Isaac turned the corner in the airport terminal and smiled warmly through his exhaustion. “Councilman Hirsch,” said the homemade sign in big block letters. The man holding the sign was Evan Jackson, his fellow city councilman. Evan’s welcoming, ironic grin said he was glad to see his friend but also enjoyed the gag of treating him like a VIP.
“Shalom, my friend,” said Evan without irony.
“Shalom,” Isaac said. They briefly embraced. “Thanks for picking me up.”
“My pleasure. How was your flight?”
“The second seemed as long as the first, though obviously it wasn’t.” Tel Aviv to JFK was hours longer than JFK to Salt Lake City. “How’s Dani?”
“My better half sends her greetings,” said Evan, “but she’s helping a different friend today.”
“Our loss.” Dani and Isaac’s own wife, Tovi, had been dear friends – but Tovi had been in the grave nearly a year.
Tovi, he thought. Toviel. God is good. He was just starting to believe that again – and though he had not always seen it, it had been the perfect name for her.
“How was your pilgrimage?” Evan asked as they waited by the baggage carousel.
“When I am there, I feel holiness. When I leave, some of it seems to come with me.”
“As it should,” said Evan.
“Yes, and I’d like to prolong it this time, if I can. I thought of you, by the way. The shofar was impressive, and I know your fondness for trumpets. And another reason.”
“What was that?”
“You call it the Holy Land too,” Isaac said. “Next year you and Dani should join me.”
“Let’s do it.” Evan’s sudden smile faded. “Forgive my asking, but how was it, you know, without … ?
“Holiness and loneliness are not incompatible. I managed to enjoy one despite the other. Perhaps it helped that I missed last year, because of her passing, and the year before too.”
“Because of her illness,” his friend said softly.
“Yes. Thanks for the card you gave me as I left. I rather enjoy having gentile friends who know better than to wish a Jew ‘happy Yom Kippur.’” He smiled sadly. “Happiness is not the point.”
“Holiness is more the point, as I understand it,” said Evan, “and I wish I could help you prolong it, but we need to have a serious chat with you this afternoon.”
“You said Dani didn’t come.”
“She didn’t. Vern’s waiting in the truck.”
“An unexpected turnout,” Isaac said. “It’s council business, then.” Vern Fellows chaired the Helaman City Council.
By law no more than three of seven council members could meet together, even in a pickup on the way from the airport, without treating it as a public meeting, duly noticed and with a published agenda and proper record-keeping. As a result, much of the council’s informal work happened behind the scenes in twos and threes – less efficient, Isaac thought, but doing official business in open meetings was important.
“The budget revision?” he asked. The city’s fiscal year began in July, and after three months they had unforeseen needs – but also unexpected revenue. He’d need to review the materials before Thursday evening’s special session.
“Yes,” Evan said, “but let’s wait ’til we’re in the truck.”
Isaac would have preferred to wait longer than that. Practical politics and a lingering sense of holiness were not likely companions, and once the feeling was lost, he might not soon regain it. On the other hand, it had survived three airports and two long flights.
They talked of other things while they waited for Isaac’s luggage, then made their way to the parking garage. The suitcases went in the roomy back seat with Vern. Isaac rode shotgun, and Evan drove.
“Let’s wait until we’re on the freeway,” Isaac said.
“We worried about you,” Vern said. If Evan was reasonably trim for his fifty-seven years, Vern was rather too large for his sixty-two, and he nearly always sounded tired.
“I have grown accustomed to Tovi’s absence, my friends.”
“We worried more about the fiftieth anniversary of the Yom Kippur War. We heard of no violence, thank God. Certainly nothing like ’73.”
Isaac sighed. “It’s hard to know if there was more security, when I hadn’t been there in two years. But a cunning enemy would probably avoid the anniversary itself. An attack then would be less of a surprise. Besides, there are other holy days suitable for attacking Jews. Sukkot is coming, then Simchat Torah, which is especially joyful.”
“Sukkot I know,” said Vern. “When is that other one?”
“I believe it begins on October 7 this year,” Isaac said.
“God willing, that will be peaceful too,” said Evan as they merged onto the freeway. “Whenever you’re ready, Vern.”
“In a moment. Finishing a text,” said Vern.
Isaac could already guess the problem. Two council members had been elected the previous November on promises to eliminate “waste, fraud, and abuse” in the city budget, which evils, like so many candidates before them, they had proclaimed to be rampant. In the first several months of their terms, including the entire six-month budget process, they had failed to identify any of the “several million dollars in easy savings” they claimed to have found during the campaign. Yet their zeal was unhindered, and a mid-year budget revision could be an irresistible opportunity for mischief.
Perhaps the lingering holiness could survive their mischief too, at least for a while. But he savored it for another moment, just in case.
