The Solution

The goat stared blankly ahead—or at least as best as it could with its eyes on the sides of its head—and occupied itself by chewing on some grass near the post it was tied to. Gregor carefully untied the rope from the post and led the goat to the nearby altar.

Once at the altar, Gregor put the goat in a headlock and, leaning in hard with his substantial bodyweight, swung the goat to the ground. Startled, the goat started bleating and kicking in protest, though Gregor was experienced enough to avoid the worst of the animal's flails. Kneeling on the goat to keep it from escaping, Gregor wrangled with its legs—first the back, then the front—and tied them together with thick twine. With its limbs immobilized, Gregor lifted the animal and gently placed it in the center of the altar.

While the animal wrestling was the most physically demanding part of the process, it was straightforward. The next step was always a bit trickier, at least Gregor thought so. He lit the candles that were placed at strategic points on the outer edge of the round altar. The light of the flames danced warmly, invitingly, against the dark wood of the altar. He walked back to the nearby fence, pulled on the waiting black robe, and raised the hood, which almost completely covered his face.

Back at the altar, Gregor bent down to reach the shelf underneath, rising again a moment later holding a ceremonial dagger. The golden hilt was encrusted with gemstones and the blade, which was nearly as long as his forearm, gleamed in the candlelight.

Gregor moved into position near the goat’s head—it was still trying to wiggle out of its bonds, though it wasn't finding any success. Clutching the dagger in both hands, Gregor closed his eyes and spoke quietly, his voice just above a whisper.

"Domine, occidere est creatura. Confirma me: et quo reo hominem et impleta est vita!"

As the final words left his lips, Gregor held the goat's head still with his left hand and sliced its throat with the blade in his right. Blood gushed out from the animal's neck, flowing to the edges of the altar and spilling onto the ground below. The goat tried bleating again, but its larynx had been severed, so the only sound it made was an unsettling gurgling as the life drained out of it. In less than a minute, the creature was dead.

With the sacrifice complete, Gregor carefully pulled the robe over his head, turning it inside out as he removed it—keeping any blood that splattered on the robe—before walking back to the fence. Once at the fence, he placed the robe across the top rung before walking around the edge of the altar, blowing out each candle as he reached it. With the goat lying in its gore and the candles extinguished, Gregor lifted the latch that held the gate closed and stepped through.

Outside of the fenced area, Gregor walked out the door of the shed and closed it behind him. Back in the sunshine, Gregor did a quick inspection of his clothes for any stray blood. Finding none, he made his way up the hill. As he walked, he grumbled softly to himself, complaining about the heat of the day. At the hill's summit, he pulled his name badge out of his shirt pocket and swiped it across the RFID reader. After a beep and an audible click, Gregor pulled open the door and walked into the office building.

Back in his office, Gregor found that the laptop he had been working on and turned it on—it still wasn't connecting to WIFI. He grumbled annoyedly and picked up his desk phone. He pulled a Post-it Note off of the laptop and dialed the four-digit extension number written on it.

"Hello," the voice on the other end said, "this is Michael."

"Hey, Michael," Gregor replied. "This is Greg from IT. I'm sorry, but I wasn't able to fix your laptop. I'll have to order you a new one."

"Aw, really?" Michael asked disappointedly. "There isn't anything else you can try?"

"Believe me," Gregor said, sighing slightly. "I've tried absolutely every possible solution."

The First Christmas

Flavia walked from the bedroom into the common area of the house to find Cassius standing on a chair so that he could reach the lintel of the main doorway and hang a bull’s disembodied scrotum.

“Cassius,” Flavia said, “what are you doing?”

Cassius turned his head to face his wife, a broad grin on his face. “Io Saturnalia!” he said enthusiastically.

“Husband,” Flavia responded with concern, “do you not remember that we now worship the one true God? We should not participate in such wicked activities as Satunalia.”

