(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today) 

Santa Claus used to be a bigot.  Really.  I saw it on television.

We watched “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” last weekend.  I’m sure you’ve seen it.  All the characters are puppets and the narrator is a snowman who has the voice of Burl Ives.  It seems like that show’s been around forever.

Early on in the show, there is a scene where Santa and all of the other reindeer make fun of Rudolph’s ruby-red glowing nose.  It’s kind of sad, but, thanks to the song, we knew things would turn out right in the end.

This year we saw that particular scene a little differently.  “Santa’s pretty mean!”  Commented my sister-in-law.  “Yeah!  He’s a real bigot!” Noted her husband.

There’s something that makes you stop and think. Santa? A bigot?

If Santa Claus, with his big heart, Christmas magic and love of children, can be a bigot, what about the rest of us?  Are we hidden bigots?  Do we laugh at or shun others because they are different?

We may not take make fun of reindeer with red roses but what about people with handicaps, different-colored skin or different beliefs?  Do we look down on them, question their motives or ignore them just because they are different?

Not many of us in Boone County commit hate crimes.  Most of us aren’t swastika painters or cross burners.  Most of us are actually pretty tolerant and polite.  But most of us still harbor a little bigotry in our hearts.  It may not be evident in what we say or do, but it’s probably there in what we think.

I suppose it’s only natural to be attracted to people and things that are most like ourselves.  The familiar makes us feel comfortable.  The unfamiliar makes us feel threatened.  That’s why it’s so easy to be a bigot.  That’s also why it’s important to work at eliminating even the smallest bit of bigotry in our thoughts and actions.

What happens if we don’t?  Look at David Duke.  Look at what’s happening in Dubuque.

Look at the rising tide of hat crimes happening right here in Iowa.  Look at the swastika painters and cross burners.  Look at Santa.

It all makes things seem pretty grim.

Still, if you know the rest of that song about Rudolph you know that Santa came around in the end.  The jolly old elf couldn’t stay a bigot for long.

I wonder it there’s hope for the rest of us?

 As I hoped off the tram at Flinders’ Street Station, the joyous peals of the bells from St. Paul’s Anglican Cathedral filled the square, echoing across the plaza that is Federation Square - the ultramodern square on the banks of the Yarra River that sits across from the classical edifices of the cathedral, the 1800’s railway station, and the famous bar of Young and Jackson.

I was going to the annual Advent service at St. Paul’s, and though an Anglican Cathedral, I had heard about the service in the confines of the Catholic Church I had been attending for that last couple of weeks.

A quick word about St. Paul’s Cathedral.  It is the mother church for the Anglican community in Australia, and it is a magnificent building.  Construction on the church was started in the 1880’s - at almost the exact same time that construction started on the massive Catholic Cathedral of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

The Anglicans were not to be out done by the Irish Catholics, and so were determined that their church would be the first to be constructed.  They did it too.  The Cathedral of St. Paul’s was completed almost six years before the Catholics would finish theirs…but horrors of horrors…the Catholic Cathedral was not only bigger, but the spires were higher too!  Though the original architect had long since quit the job, a local one made sure that the appropriate spires were added…in 1926.  Making it not only the tallest Church in Melbourne, but the second tallest spires among all the Anglican churches in the world.

The stonework both inside and outside the church is amazing.  Made of alternating creamy red and grey black, they end in the dark cedar panels of the ceiling.  The light streaming through the stained glass lighting up the interior in the late afternoon, as well as lighting up the icons around the alter.

The quietness and stillness inside of the church made you believe that this was a place of God.

Walking around the church before the service, I realized that much like our little prairie church back home, this was a place that people called home.  Names were engraved on plaques on the walls.  There were ushers baskets and the normal things that you would find in any number of churches, anywhere around the globe.

Two things inside of the church peaked my attention - both of them almost side by side with each other.  One was a long table that had the carved figures of kings standing along the back of it - it was the line of kings that had lead the Church of England since its inception, with King Henry the VIII standing in prominence in the middle, carved in dark wood, it was an antique brought over from England in the 1870’s.

Standing next to it was a modern day painting of St Peter standing with the keys to heaven in his hand, next to St. Paul with his sword with a kneeler in front.  On a small plaque, it explained that on this kneeler, in front of this painting, Pope John Paul II stopped to pray for Christian Unity when he visited the church in 1986.