“Isaac,” Vern intoned ponderously – so much that he did was ponderous – “we are on the verge of a very bad headline nationwide, perhaps worldwide.”
Isaac turned in his seat to look at Vern but didn’t ask the obvious question.
Vern continued. “It will read something like this: ‘Utah city council abolishes Christmas.’”
Isaac’s surprise was genuine. “Abolish Christmas? Do we have that authority?”
“Of course not,” said Vern. “But that’s how the headlines will read. We’ll be a made-for-TV movie by this time next year. You’d think four Christians on a seven-member council would be enough to protect Christmas. Is there a good Yiddish or Hebrew word for jackass?”
Isaac chortled. “More than one, but you’d sound ridiculous. What’s going on?”
“Short version,” Vern said, “there’s more than enough surplus tax revenue to fund the extra deputy planner and the engineer we need to hire, but Oren and Nancy are demanding we eliminate the November and December holiday decorations and celebrations budgets in return for their votes on the new spending.”
“It’s a hostage situation,” Evan said. “We vote for ‘growing government’ and we lose Christmas – and our heads.”
Isaac smiled wryly at the universe. “So, from the four-person Christian majority you’ve lost the Baptist vote and half the Mormon vote.” He nodded to Evan. “Apologies, the Latter-day Saint vote.”
“I answer to both,” said Evan.
“You won’t get the atheist vote,” Isaac continued. “Trish would be like a young child on Christmas morning – if she’ll forgive the image – if the godless universe awarded her a chance to vote against Christmas. And for Abdul to vote in favor of an infidel’s religious holiday – ”
“Would be halal,” Vern interjected, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
Isaac smiled again, and his heart was almost in it. “I think you mean haram. You really must get out more, my friend. His extraordinary food is halal. Things that are forbidden are haram. The Prophet Mohammed – peace be upon him, Abdul would say – taught that a person who imitates a people is one of them.”
Evan glanced in the rear-view mirror with an unconcealed, mischievous grin. “Vern, have you ever eaten at a food truck?”
“I have not.”
“The Chamber of Commerce has numbers. Abdul’s halal truck is the most popular eatery in the city – a city less than four percent Muslim, I might add. The students flock there, but so do a lot of the rest of us.”
“Someday, perhaps,” Vern conceded. “I don’t flock like I used to.”
“Let’s go together tomorrow,” Isaac said, enjoying Vern’s obvious discomfort at the prospect. “The Jewish vote is safely yours. I’d vote against Oren and Nancy on anything not directly threatening the five percent of us who are Jewish. But we are only three against four. You have a problem.”
“We have a problem,” Evan said.
“Okay, we have a problem. I concede that Mary, Joseph, and the Baby were Jewish,” Isaac said. “How can I help?”
Evan changed lanes before answering. “If you’re firmly on our side – thanks for that – we’d like you to take point with any media coverage.”
The lingering holiness would not survive the media. “Because I’m not a Christian,” Isaac said.
“Yes,” said Evan.
“Done. What else?”
“We’d like you to take the gloves off, if necessary, especially with Oren and Nancy.”
“I will speak with them.”
Vern shifted in his seat. “Do you have any sway over Abdul?”
“I am one of his most faithful and appreciative customers.” Isaac turned to face Vern again. “Seriously, we should eat … but I digress. I will not even ask Abdul to vote against his conscience, let alone press him. Gentlemen, he belongs in our community, and you know it, and I will do nothing even to hint otherwise.”
“He won’t abstain,” Vern said. “He never has. Says he owes it to the voters to vote.”
“He’s a businessman, and most of his customers are Christians,” said Evan. “Granted, we can’t even keep the Latter-day Saints on the council together on this one, but I think very few of us share Oren’s theological argument.”
Isaac perked up. “There’s a theological argument?”
“He says Jesus was born in April, so we should celebrate Christmas then, preferably in a less grossly commercial manner – not as a repackaged pagan festival in December.”
“What does your church say officially?”
“We celebrate Christmas as a church in December, with most of the rest of Christianity. The fact of doing it seems more important than the timing. That’s my personal view too. And we’re not the only ones who think it might have happened in April.”
“I know enough of the story to believe that,” Isaac said. “Shepherds tending flocks in the fields overnight would be more likely in spring than in winter. And Jerusalem does have winter. They get a foot or two of snow every year, or what point would there be in Isaiah saying Israel’s sins will be ‘white as snow’?”
“You should also know that Nancy is opposed to the commercialization and secularization of Christmas,” Vern said with exaggerated solemnity.
“Neither of them will be moved, I suppose.” Isaac gave it another moment’s thought. “Except, perhaps, by a high-pressure public campaign. But you’d rather not go there?”