Cassius climbed down from the chair he was standing on and walked over to his wife. “Dear Flavia,” he said, “I am a Christian, now and forever, but there is no harm in decorating for this holiday.” He reached out to embrace his wife, but she pulled away.

“I am troubled by your choice to put up decorations,” Flavia said walking to the window to closer examine the garlands that hung there. “This holiday is in celebration of the grace of Saturn, who is a false god. If we decorate as we have always done, are we not giving praise to a mere idol?”

Cassius moved the chair he had been standing on back to the table, sat down, and started eating some dried dates and figs from a bowl sitting there. After chewing in silence for some time, he responded. “I have no plans to attend any of the sacrifices that will be held during this or any other day of the celebration. I merely wish to participate in a few of the activities that I have enjoyed since my youth. I may wear my bright clothing and my hat of a freeman and decorate our home in the usual way, but that does not mean that my allegiance has reverted back to the false gods of this land.”

Flavia walked from the window and sat down at the table across from Cassius and began eating with him. “I am concerned that by participating in some parts of the celebration, our friends and neighbors will think that we are participating in them all. We took upon ourselves the name of Christ and promised to stand for Him and I worry that by trying to do some of these activities, we are not standing for Him.”

The couple sat in silence as they continued eating. After a few moments Cassius spoke up.

“Perhaps you are right. It just felt wrong to not decorate today, so I woke up early and collected some garlands and bought the bouquet of testicles from a traveling vendor. Even though we are now Christians, we are still living in Rome; it simply feels natural to be involved in Saturnalia, even if just superficially. However, I do not want to act against the will of the Lord. I will take down the decorations.”

As Cassius got up and walked back to the doorway, Flavia realized that she was happy that her husband had listened to her, but she was also saddened that he had to give up something that he enjoyed. If only there was a way to have it both ways. Suddenly, inspiration struck.

“Cassius, what if we were to adjust the celebration to be focused on Christ?”

Cassius paused in moving the chair to the door. He seemed skeptical. “Perhaps, but what would we change?”

“We could arrange a meeting during the same time as one of the sacrifices. Likely it would not be a standard meeting where we share the Lord’s Supper, but we could still sing and listen as the scriptures are read.”

Cassius smiled a little. “That sounds promising.”

Flavia continued. “And perhaps we can keep the garlands up, but let us take down the ox loins; we can replace them with some viscum album that I saw growing nearby. The white color of the fruit will represent the purity of the Lord.”

“What of the exchanging of gifts? Acts of charity cannot be unrighteous.”

“Agreed. We will keep the giving of gifts as well. The act of giving can represent the gift of eternal life that the Savior has made available to all who accept Him.”

Cassius was now grinning broadly once more. “This sounds like a most splendid plan. What will we call this new celebration?”

Flavia waved her hand dismissively. “That is unimportant. I am certain that we will devise a name with time. What is important is that we send the message to our brothers and sisters in Christ so that we may all celebrate and worship together as a mass of Christians.”

Cassius reached across the table and grabbed Flavia’s hand with his own, which she in turn squeezed tenderly. She was happy to have found the Church, but she was even happier to have a husband with whom she was able to share her faith. Truly, it was a Saturnalia, uh …new holiday miracle.

New Arrival

“I don’t belong here!” cried the new addition to the Prison.

“Yeah?” asked the nearby guard, sarcastically.  “Nobody else belongs here, neither.  I’ll be sure to let the boss man know right away.”

“I mean it,” the prisoner continued.  “I’m not a bad guy.  I wasn’t supposed to end up here.”

The guard sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  He’d seen this reaction countless times before, but he decided to go easy on the guy.  “Look, I ain’t the Judge.  You’re here because you belong here, at least according to Him.  Look at bright side: you won’t be here forever.”

“I know you must have heard this sort of thing from other inmates before, but I really have to talk to someone with some authority on the matter.  The judge made a mistake.”