What could I do, but kneel down and pray.

 Technology is a wonderful thing.  I’ve been half way around the world from family and friends for over three weeks now, and yet in some ways, they are as close as ever.

Though my cell phone service is sporadic, I’m managing to touch base with family and friends fairly often - and though the time difference hampers communication, the phone calls are only slightly less frequent.

Over Thanksgiving, though I was unable to partake of the normal turkey and fixin’s, and the all more important time with loved ones, it was made special through the wonders of the internet.  Noon central US time on Thursday translates back to about six o’clock in the morning Melbourne time on Friday.  Thanks to Skype and my technology savvy brothers, I was able to not only talk too, but see my Dad.

It was amazing to both of us.  It is one thing to talk to someone, but to see their face and actually know that they look the same is reassuring, though a bit surreal.

“It is hard to believe you are on the other side of the world right now.”  Both Dad and I said more then once.

But perhaps Dad sumed it up best the next day at the Red Apple Café to his group of friends, “That technology is amazing.  Getting to the point when you won’t be able to pee behind a tree without someone watching.”

As much as technology plays a part in our lives, it is amazing the wonders of “snail mail.”

One of my best friends has agreed to forward my mail for me in my absence, I don’t have to worry about my mail getting lost.  But that doesn’t mean that I haven’t been waiting for it.

Since he told me he forwarded it early last week, I’ve been waiting expectantly for it, knowing that it had to be winging its way to me from the frozen plains of Minnesota.

“Any packages for me?  How long does this normally take?”  I asked the head of office adminstration today.

“Well darling, it could be a bit - all depends on how long it sits at each location. Could be three days, could be three weeks.”  She replied.

About two hours later, the email came across from the receptionist. “You have some packages.”

I let out a bit of a whoop as I half ran up the stairs to the front desk to collect my packages from back home.

Two big envelops awaited me along with some forwarded mail from work.  It was like Christmas come early.  Hording the envelops, I carried them back to my desk, half singing out, “I’ve got mail!  I’ve got mail! I’ve got M-A-I-L! That spells mail!”

Looking at my employees, I said with joy - “Its mail call today!”  They looked at me like I was nuts.

Looking to the other manager on the desk I said, “Look!  I got my bills!  I got my copy of the Economist!  My Smithsonian!”

He said nothing, but looked at me a bit warily, like you might look at a half crazed man celebrating the fact that he got bills in the mail.

But that they understand that it was all right there - the thank you letter for the charitable contribution, the invitation to the Union Gospel Mission Thanksgiving Feed, the letter explaing that I might already be a winner, the magazines that connected me to home, the letters and notes from my neices and my brother and sister-in-law.  The note on the phone bill from Sue and Vicky back in Minneapolis.  These small things that connected me back to my home and my loved ones. 

I do want to note - this NOT a plea for letters or cards - the mail from Australia has not been overwhelmed with notes and cards from here to back home either, and as the saying, it is better to give then receive - and if it feels this good to get, I can’t wait to see how darn good it feels to send something back.

 For as long as I can remember, regardless where I have been, the first weekend of December was always spent in one spot - in our farm house on the edge of the prairie.  Christmas time on the farm always meant decorating.

As a kid, it was quite the production, with boxes and bags being hauled out of the attic for staging in the playroom and into final place.

The more time past, the fewer decorations that came out.  We moved from the six foot tree, to the four foot tree, to the three foot tree.  We moved from almost a dozen boxes moving from the attic two three boxes permantly placed in the play room.

The job has gotten easier in some respects, but in some ways, it has gotten harder too.  The memories run thicker.

The Santa Bells - the seven of the ten that are left.  Dad is still quick to remind us to be careful with them - Mom had bought them a couple of years before they got married.  They were old and they were Mom’s.

The seemingly cheap plastic ones have a story too.  They were bought during the War.  World War II that is.  When Dad and Grandma, Grandpa and Uncle Hank were living in the cities.  They hung those ornaments on the tree - because of the war effort, they didn’t have the shiny metal or glass ornaments.