“No, and the bad word there is ‘public,’” Vern said. “But if it comes to that, if we must be seen and embarrassed nationwide or worse, we’re willing to be seen defending Christmas. Do we need to go there?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Won’t they go there anyway?” Evan asked.
“Have they already?”
“I haven’t heard anything.”
Isaac thought aloud. “I suspect the publicity they want comes with victory. If they fail, there’s no story, at least not the story they want. But I may have no leverage. If Abdul votes with them, they don’t need me. Tell you what. If I get this done, I want something. We’ve been friends a long time. But this is government, not just friendship, and you represent the same people I do.”
“What do you want?” asked Vern.
“Christmas isn’t my holy day, but I enjoy the effect it has on people around me. Even if I were indifferent, I would still respect it, knowing what it means to you. We worship the same God, arguably. We just have different holy days, a different Sabbath.”
“I see where this is going,” Vern said.
“I’d be surprised if you didn’t. I want the blue laws to go away. Why should stores be closed by law on your Sabbath, when it’s not my Sabbath? If we win this, I want your help with that, both of you. Soon. I can add three votes to your two – against the blue laws, I mean, not in defense of Christmas, unfortunately. Do we have a deal?”
“Deal,” said Vern.
“More than a deal,” said Evan. “I’ll vote for that whether you get this done or not.”
“You care a great deal about your Sabbath, my friend,” Isaac said gently. “Why would you do that?”
Evan smiled. “Having a Sabbath every week matters more than which day. I’ve heard that, when we Latter-day Saints are in Israel, we call Saturday our Sabbath, and we have the same work week the Israelis do: Sunday through Thursday. It feels odd at first, I’m told, but it’s still every seventh day.”
After a few more minutes of scheming – coordination, Isaac allowed – he refused both their dinner invitations, pleading exhaustion, and they delivered him to his home. There – alone, he thought sadly for the thousandth time – he pondered whether the sense of holiness still lingered and decided that it did, faintly.
He made his dinner of leftovers from the freezer and thought about whom to call first. He settled on Oren, Evan’s fellow Latter-day Saint. “Tell me about your amendment,” he said, “and why I should vote for it.”
“It’s simple,” said the forty-something father of five. “The City spends too much of the citizens’ money. If we increase spending on one thing, we should cut something else. If we want or even need to grow government in one place, we should shrink it somewhere else.”
Isaac had heard this many times before. “You don’t have a religious motive too?”
“No. I think we should celebrate Christmas in April, but I won’t let that determine my council vote.”
“We have the surplus revenue.”
“A surplus means we took more than we needed. We should return it to the people.”
“The embarrassment to the city will be worldwide,” Isaac said. “Really, Oren, the holiday decorations and celebrations were the only things you could find to offset the new spending? Where are those millions in obvious waste, fraud, and abuse you said you’d found?” It had been too long, at least a month, since Isaac had tweaked Oren about that.
Oren was unfazed. “I wouldn’t mind the city gaining a worldwide reputation for sensible spending. Someone should set an example. Will we have your vote?”
“You don’t need my vote, do you?”
“No, and I don’t expect it. I know you and I think differently where all this spending is concerned.” Isaac took that for the thinly-veiled insult it always was from this man. “But we’d welcome it if we can get it.”
“I doubt you can,” said Isaac almost candidly. “But I haven’t read the resolution or the amendment yet.”
“You’re just back from Israel.”
“Yes, and I have papers to read and calls to return.” He didn’t want to answer the next question, “How was your trip?” or some such thing. Not when the question came from this sanctimonious – he swallowed the next word. “Thanks for telling me your views, Oren.”
Next he called Nancy, who led, after small talk, with, “We don’t need your vote. And I’m not sure why, but we don’t expect your vote. What can I do for you?”
“If you have the four votes you think you have, mine would make a veto-proof majority.” Not that there was a snowball’s chance in Christian hellfire that she’d get his vote. He’d just decided that. He’d still read the amendment, but talking to its sponsors had already made his decision plain.
“True,” Nancy said. “But Mayor Milquetoast is going on seven years in office, and he hasn’t vetoed anything yet. Whenever we think he might, he mumbles something about respecting the will of the people’s elected representatives.”
“The same people elected him,” Isaac said quietly.
“Besides, he’d be vetoing something he really wants, something he thinks we desperately need, just because of some Christmas funding he doesn’t care very much about. Those developers he answers to would be seriously pissed.”
“Developers are voters too. Besides, the voters at large will care, and Mayor Mildenhall is no fool.” Isaac emphasized the man’s real name.
“Yes, he is. But he’ll be pragmatic about this one, and he’s not running for reelection.”
“He may care about his legacy,” Isaac said.
“Then he can lead the charge to overturn this by referendum. Or would that be called an initiative?”
One would overturn a specific council action; the other would take its own action. But they were otherwise essentially the same, so Isaac ignored the question. “Either way, you will surely lose.”