The guard could stop himself from laughing.  “Ha!  Mistake?  No, sorry, buddy but the Judge don’t make mistakes.  But if you want to talk to somebody, I’ll send somebody over.  Seriously though, save yourself the trouble and just make peace with your situation, it’ll just make it easier.”

The guard continued on his way.  Sometime later there was a knock on the prisoner’s cell and a tall man with dark hair and a warm, grandfatherly smile walked in.  "Hello. It’s Gregory, right?  You wanted to speak to someone about your Judgment?”

“Yeah, that’s right.  And, uh, call me Greg.”

“It’s nice to meet you Greg,” said the tall, grinning man.  He sat down on the single chair facing Greg, who took a seat on his bed.  “My name is Thomas, but you can call me Tommy.  How can I help you?”

“As I was telling the guard,” Greg said, “I don’t belong here.  I’m not a bad guy.”

“I’m afraid that’s not what your file says.  Multiple counts of tax evasion, embezzlement, and drug use are just a few of the items mentioned.  Why would you be exempt from punishment?”

“So I made a few mistakes.  Nobody’s perfect.  And shouldn’t you have my file with you if we’re talking about it?”

“I read through it earlier,” Tommy said, “and since I have a photographic memory, I didn’t see the need to bring the physical record.  And you aren’t here because you’re imperfect; if that were the case, I’d be here, too.  But you still have to make amends before you’re granted your freedom.”

“But isn’t there some other way?” Greg pleaded.  “I mean, I didn’t even think a place like this existed until a few days ago when I ended up here.”

“Not believing in the existence of something doesn’t make it any less real.  No, Greg, you’re here because you always justified your actions.  An extra drink on the weekend was okay because you were stressed out.  A lie to hide your gambling from the authorities was fine because you weren’t hurting anyone involved.  Going through multiple marriages and affairs because you were too passionate for one person.  You never changed and you convinced yourself that you didn’t need to.  I’m very sorry, but your sentence is just.”

Greg was shocked at how thorough his file was, but not enough stop him from replying with a rebuttal.  “What about all of the good that I did?  I volunteered at the Community Center for a while, I was a professor at a University where I shaped young minds, I even donated to charity.  Surely that means that my sentence is too harsh.”

Tommy nodded.  “That was all taken into account when your judgment was passed.  You have to remember that doing good doesn’t make up for doing bad.  Also, what were your motivations for the things you did?  You worked at the Community Center so you’d have some volunteer work to put on your college application.  You were a professor, yes, but you never really cared about your students; you often had your assistant both teach and grade assignments, you just oversaw everything.  And you gave to charity for tax breaks.  You only ever did anything if it benefited you.”

Greg was really at a loss for what to do.  Did he really have to accept his fate?  There had to be something else he could do.  Tommy seemed to sense his hopelessness and spoke up.

“Your time spent here can be put to good use.  You can develop your talents, take some classes to build new skills, or study and learn new things.  Have you had a chance to look over the orientation material yet?”

Greg looked at him confused, then grabbed a large orange envelope.  “Are you talking about this? It just has, like, a Bible and a study guide in it.”

“That’s a bit simplified, but yes, that’s the basic idea.  You should read up.  It’ll help you become better adjusted.”  Tommy stood up from the chair.  “Well, that does it for me.  If you have any more questions, try your orientation material first, but I’ll be happy to come and speak with you if need some additional help.”  He extended his hand to Greg, who shook it reluctantly.

“I still don’t think I should be here,” Greg grumbled.

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” replied Tommy, still with a warm smile “but you wouldn’t be happy 'upstairs,' either.  People are far too selfless for your tastes: I’m certain that it would really annoy you, at least the way you are now.  I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, Greg.” With that, Tommy left and Greg was alone to reflect on what had been said.  Without anyone else around and deprived of his usual distractions and vices, Greg’s thoughts were nearly deafening.

Shoes: a Secret Life

“Right,” the Left Shoe whispered through her laces. “You awake?”