The Frosty the Snowman ornaments were something different.  The five of the six that are left were us kid’s favorites.  Some of the “new” ornaments on the tree, they are probably close to thirty-five years old.

The glass/metal bulbs with the stars in them were all from Grandma Jirik’s tree.  I say Grandma Jirik’s tree - but those were placed on the Christmas tree when my Dad was little.  Dad still remininces about the one that Uncle Hank broke.  That was during the Great Depression.

Then there is the hodge podge of ornaments that must find a special place on the tree.  The soldier that Tommy got as a child.  The ornament that has the angel on the sled that Mom got for me back in 1984, when the world was different, and my life was full of promise.  I always found a special place for it on the tree.  The set of John Deere tractor ornaments that I bought for Dad the Christmas I lived in Wichita.  Anniversary ornement from my folk’s 25^th back in 1988.  The anniversary ornament from St. Mike’s 103 celebration.  The fat little Santa that Jaime got at school.  The ornment that we got from Hospice the year after Mom died.

At the top of the tree, were the angel used to go on our big, six foot tree, now goes the star that used to be on the tree when Dad was a kid.

In the end, it seems that every bulb, every ornament has a memory.  It is a tree for Christmas, but more so, it is a tree loaded with memories, memories of laughter and love.  A tree full - but always with room to add more for years to come.

For in the end, the memories of the ornaments may fade with time, but that love of family and friends will remain.  And most importantly, the love that it celebrates, of the the child born on the Bethlehem plains two thousand years ago - will remain until the end of time.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today) 

“This is so weird, ” I though to myself as I sat in the darkened office.  A 24-year-old -man waiting to see Santa Claus.

This was supposed to be the real thing.  Not some elf dressed to masquerade for a department store.  Yes, the real Santa Claus agreed to give me an interview.  So there I sat in the darkened newspaper office at 4:15 a.m., two weeks before Christmas.

“Newspaper office, 4:30 a.m. Dec. 11.  See you then. Santa.”  That’s all the note said.  It could have been a fake, but who but the real Santa would have known about the letter I wrote in July:

“Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is an interview with you for my newspaper.  You name the place and the terms.  Yours truly, Tommy. P.S.: I’ve been good..”

My eyes were beginning to blur with sleep as the digital clock flipped at 4:20.  If he was going to show it was going to be soon.   If somebody was going to play a malicious prank on me, it would be any time now.

I jumped up from my chair.  This was stupid.  Santa Claus!  He wouldn’t show.  Did he even exist?  I’ve had it.  I’m going home to my warm bed where I belong.  I’ve got to be to work early tomorrow.  If I’m late, what will I tell them?  That I stayed up to late waiting for Santa?  No thanks, ridicule isn’t my idea of a good time.

The clock flipped again.  4:22.

I sat back down.  Another eight minutes wouldn’t hurt would it?  Who will know but me?  If the guy shows, it’ll be the story of a lifetime.  When’s the last time you read an interview with Santa?  Koppel couldn’t even manage that!

The office was silent.   I could feel the could outside seeping through the windows.  The streetlights glinted off the frost on the cars in Moffitts’ used car lot.  I checked again.  Pencils were sharp and I had a brand new notebook full of empty pages.  I was ready.

4:25.

Who am I kidding?   What will I ask him?  Who wants to offend St. Nick?   One wrong question and it could be “naughty list” for life.  I can’t do it.  I’m out of here.

Flip.  4:26.

What will Santa think if I stand him up?  I’m stuck now.  Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.  Oops, did that count as swearing?  Does that bump me off the “good”  list?  How much longer?

4:27.

A patrol car glides silently by.  I huddle deeper in the shadows.  I don’t want anybody to see me, especially and inquisitive city cop.  “Whatcha doin’ hidin’ in there?  Waiting for SANTA CLAUS?  Har! Har!  Breathe into this tube while you wait.

The car continues down the street.  I breathe a sigh of relief.

4:29.

4:29.

4:29.

I stare intently at the clock.  Daring it to change while I watch.  I blink.

4:30.

“Hi, Tommy,” the voice said.  It was quiet yet it filled the whole office.  I turned.  He was there in the shadows, comfortably resting in an office chair.  “He was everything I’d ever imagined.  Everything I’d ever believed.”