“True,” she said smugly. “But not in time for this Christmas. We’ll have saved the taxpayers some money for one year and also made our point.”
Nancy said nothing about Jesus being born in the spring. When Isaac said it was odd that the Christians were split two-to-two on Christmas, she said, “Technically, Mormons aren’t Christians. Nor are Catholics, for that matter. I’m the only real Christian on the council.”
Isaac let that one go.
Before he could remind her that most of the voters would be angry, she said, “We were elected to represent the citizens’ best interests, not their ill-informed opinions on every issue.”
“And yet the people’s views need to be heard,” Isaac said, “and they need to know they’re heard and considered.”
“Yes, even when they don’t prevail,” she said, “which they won’t here.”
“Until the inevitable initiative.”
“Isaac, there are people of many faiths in America and here in Helaman. I respect that. But this is – ”
Before she could say “a Christian nation,” he put his own words in her mouth. “A Judeo-Christian nation, yes, historically. We could debate the implications of that.” He promised to read the proposed amendment and wished her good evening.
Trish lived five doors down, and it was barely 8 p.m., so he went to her in person. She looked less than her 37 years, and he was curious to see which neon color the highlights in her hair would be this week. As it turned out, he rather liked the blue.
He tried to sway her with repeal of the blue laws – he left the colorful coincidence unremarked – but she said, “We’ll get those soon anyway, and this is too big. I want the publicity.”
“You have higher aspirations, I think.”
She smiled broadly. “I love that we can speak so candidly. I want the publicity for Helaman. I want people to see us as a city which goes out of its way to welcome everyone.”
A thought struck Isaac. “How far down your to-do list is changing the city’s name?”
Her smile grew. “Now why would I want to do that?”
“As if you need me to tell you. It’s named after a character in their Book of Mormon. If you were a less serious person you might also object that it contains the words he and man.”
“If I thought that way when I lived in California, I’d have wanted to change a lot of city names there too. Los Angeles, to begin. Then everything that starts with ‘San’ or ‘Santa.’ It’s all so Catholic.”
“Are you saying that’s not something you would want?”
“I’m saying if I talked that way, I’d never get anywhere, especially here.”
“You think you can get reelected after voting against Christmas?”
“I can spin it. I’m voting with half the Christians on the council. It’s important to respect everyone’s beliefs while not using everyone’s tax money to celebrate some people’s holidays. I’m still a fiscal conservative, remember? Besides, I got elected once as an out-of-the-closet atheist, and the margin was not small.”
“The national and international publicity might stick in voters’ minds.”
“I’ll say we were misrepresented.”
“Which we will be,” Isaac said.
“Exactly. It’ll be us against them, and I’ll be part of the us, no matter how I voted.”
“Your vote on the amendment is firm, then.”
“I will vote to cut the holiday funding. But with or without that amendment, I will also vote for the budget revision. I won’t hold something we need hostage, when the funds are there either way.” She smiled mischievously. “And if you think the inevitable initiative will inevitably pass, think again. I didn’t have to play all my cards to get elected, and even the cards I played will work again.”
“Because religious people will do almost anything against their own political interests to avoid being perceived as bigots?”
“That’s one card in my hand, yes. As you already knew.”
On Wednesday Isaac visited Abdul’s cart after the lunch rush, for lamb-and-chicken gyros and a chat. Even so, there were two customers ahead of him, and four more arrived just behind him. He let them go ahead of him too.
“The usual, my friend?” Abdul asked, when they were finally alone.
“The usual,” Isaac echoed. “How have you been?”
“Business just keeps getting better.”
“The food could not possibly get better,” said Isaac.
“I have some ideas. How was your trip?”
“Everything I hope for, except I was alone, in one sense if not others. Praying at the Western Wall is beyond words.”
“I’m glad you don’t blame me personally that the rest of the temple is missing. You came to talk, not just eat?”
“I did.”
“About the holiday amendment to the budget revision?” Abdul’s tone was resignation.
“Yes.”
“Have you come to persuade me to oppose the amendment, even though to support infidel holy days in any way for me is haram? At least you respect my faith. Oren and Nancy do not. Trish is more respectful than they are.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“Yes. They have not asked for my vote. They just assumed, knowing that I cannot do anything haram, which word, of course, they do not know. Or perhaps they simply would never do anything to mark religious holidays which are not their own, and they assume I must think alike.”
“Both are possible,” Isaac observed, quietly savoring the level of discussion one could have in Utah County if you knew the right food truck. Abdul was very bright indeed. He’d just started his third year of medical school when war had forced him from his homeland. He’d quickly turned to the food industry when US medical schools had refused him. He claimed to prefer it anyway, or Isaac would have been more troubled by the obvious injustice.
