matthew:

“Lay not for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal. But lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven.” Nigel vigorously applauded Lisa’s recital, only interrupting his clapping when his hands were needed to receive the turkey platter coming his way. An empty turkey platter, as it turned out, picked clean of even the smallest scraps. 

Nigel’s eyes traveled slowly across the wide plain of the table till they paused at a range of mountains that began with the copious risings of turkey, stuffing and potatoes heaped on the ARBITRAGER’s plate and extended like Alpine stepping stones from ARBITRAGER to CHASER to LANDLORD, each overloaded platter of food more offensive in Nigel’s mind than the last. 

It was at this juncture of the dinner party that Nigel noticed the LANDLORD excusing himself from the table for the third time, then going off, presumably searching for the bathroom. Something was definitely happening that required further inquiry, Nigel observed. But what could it be? Certainly not digestive issues.

Nigel fancifully imagined the LANDLORD was selling scraps from the table to an unseen companion hiding in or near the bathroom. Or else he might be casing the unoccupied rooms for easily lifted trinkets.

Bidding his wife to keep watch over the silverware, Nigel repaired to the kitchen to replenish the plundered turkey platter.

As for dessert, we will not linger long over the unmitigated rapaciousness of Nigel’s three children who, after observing the unchallenged gluttony of their guests throughout the evening, had risen en masse to the kitchen in advance of their mother and beat her to the serving tray, on which sat separate bowls of chocolate covered raisins, chocolate covered peanuts and chicklet-type dinner mints. 

Then, in an act of almost divine retribution Elvis, Nigel’s youngest child, recited, “Old Mother Hubbard” with a mouth so crammed with tiny dinner mints they scattered to all corners of the dining room, their continuous feathery rainfall almost a soundtrack to Elvis’ recital.

Afterwards, when he was free to review the evening from end to end, from cheese to cheesecake, Nigel thought it was all a momentary illusion, perhaps even a delusion, but certainly a misguided siege of seasonal enthusiasm on his part. 

An illusion or delusion that would cause him to reconsider bringing these, or any other, spiritually destitute people to his dinner table ever again. Not for a second Christmas Day dinner. And especially not for a Thanksgiving dinner either! Just in case it was ever suggested.

“No thanks!” Nigel exclaimed, though it wasn’t clear to whom he was speaking.

Had he ever thought to repeat this grand and memorable  mistake, he would only need a reminder of how at the conclusion of the evening, the ARBITRAGER, the CHASER and the LANDLORD rose from the table in a single gesture, and asked if there were any leftovers they could bring home to their dogs. 

Nigel noticed most of the LANDLORD’s silverware from dinner was nowhere to be seen on the cluttered and uncleared table. And, yes, there was a metallic clinking sound merrily punctuating the LANDLORD’s otherwise quiet movement away from the table. For a moment, Nigel wondered if the sounds were echoes from the Jingle Bells that filled the distant night.

It was only after their three guests had been given their coats and were standing in the foyer that Nigel realized how little one could hope to accomplish in a world struggling with poverty.

“Merry Christmas and Happy Hannukah!” Nigel called out with assumed gusto as he opened the door and bid farewell to the three impoverished souls he had brought together this fateful evening. 

And farewell, as well, he firmly decided, to any good intentions he might have accidentally, if not foolishly, harbored for future holiday dinners.

“No thanks,” he declared with a satisfied shrug, vaguely sensing the Universe might be laughing at him. 

Or was it some other source that jubilantly called out, “HO! HO! HO!” in the distant Christmas sky?