We talked until the gray light of dawn began to color the sky over Moffitts’ cars.  Then we shook hands and he was gone.  What did he say?  What wonders did he tell me?

Search your memory and your imagination.  Ask a child.   You can find his answers there.  You don’t need me or Ted Koppel to tell you want Santa has to say.

All I’ll say is that it was the interview of a lifetime.

 If you took a combination of Wal-mart, the Dollar General, eight farmers markets, twenty tourist shops, a couple dozen leather, lugage, clothing, and toy stores, big in a healthy dose of turn of the century (the last one) meat markets - including lambs and half beefs on the hook, combine with several of your everyday dockside fish mongers, blend together with tens of thousands of people busseling about and stir.

That might begin to explain the complexities of Victoria Market.

Orginally the spot in Melbourne where the country folks and the city folks would meet to trade and do business - it maintains that same tradition.

But on a vastly different scale.

Part 1800’s structure, part tin sheds, part open air market, it has everything that someone could be looking for in an area that now literally blocks.  Walking through the aisles, in some ways it is walking back in time.  Through the meat market, there are lambs and sides of beef on the hook, stall after stall of beef, pork, lamb, poultry and fish in various stages of dissambly.  Looking for a whole lamb? Check.  A stuffed and marinated lamb chop?  Sure. 

What about some fruit?  Looking for some fresh fruit?  A fresh mango, orange, apple, pear, melon?  Sure how many? Five?  Ten?  A Thousand?  You need to eat vegetables - I think they have it all.  Onions, tomatoes (Toe - Ma - Toes in Australia by the way), potatoes (same as Toe-Ma-Toes), lettuce or spinach, or arugala?  All picked fresh - absolutely.

But wait there’s more!

Sausages, hams and bacons?  Stall after stall.  Cheeses and dairy products?  Seemingly unlimited.  What about fresh eggs?  Would you like a live chicken, duck, quail or goose?  No problem.

And that is just the food.

Leather goods - belts, bags, shoes, and jackets abound.  There is clothing from all corners of the world - Levi jeans and Pakistani burkas.  All of your favorite Australian Football League jerseys and surfing t-shirts.

There are toys too - everything from squeeky doggy toys to complex electronics.

Then there are the tourist goods and knick-knacks.  Aboriginal artwork - boomerangs, diggeridos, and elaborate mat paintings, postcards, handpainted wooden koalas, stuffed kangaroos, and wallabies.

Combined with this is an assortment of artwork - paintings of the English or American countryside in winter?  Sure.  Teak Indian carvings, silver animals, opal jewelry, Malay scarves, white gold, sterling silver, olive wood figures, Chinese carvings, Japanese figures, Thia chess sets, in short - a whole host of objects made from the far east.

It is a hodge podge of gigantic proportions or goods and people - and everyone is willing to make a deal.  So bring your money and put on plenty of deoderant.

 I think that Mom and Dad bought the benches at the annual church auction sale at the fair grounds.  They were long and slightly narrow, but worked well with a family of five to seat around the table.

The one that was in the best shape went behind the table in the kitchen.  Three people - or three of us brothers - could now sit comfortably behind the table.  The other one was a little more worn and was set up outside on the porch.

For a four year old, it was a tempting target.

Walking across that wobbly bench was an adventure.  It was a mountain ledge high in the Alps.  It was the bridge of a ship exploring the farthest reaches of the world.  It was the hallway of a spaceship thundering through the farthest reaches of the galaxy.

In short, that six foot bench was the portal for my four year old mind to explore worlds beyond the farm.

I still remember that day when I was marching the length of the bench.  Back and forth, crossing some far off plain, when the ground beneath me started to shake.  The bench started to wobble and my four year old legs couldn’t quite steady the wood and iron beneath my feet.

Over the bench and I tumbled with a thud.  The bench seemingly slowly, gracefully, and methodically tipping on its side, and me with all of the grace of a deer on ice, sprawled pell mell across the porch of our house, head over heels over the concrete.

When the dust had settled, there I was sprawled on the porch, with the now seemingly heavy bench resting firmly on my left ankle.

And it hurt.

I thought for sure that I had broken leg.  With screams of pain and agony, I wrestled myself to my feet and went into the comforting arms of Mom.  An ice pack and rest on the couch is where I was confined too.