“I will vote for the budget revision with or without the amendment,” Abdul said.
“Trish says she will do the same.” Isaac left the next question unasked, but Abdul answered it anyway.
“I have not firmly decided to vote for the amendment.”
“How do you defend this hesitation in religious terms?” Isaac asked.
His friend turned to the grill and spoke louder to be heard.
“There are differences of interpretation over what level of tolerance and civility – good manners, even – with respect to others’ holy days is actually haram. And I am elected to represent all the people, as you are, not just the small Muslim minority. But I’m not certain it’s necessary spending, and I can read a calendar too. Even generic decorations and celebrations are obviously tied to Christmas. Meanwhile, the other Christians on the council haven’t asked for my vote against the amendment – unless you came at their bidding.” He said it without rancor, Isaac thought.
“I would have come anyway, but yes, they asked.”
“A curious world, where Christians turn to a Jew to persuade a Muslim to vote against the other Christians.” Abdul turned back, wiped his hands, and set down the towel. “So persuade me.”
“I would not ask you to do anything against your conscience.”
“I know. But my conscience is not firm here, not yet. I prefer not to side – I must watch how I say this – with extremists of any stripe, including Nancy and Oren.”
“What will you say to your own people if you overtly and specifically vote in favor of Christmas?”
“I do not know. What would you suggest?”
“You could say you voted with the side that is friendly to Muslims. You could say you traded that vote for our votes on removing the blue laws.”
Abdul looked interested. “Really?”
“That’s what I got for my vote.”
His friend looked hopeful for a moment, but then his face darkened. “Isaac, it is my sons. I try to model for them an Islam which allows me to be devout but also to function in the modern world, in a free nation, and to treat my wife and daughter as people, not property. Obviously, some Muslims in the world would disagree.”
Worry filled Abdul’s eyes. “My sons are slipping, but not into jihadist extremism. They are slipping into a secular unbelief which is less deadly to others but equally deadly to their own souls. So I obey with exactness all that I can obey. I cannot have them see me playing politics with my faith. They must see me actively living what I believe, what I teach them to believe, no matter the consequences.”
“We are very much alike, you and I,” said Isaac.
“We are strangers in a strange land. Tentatively, I think I must vote for the amendment. I would rather vote against it.”
“What does Fahreen think?” Isaac’s and Abdul’s wives had been close friends too.
“She sees the same sides of the issue, but she refuses to tell me how to vote. The voters elected me, she says, not her. She is pleased to tell me what to do in many other respects, she says, but not this one.”
“Fahreen means joyous, does it not? It suits her.”
Abdul smiled fondly. “Yes. The usual sauces for you?”
“Yes. My dear friend, you have my respect and affection either way,” said Isaac, feeling again, somewhat to his surprise, what his heart had brought from Jerusalem.
“Allah be praised for that,” said Abdul. He reached out a hand bearing Isaac’s favorite lunch, wrapped in foil.
“And I will continue to enjoy your food.”
Abdul waved away Isaac’s ten dollar bill. “Next time you pay. This is on me. Welcome back. Now tell me about your trip. Have its happy effects survived a day or two of our politics?”
Isaac and Evan visited Vern at his townhouse that afternoon.
“It’s time to go public,” said Vern. “Apply the pressure. Do you agree? The meeting is in 27 hours.”
“I don’t,” said Isaac. “Oren, Nancy, and Trish want the publicity. They care about it more than the savings. We’d just be rewarding them.”
“What about Abdul?”
“He wishes his sons to see him doing his best to be strictly obedient, whether the world sees him that way or not. I suspect he will vote with them, and I will not think less of him. I hope the backlash against him will be less here than it might be elsewhere.”
“I hope there will be none,” Vern said. “But what does that leave? A petition followed by an initiative?”
“Perhaps, but not in time for this Christmas.”
“Maybe we just wait for the vote,” Evan said. “If we need a referendum – sorry, initiative — we do it. There’s a cost, but it might damage Oren and Nancy irrevocably, so there’s that.”
“A worthy cause,” Isaac agreed – and noticed the lingering sense of holiness was gone. When it had left, he was uncertain. “Perhaps we can pull strings and get private funding for the holiday things this year, but I don’t want the precedent of privatizing municipal functions.”
“You don’t want to reward Nancy and Oren that way,” Vern rumbled.
“There are more important needs for philanthropy in Helaman,” Isaac said sincerely, “but no, I don’t.”
“We could refuse to vote for the budget revision if the amendment passes,” Evan said. “No, I’m an idiot. We can’t reward them that way either. We should alert the media now.”
“No,” Isaac said forcefully. “That’s what they want, and it’ll be a circus, and soon they’ll both be in the state legislature. GOP caucuses in Utah live for this stuff.”
