‘We don’t do Christmas. We save the money, spend it on ourselves for once. Not a dime on food we won’t eat or clothes we won’t wear or gifts no one needs… It’s a boycott…”

 

That’s Luther Krank making a prodigious proposition to his wife, Nora, in a favorite Christmas novel of ours.

 

Plotted so simply it takes only 177 pages to tell—and tell in considerately leaded print yet—the novel is the most uncharacteristic by John Grisham. It is not any of the legal thrillers he has made his name for, but it’s the one Grisham we have chosen to keep, in fact the only Grisham this little condominium nest in which Chit and I have been living our simplified senior lives can take for volumes. And how it has proved worth the keeping—it’s the one title that leaps at us in these morally anxious times!

 

As light and funny as the times it is related to are grave, indeed tragic, “Skipping Christmas” (Doubleday, 2001) would seem an irreverent point of reference. It’s about a couple who, left alone this one Christmas, decides to, well, skip it, leave the neighborhood to its suddenly senseless and wasteful communal traditions, and fly away on Christmas Day itself, for “10 days of total luxury” on a cruise! It’s certainly no way to do an occasion that precisely calls for selflessness and moderation—if Christmas is indeed that.

 

As it happens, it is a case where the moral lies in the perversity—in the self-centeredness, in the profligacy, in the whole hypocrisy that surrounds Christmas.

 

At no time has our own Christmas conscience, as a nation, come under a test so severe as now. The occasion is a tragedy that compares with no other: Whole communities laid waste by a typhoon of unequaled fury, 6,000 dead and counting. And what facile reaction among the untouched: How to do Christmas without appearing insensitive.

 

Twisted

 

It’s a reaction in the same sick class as the old wisecrack that passes for native, popular wisdom, here updated:

 

Before we proceed to gorge ourselves at Christmas, let’s be reminded of our starved brethren in Leyte, so that they may be able, at least in spirit, to partake with us.

 

Something is definitely morally twisted here. Christmas is no mere red date on the calendar, no blanket excuse for making merry, let alone in the most abysmal sense. Christmas is a noble spirit; it lifts and redeems and moves the inhabited as profoundly as he is seized by it.

 

Although, by force of tradition, it is activated more at this time of year than at any other, it chooses no season. And one thing it precisely cannot ignore is such cries as those issuing from Leyte.

 

Leyte, to be sure, is no simple case of fate—unstoppable, unchangeable, therefore excusable. It’s been brought to its desperate pass strictly by human hands, conscienceless, plundering hands acting out of the old self-feeding habit of greed and working schemes that, by the exploitation of the environment for profit, have left the masses of already poor vulnerable yet to the elements; and, by official corruption, have robbed them of their due from the wealth and opportunities their own nation has to offer.

 

Lest they be mistaken for pleas for charity or philanthropy, the cries from Leyte are only rightful demands for payback for moral debt owed generations that cannot be even remotely assuaged—but in fact mocked—by skipping Christmas.

 

Memorable, too, though not as resonant as “Skipping Christmas,” probably because its title lacks the ring that suits the times and its Christmas setting feels but incidental, is an even shorter novel (101 pages), actually down-billed as a mere “tale”: “A Different Kind of Christmas” (Random House, 1988). It’s one of two books we’ve kept by Alex Haley; the other being his Pulitzer Prized “Roots.”

 

It’s a morality tale more direct and timeless with its message than “Skipping Christmas,” and not light or funny at all. It’s about a young man from 19th-century North Carolina who forsakes family and class, and all the power, privilege and wealth that go with it, to lead a mass escape of slaves, some his family’s own, into freedom on Christmas Eve.

 

Now, that, for all its relative shortcoming in salesmanship, makes for a more felicitous inspiration.