When Dad came in from chores, I remember the discussion that ensued.  In the end, common sense ruled the day - if I could walk on the leg, it couldn’t be broken.

But that didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt.

Throughout my youth, there were times when my ankle would act up, there was a bit of pain…but nothing that could slow me down.

The older I’ve gotten, the more that the ankle has reminded me of my explorer days on the porch of our home in northern Minnesota.  When the weather changes especially, I can feel the ankle stiffen up and cause a little limp in my step.

Some people may call it annoying.  But as I’ve walked the streets and plains of cities and continents around the globe, the same feet that used to take me across the that six foot bench on our porch - traveling across the world in my mind, are the same ones taking me to those far off destinations that I once dreamed of.

Regardless where I travel, that ankle still makes sure that one foot is always still at home.

Plus, I always know when the weather is going to change.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today) 

If you’re reading this, you’re missing out.  This is the biggest shopping weekend of the season and of the entire year and you’re lounging around home reading the paper.

WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?! Everything’s on sale!  Tons of special merchandise were shipped in especially for this shopping event!  Everything must go!  They’re selling out to the bare walls. NO REASONABLE OFFER WILL BE REFUSED! 

Sorry.  I got carried away for a minute.

Still, it’s easy to get carried away.  The holiday season is more commercialized than ever.  The weekend after Thanksgiving used to be the start of the Christmas shopping season.  Not any more.  The big discount stores have had racks of Christmas merchandise since Labor Day.  Television and newspapers have been running advertisements for holiday shopping since before Halloween.

The parking lots at shopping malls and discount stores have been jammed.  The vultures cruise relentlessly, circling the long lines of cars, waiting for a parking space to open up.  They wait, watching as you pack your parcels in the trunk, climb in and drive away.

People in the stores and malls are rude too.  They rush about with scowls on their faces.  They grumble angrily at you if you bump them or get in their way.

If you have something they want they’ll grab it right out of your hands.  If you’re standing in front of a display rack, they’ll push you out of their way.  If you move too slowly, they’ll cut in front of you at the checkout lanes.

Christmas shopping has changed from a labor of love into an exercise in high stress.  Who shops for a perfect gift with love in their heart and a grin on their face anymore?  We do it because it’s expected and “we have to get it done.”

Merry Christmas and happy holidays.   Bah!  Humbug!  If Scrooge were alive today and had to go Christmas shopping he’d be Scroogier than ever.

Well, not me.  I’ve had it.  I’m not going to let the shopping scrooges of the world spoil my holiday.

I remember back when I was is in grade school, under the watchful eye of our teacher, all us second graders made our own Christmas gifts.  We labored for hours on our creations.  We used glitter, Elmer’s glue, plaster of paris, rocks, gravel, string, egg cartons, cardboard and noodles.  It was a paperweight or a picture frame or Christmas ornament or something.  I may not remember what I made, but I remember how thrilled my mom was when she unwrapped it.

Her eyes lit up.  She was happy.  I was happy.  It was a great Christmas.  That’s the kind of holiday season I’d like to have again this year.

I’ve already started on my wife’s Christmas gift.  I’ve gathered all the glitter, rocks, little pieces of wood, noodles and string I need.  Now if I can only find some rusty wire I’ll be set.

She’s gonna love it.

 You don’t have to be a fan of Marvel comics to understand what connotations surround the name of “Gotham.”

Gotham - the town from comic book lore.  The modern city, build on its foundations from the past.  The town that seemed to be everything, do everything, represent everything.  The town had airport, port, beaches, mountains, tall buildings, seedy sections, Victorian architecture mixed with modern buildings, gargoyles and glass, churches and bars, rivers and bridges, vice and virtue, big public squares and small cobble streets, grand public buildings and small pubs, ancient, grand railway stations combined with packed freeways.

Melbourne seems like it could be a stand in out of central casting.

The beaches ring the city - with people enjoying the sun and sand.  Behind the bars and restaurants that lie behind the beaches are streets where the drug dealers and prostitutes roam…usually under the spires of the ancient churches whose bells still ring out trying to save the souls of those that ply the streets around them and  often with a soup kitchen and shelter under their roofs.

