Religion, he told himself, is a private matter. It did not belong in the marketplace, in civilized discourse, in schools, in government offices, or anywhere else public. It should be privatized.
He admitted he was mildly irked by the proliferation of unfamiliar clothing and headgear he increasingly saw around him, but was grateful his province had not tried to ban any of it, as they had in Quebec. Besides, this clothing was all cultural, not religious, wasn’t it?
Tolerance, he told Carl when he next saw him, is the hallmark of a civilized society. To this, Carl countered, “OK, Jim, what will you do if I put up a creche on my front lawn? Will you tolerate that?”
“What’s a creche?”
“A nativity scene, with the baby in the manger, Mary, Joseph, the shepherds and angels looking on, and a star shining above.”
“Oh, Jesus, Carl!”
“Exactly my thought, Jim. Jesus is the reason for the season. It’s Christ-mass, for God’s sake!”
With a heart full of foreboding, Jim mounted the steps of the house next to the mailboxes. He introduced himself to the householder, and asked about the sign. The man who answered the door was enthusiastic, and invited him in. Two women in the room scurried out to the kitchen as he entered. The conversation was civil, even friendly. The man said to him, “You are a good man, sir, but you are not yet one of us. We take our religion seriously. That is why the sign is there. You will see how beautiful your life will be when you join us!” Jim waved away his misunderstanding. He attempted to explain the basis for the complaint made to him. Perhaps, suggested Jim, his host might erase the offending line on the sign? The man reached for a book, thought better of it, and explained that this book was the Word of God. There could be no difference of opinion, no compromise, no erasure. Jim found himself slipping into quicksand. Inspiration came to him. “You see,” he said, “my neighbour might want to convert you to his religion.” The man’s face changed. It was now his turn to be offended. He got up, and so did Jim. Both smiled. Jim thanked the man for his time and moved to the door. They shook hands with icy formality. The man had a parting shot: “We should leave it in the hands of God,” he said. Jim nodded his agreement. It was really God’s quarrel, or Carl’s, not his, he thought.
That night there came a huge snowfall. The neighbourhood was deluged with more than thirty centimetres of heavy snow. All was still and peaceful until the city crews and snow ploughs arrived with flashing blue lights and enough noise, with their scraping and clearing, sanding and salting, to awaken the dead. They also cleared a path to the mailboxes, and a mountain of dirty ice and snow was left beside them, obliterating the offending sign. In the spring, no one drew attention to its absence, and peace was happily restored to the quiet community.