“So we do nothing?” Vern asked.
“No. Pick a few articulate, respected supporters to attend the meeting and speak intelligently and passionately against the amendment. You get the gentiles; I’ll get the Jews, two or three people Abdul knows and respects. He may still be persuaded.”
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Vern said. “This feels like speeding toward a train wreck. Are you sure we don’t need the media?”
“They want the media,” said Isaac. “And we are men of faith. Let’s have some.” Perhaps the feeling of holiness was not gone altogether. Then again, in this matter he had little enough faith himself. Urging them to faith was more of a conversational gambit than anything.
“You think this will end well?” Evan asked.
“Eventually, yes. We all will be with God.” He smiled sadly. “Tomorrow night, in terms of the vote on the amendment, I doubt it. But Christmas in Helaman will survive somehow. I recall a tale about a Grinch having a happy ending.”
Vern snorted. “Christmas will survive. We may not. How can we pressure Abdul? He depends on public good will, not to mention his business license and his food handler’s permit.”
“No,” Isaac said sharply. “Stoop to that, and I will vote with them too.”
“It was just a thought.”
“An unworthy thought.”
“I apologize. You mentioned the blue laws, right?”
“He would welcome their repeal.”
“Surely his people would judge that to be a good bargain.”
“They don’t all think alike,” Isaac said. “He intends to do what is right, no matter the consequences – as soon as he figures out what that is.”
“How can we help him figure out that the right thing is to vote with us?”
“We cannot. I cannot. Fahreen might, but she won’t.”
“I don’t like going into an important vote, not knowing how it will go,” Vern complained.
On Thursday evening Isaac and Abdul arrived outside City Hall at the same time.
“I slept poorly,” said Abdul, “and I was distracted all day. I don’t know how I will vote, but I must decide soon.”
Isaac looked around as they approached the building. “I expected TV trucks, reporters, concerned residents,” he said. “Word must not have spread that the Helaman City Council decides the fate of Christmas tonight.”
“The night is young,” growled Abdul.
“If it’s only John Baldwin reporting tonight, perhaps he’ll get picked up nationwide for once, or worldwide. He deserves it. He’s hardly missed a meeting in thirty years.”
“You forget his story about this council,” Abdul said. “This most Utah of Utah counties somehow got itself two Latter-day Saints, of course, but also a Catholic, a Baptist, a Jew, a Muslim, and an atheist. He called it his biggest day in journalism.”
“You’re right. How could I forget that?” Isaac knew how.
“You had more important things on your mind back then. Canceling Christmas will be bigger than that story. No lights, no carols and hot cocoa at the park, no community Christmas pageant, no Christmas – I mean, no end-of-year holiday dinner party for employees.”
“I would miss that,” Isaac said. “Our council alone challenges the caterer’s resourcefulness.”
“We should go in,” Abdul said.
They were twenty minutes early, but a dozen or so residents had already gathered – more than usually attended. There’d probably be a crowd. The local weekly’s ageless John Baldwin appeared to be the only reporter present so far.
The room was full but surprisingly calm when Vern gaveled the meeting to order. He explained the special session’s reduced agenda. There would be plenty of time for public comments during discussion of the budget resolution – “and any amendments,” he said.
A staff member summarized the resolution, and Evan moved approval. Isaac seconded.
At that point Nancy proposed the amendment removing the holiday funding, and Oren seconded. The fifty or sixty people in the audience stirred. A television camera had appeared in the back, but it was only one.
“The amendment has been moved and seconded,” Vern declared. “We’ll have questions from the council, followed by public comments, followed by a few more minutes for each council member.”
Isaac was so focused on Abdul that he mostly tuned out the initial discussion among council and staff. The fragments he caught merely repeated what he’d already read and heard.
Vern invited public comments, allowing each person two minutes – but Isaac knew Vern would rather let people take three or four minutes each than interrupt them when their time was up.
Isaac tried to appear engaged during the public discussion, which grew tedious. Not one resident spoke in favor of the proposed amendment and against Christmas. The holiday’s defenders invoked history, theology, sociology, archaeology, and the Declaration of Independence, not just economic considerations. There was anger, plus a few political threats and a scattering of tears.
Isaac watched his friend across the dais as the comments dragged on. Abdul appeared to be caught up in his own thoughts, not the grassroots political drama playing out in front of them.
After nearly an hour, when the line at the microphone petered out, Vern asked, “Are there others who wish to comment tonight? We’ll go longer if we need to. Anyone with something to add which hasn’t already been said?”
A gray-haired woman raised her hand.
“Very well. You will be our last public commenter. You have the usual two minutes, ma’am.”
She hobbled to the microphone with the help of a cane. “If you cancel Christmas,” she said after stating her name, “none of you will ever win an election here again. I will generously contribute to any candidate who opposes you. That’s all I have to say.”
