A War of Gifts by Orson Scott Card Page B

taught their children that all the stories of Christmas were myths—including the story of the Christ child. Telling stories of children who became atheists when Santa did not bring them the gifts they coveted most.
    â€œSatan is a liar every time! When Santa puts a lie on the lips of parents, the seed of that lie is planted in the hearts of their children and when that seed comes to flower and bears fruit, the fruit of that lie is faithlessness. You do not deserve the trust of your children when you lie for Satan!”
    Then his voice fell to a whisper. “Jolly old Saint Nicholas,” he hissed. “Lean your ear this way. Don’t you tell a single soul what I’m going to say.” Then his voice roared out again. “Yes, your children whisper their secret desires to Satan and he will answer their prayers, not with the presents they seek, and certainly not with the presence of God Immanuel! No, he will answer their prayers with the ashes of sin in their mouths, with the poison of atheism and unbelief in the plasma of their blood. He will drive out the hemoglobin and replace it with hellish lust!”
    And so on. And so on.
    In Zeck’s mind, the clock that kept perfect time went round the full forty minutes of the sermon. Father never repeated himself once, and yet he also never strayed from the single message. God’s message was always brief, Father said, but it took him many words to translate the pure wisdom of the Lord’s language into the poor English that mere mortals could understand.
    And Father’s sermons never ran over. He wrapped them up right in time. He was not a man who talked just to hear himself talk. He labored his labor and then he was done.
    At the end of the sermon, there was a hymn and then Father called upon old Brother Verlin and told him that God had seen him today and made his heart pure enough to pray. Verlin rose to his feet weeping and could hardly get out the words of the prayer of blessing on the congregation, he was so moved at being chosen for the first time since he confessed selling an old car of his for nearly twice what it was worth, because the buyer had tempted him by offering even more for it. His sin was forgiven, more or less. That’s what it meant, for Brother Habit to call on him to pray.
    Then it was done. Zeck leapt to his feet and ran to his father and hugged him, as he always did, for it felt to him when such a sermon ended that some dust of light from heaven must linger still on Father’s clothing, and if Zeck could embrace him tightly enough, it might rub off on him, so that he could begin to become pure. Because heaven knew he was not pure now.
    Father loved him at such times. Father’s hands were gentle on his hair, his shoulder, his back; there was no willow rod to draw blood out of his shirt.
    â€œLook, son,” said Father. “We have a stranger here in the House of the Lord.”
    Zeck pulled free to look at the door. Others had noticed the man, too, and stood looking at him, silent until Habit Morgan declared him to be friend or foe. The stranger wore a uniform, but it wasn’t one that Zeck had seen before—not the sheriff or a deputy, not a fireman, not the state police.
    â€œWelcome to the Church of the Pure Christ,” said Father. “I’m sorry you didn’t arrive for the sermon.”
    â€œI listened from outside,” said the man. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
    â€œThen you did well,” said Father, “for you heard the word of God, and yet you listened with humility.”
    â€œAre you Reverend Habit Morgan?” asked the man.
    â€œI am,” said Father, “except we have no titles among us except Brother and Sister. ‘Reverend’ suggests that I’m a certified minister, a hireling. No one certified me but God, for only God can teach his pure doctrine, and only God can name his ministers. Nor am I hired, for the servants of God are