The center, heart of the city is a combination of Flinders Street Station - an ancient Victorian Railway Station, Young and Jackson - and ancient pub, St. Paul’s Cathedral - a large Anglican edifice, and Federation Square, the modern day, modern architectural wonder that sits at the heart of the city.

Walking farther along, you are enveloped by the tall buildings of central Melbourne.  Tall buildings with modern shops and ancient jewelry stores, interspersed with Chinese noodle shops and fast food franchises and old Victorian buildings.

Next to the new modern day convention center, which lies across from the mega casino complex, sits the old tea warehouse and the ancient Victorian railway offices.  The turn of the century trams share the road with the modern day traffic.

Large public spaces - parks, museums, libraries, sports arenas, are mixed in with old pubs and boutique restaurants.

On the outskirts of town, you can find some of the best surfing in the world, and some of the best snow skiing in the southern hemisphere.

You wonder what those first settlers thought as their boat put down anchor in Phillips Bay and they rowed ashore to that spot on the Yarra River.  Recently left from the well settled isle of Tasmania, what did they think of the big, wide, treeless plain?  Could they have imagined that this place, their village, would one day grow up to be this city, this city of contrast, this modern day Gotham on the banks of the Yarra River?

Who was the leader of this brave little band?  A Tasmanian man named John….Batman….

John Batman?  The founder of this modern day Gotham?  John Batman.

And now you know….the rest of the story….

 No one liked going into the attic.  It wasn’t an attic really, it was the crawl space under the eaves, of the one and a half story house that we called home.  Accessed by two very narrow, three foot doors.  It was a cramped, dirty, place to be.

And to make matters worse, you had to climb over the partially exposed pipes feeding the hot water water heat of the upstairs of the house.  Which to our kids mind, meant risk of burns to our legs as we crawled around them.

It wasn’t pleasant.

But we persevered, because without it, it would mean no Christmas.

In the back of that attic that ran the length of the “short” one and a half story half of our house where stored all of our Christmas decorations.  What seemed at the time to be dozens of boxes, bags, and parcels, in hindsight were probably a combination of about ten.

The old GI Joe Jeep box held all of the Christmas ornaments for the tree.  The big Sony box held a lot of the lights, the nick knacks, and perhaps most importantly, the Nativity set from our youth (literally - all of our kids youth, it was purchased in pieces when my folks were newlyweds).  The orange box held most of the greenery that was parcelled out throughout the downstairs throughout the holiday season.  The Texas Grapefruit box held the ceramic tree my mother made.  The big tin drum that once held popcorn held the stockings and tree skirts.  The plywood, covered with plastic, held the wall hangings, most of them hand painted by Mom over the years.  The flat box held the wreath Mom made combined with the wreath that my brother Jaime made in sixth grade from garbage bags.  The other flat box held centepieces.

In short, not dozens, but what they did to the house was transformative.

The six foot tree was usually the first to go up, covered with lights, ornaments, and garland, with the tranditional angle at the top, it stood tall in the living room.  The Nativity found its home in several places, but was usually in a place of honor.  The banister and railing running up the stairs were covered in a combination of greenery and bells with ornaments scattered throughout.  The walls held those fabric paintings - Santa Clause by the couch, the Angel’s proclaiming the gospel story next to the door.  The Christ Child and surrounded by Angel’s around the Dad’s chair.  The old desk was filled with Christmas knick-knacks, the the coffee tables and television too - from the red and green doilies that Mom crochetted down to vases and poinsette’s that covered them.

In the kitchen, the transformation wasn’t as complete - but it was pretty good.  Above the cupboards were the playing Christmas mice - painted too on fabric and held in place with duct tape.  On the walls hung the banner that said “Noel” and perhaps most importantly, the piles of baked goods that covered the counters - waiting, more patiently then us kids, for Chritmas to arrive.

But in the end, it was less the trimming and trappings, less about the things that we hung on the walls and stood on the end tables, or the tree, or the baked goods and the Chritmas tree, and even the Nativity scene.

It was about the gathering of family and friends.  It was about the celebration of and the love that was shared.  Perhaps most importantly, it was about the gift that was given on the plains of Bethlehem, two thousand years earlier.