“Hmm?” replied the Right Shoe. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m up. What’s going on?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m just thinking about how things have changed.”

“What do you mean?” Right yawned.

“I mean, I started out in China with all of my sisters. I can still remember coming off the press, not knowing what the world would hold. Then, you and I were married and wrapped up tight and put in the box for the honeymoon. Now, we’re here in Oklahoma and it seems like all we do is either sit in the closet or get shoved on the Owner’s feet. It’s like we’re slaves.”

The Right Shoe shrugged (not easy for an immobile object). “Well, yes, we’re a couple, but it’s not like we had a ceremony.”

“The inspector paired us together and signed the marriage certificate.”

“That was a certificate of inspection. Anyway, our ‘honeymoon’ was just the trip over to the United States. And we’re here because we are incapable of independent movement.”

The Left Shoe looked dejected (which is much easier than shrugging). “Well, I liked our honeymoon.”

“I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy that time we had alone before being taken to the store, but that was a long time ago. Besides, we’re a pair of shoes for the Owner and we serve him. And what did you mean ‘we’re like slaves’?”

“Well, I don’t feel very well cared for by the owner,” said the Right Shoe.

“But,” said Mr. Shoe, “you said you were thinking about what’s changed. We’re treated just as well as when we were brand new.”

“I know, but some of the other shoes are treated better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the Dress Shoes get shined and I heard that the casual shoes got mud wiped off of them. We’ve had mud on us without the Owner cleaning us off,” she said with some indignation. “And He didn’t even put us in the closet today.”

“Well, no He hasn’t. Not yet, anyway. Wait a minute, where’s all of this coming from anyway. We’re treated well enough and now you want to be cleaned and polished? Is something the matter?”

“You know Sgt. Combat-Boot that shares the closet with us?”

“Yes, of course,” said the Right Shoe. “He and his wife were in the armed forces together but they’re retired now.”

“Well, I’ve been talking to him lately.”

“When? I’m always with you.”

“It was last week, when the Owner just threw us in the closet and you were over by the Thongs.”

“They go by the name ‘Flip-Flops’ now. ‘Thong’ is … well, it’s inappropriate.”

“Really? Well, when you were catching up with the … ‘Flip-Flops’” she said deliberately, “I got to know Sgt. Combat-Boot and his wife better. He says that they used to be owned by someone else and that the Owner bought him used.”

“Used, huh? I had a feeling they were a bit weird.”

“No, not weird,” Left said firmly, “just different. They said that they used to get polished all the time and their old Owner would wear them all the time. But one day, He just gave them up and took them to a second-hand store.”

“Well …” Mr. Shoe began, but sounded less confident this time. “We’ve heard about other Owners. The Flip-Flops have been worn by the Owner’s Wife.”

“Yes, but that’s different. Being lent out is one thing, but the Combat-Boots were abandoned. They had done their best to serve their Owner and he just gives them up. How do we know that our Owner won’t do that?”

“I guess we don’t. That’s the whole point though. We were created to serve Him with all our soles, but we don’t know if it’s enough. We just do our best and hope.”

“I still don’t know. The world made sense before, but now I’m confused.”

“It’s tough sometimes,” Right said, “but we just have to work hard and believe.”

The door to the bedroom opened and the Owner emerged. He walked over and picked up the Shoes and went back into the bedroom. There, he opened the closet door and gently placed the Shoes in their spot between the Casual Shoes and the Flip-Flops. He closed his door.

“See?” Right said brightly. “He did remember us.”

“Maybe,” Left said cautiously optimistic. “Maybe He does care.”

“Of course he does. Besides, he’s been wearing us the most lately.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’m probably just being silly. Still, I’m glad we talked about this.”

“Me, too. Sometimes, you need to question what you believe to realize you know it’s true. Good night,” said Mr. Shoe.

“Good night,” said Mrs. Shoe.