With that, Isaac thought, Vern’s made-for-TV Christmas movie was complete – except, likely, for the pat, heartwarming ending. Vern closed the public comment period and invited further discussion from the council.
Oren and Nancy were smug but brief. Trish was simply brief. Vern deferred to Evan, who took a few minutes. That left Isaac and Abdul. Isaac raised his hand slightly, requesting the floor. He adjusted his microphone and looked at his colleagues, then the crowd.
“Mr. Chairman, I returned Tuesday from an almost-annual pilgrimage to Jerusalem for Yom Kippur. On my return I learned that some of my colleagues on the council had conspired to make Helaman, Utah, a national controversy: the city that canceled Christmas. I know that’s an exaggeration, but that’s how these things go.
“As some of you have noted, I am a practicing Jew. But I have many Christian friends who find joy in Christmas. I myself value its effects on people. There is a civic value too. As others have said, our city celebrations are not religious devotions so much as community celebrations.
“On the fiscal side, while I believe in and try to practice frugality, I don’t share some of my colleagues’ earnest desire to pinch every last penny, no matter the cost to our community. I will vote against the amendment.” He scanned his colleagues.
His eyes rested on Abdul, who watched intently, and he continued. “By proposing this amendment at all we have deprived ourselves and these good citizens who came tonight of time and energy we all might have used for other worthy purposes. Some of us have done it to aggrandize ourselves and whatever ideology happens to move us.” He looked at the audience. “As a member of the Helaman City Council I apologize for that.”
Isaac turned a questioning glance to Abdul. Did he want to speak?
Abdul subtly pushed his own microphone further away and shook his head.
Isaac turned to the chair. “I yield the floor and call the question.”
He yielded hope too. The embarrassing amendment would pass, and his adopted hometown of Helaman would be a laughingstock and a byword. The trouble and expense of an initiative were unavoidable. The lead weight in his belly was proportional for the occasion.
His treasured sense of holiness was well and truly gone. At least it had lingered for a few days after Jerusalem. God willing, he could feel it again next year, or maybe sooner and closer to home on another holy day. Pesach, if he took pains to be observant, but that was months away.
“Is there any further comment from the council?” Vern asked. “Councilman Nassir? Very well. Without objection, the chair will call the roll. Vote aye or nay on the amendment.”
Vern could call for individual votes in any order he pleased, or all at once. He had seemed to favor drama in the past. Isaac’s gut lurched.
“The chair votes nay on the amendment. Councilwoman Peters?”
Nancy voted aye.
“Councilman Jackson?”
Evan voted nay.
“Councilwoman Kettle?”
Trish smiled. “Aye.”
“Councilman McCall?”
“Aye,” said Oren in his most solemn voice.
“Councilman Hirsch?”
Isaac’s stomach lurched again, but he spoke firmly. “Nay.”
It was three to three, as expected. Abdul would be the deciding vote.
“Councilman Nassir?”
The room went silent.
Abdul adjusted his microphone. “Mr. Chairman, I did not speak before. With your indulgence, I will say a few words now.”
The chair nodded his permission.
Isaac watched Abdul with curiosity but no optimism.
“Thank you,” said Abdul. “I have discussed this amendment with several of you and have thought about it a great deal. When the meeting began, I was uncertain how I would vote. According to the strictest interpreters of my obligations as a Muslim, I cannot approve or participate in another faith’s holy days. I cannot even wish my friends a merry Christmas, though I can certainly wish them the same peace and joy I wish them on all other days, and just as sincerely.
“There are different interpretations of this. And my vote against this amendment would please some people, probably many people, for whom I have great respect and affection, regardless of the differences in our faiths. But I agree with the amendment’s proponents when they say that even our superficially secular celebrations of Christmas clearly are linked to Christmas, which is unmistakably a religious holiday.
“But I am also an American, with an American’s unwillingness to force my own beliefs on others or proscribe others in their worship and celebrations.”
Abdul hesitated and glanced at Isaac, then turned to the audience.
“When I weigh my obligations to represent all the people in this city – because I am an American as well as a Muslim – I find I cannot vote against this amendment.”
A whispered “Yes” came from the atheist to Isaac’s left, but the audience likely didn’t hear Trish over their own groans and a few boos. Vern rapped his gavel.
So Abdul was voting yes. Isaac’s heart didn’t so much fall in defeat as go out to his friend for the heartache this had caused him and the greater heartache which would surely follow.
Abdul continued. “I am also reluctant to join the amendment’s proponents, some of whose motives are partly religious or even anti-religious. Mr. Chairman, I have never done this before, and I may never do it again, but I respectfully abstain.”
From some of the council came a few mild expletives. One member softly and bitterly invoked Jesus Christ, which sounded blasphemous even to Isaac. The audience was just starting to absorb the result, turning to each other and asking, “What just happened? Did we win?” when the chair pounded the desk with his gavel.
“The vote on the amendment is three to three, with one abstention. The amendment fails. Is there further discussion of the resolution?”
Someone called the question, the vote was held, the budget adjustment resolution passed five to two, and the meeting was duly adjourned before the audience had regained its bearings.
After the meeting, the Chief of Police circulated among the council. Officers were outside, he said, and could escort council members to their cars, but there was no angry crowd downstairs after all.
Isaac expected the cameraman he had seen to want some interviews, but the hairy young man was already on his way out the door, scowling deeply. It was no small relief. There would be no embarrassing story about Helaman on the ten o’clock news.
Some of the audience lingered, but eventually Isaac could speak with Abdul alone.
“An elegant solution, my friend. But I thought you don’t believe in abstaining. How did you come to it?”
“I don’t believe in abstaining. To put it simply, I also don’t believe my faith requires me to help the bad guys defeat the good guys.”
“That doesn’t sound like you or Fahreen.”
“No. She said, if I want my sons to understand my example, I should explain my example to them, in this matter specifically, and ask them for their own thoughts. They are teenagers – well, 15 and almost 13 – but they are capable of reason. So I explained my dilemma and asked them what they would do. They weighed the matter intelligently. Finally my younger son said the thing about bad guys and good guys. My older son said simply, ‘Yeah, what he said.’”
“Wise sons,” Isaac said.
“And faithful sons, Allah willing.”
“Following after their parents. Shall we start work on repealing the blue laws tomorrow?”
“Yes,” said Abdul.
Oren and Nancy stood across the room, engaged in serious conversation. They looked unhappy as usual, which pleased Isaac for only a moment before he felt guilty taking pleasure in others’ unhappiness. He turned back to Abdul. “I’m afraid some of our colleagues don’t like us very much tonight.”
“They didn’t like us before. I’m content with the result.”
“Do you think it’s possible to live a fully Jewish life among gentiles, or a fully Muslim life among infidels?”
Abdul smiled wryly. “A food truck helps. Perhaps you should open one next to mine. How is that sense of holiness you hoped to preserve?”
Isaac frowned. “I remember how it felt.” He looked up at his friend. “How do … how do you …”
“Preserve a sense of being connected to Allah? Or restore it after I’ve lost it?”
“Yes.”
“I pray five times a day. I can do it wrong. I can say the words and go through the motions without thinking or feeling anything appropriate to prayer. I can think about my napkin supplier or a broken shoelace or whether my son actually turned in his math homework. But when I get it right, I prepare my mind before I pray, and I think about Allah as I pray.” Abdul smiled broadly. “When I fail today, I will try again five times tomorrow.”
“You pray far more than I do, most days.”
“I have a thought,” Abdul said. “What will you do when you get home this evening?”
“Pour myself some wine, sit in my favorite chair, think about my day. Or Tovi. Mostly Tovi. Is it odd that I imagine conversations with her?”
Abdul’s smile was gentle and compassionate now. “It might be odd if you didn’t. But that glass of wine – ”
“I know you abstain.”
“Not my point. Don’t you have a prayer for that?”
“There is … I don’t usually … I suppose I could.”
Abdul raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “It’s time for this Muslim to go home and pray. Shalom, my friend.”
“Salaam, my friend,” said Isaac.
After a few more minutes Isaac walked out into the night with Vern and Evan. Evan clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Isaac. You carried the day.”
“I didn’t deliver Abdul’s vote – rather, his abstention. His own sons did that.”
“At the very least, you kept us from overreacting.”
They walked toward their cars, thanking a lingering police lieutenant on the way. After a brief silence, Vern rumbled softly, “It sounds like the beginning of a joke. Two Mormons, a Catholic, a Baptist, a Jew, a Muslim, and an atheist walk into a meeting. Hm. Good night, gentlemen.”
At home Isaac poured himself a glass of wine, already thinking of Tovi. He was raising the glass to his lips when he remembered.
He stood and held it in front of him, even held it up slightly – toward heaven, he thought with a reflective smile, if heaven was up. Toward Tovi. He hesitated.
Kiddush was for Shabbat, which wasn’t until tomorrow, and other holy days. He wouldn’t recite it entirely. But what if, in returning from pilgrimage, his longing was really for each day to be holy? Could each day be holy?
Abdul thought it could.
He took a deep breath, and more than air entered his body. The feeling he’d brought from Jerusalem returned, and not faintly. It was strong and warm. He spoke aloud, and the solemnity of his own voice surprised him. “Blessed art thou, Lord our God, King of the universe, who creates the fruit of the vine.”
Photo credit: cottonbro studio at pexels.com
From the Author
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