If there is a hell, you can be rest assured that the music of Trans-Siberian Orchestra echoes through the fiery caves of the underworld, tormenting the damned with horribly overwrought, overproduced, and overblown Christmas carols for all of eternity. And for that reason alone, I’m trying to atone for my wicked ways. I’m trying to be a better man and, perhaps one day, a true friend to my fellow man.
But I am failing.
It’s not because I don’t want to be good. I do. I really do. It’s just that I’m afraid that during the holiday season the celestial hallways of heaven are filled with the sounds of Newsong’s “The Christmas Shoes.” And if that’s the case, then I want no part of it, even if that means I’ll be buggered by a fire-breathing bugbear for the rest of time.
Perhaps you haven’t heard of “The Christmas Shoes.” It’s a soulless piece of Jesus-pop treacle about a Christmas Eve shopper’s fateful encounter with a little boy who pulled together all the money in his piggy bank to buy his dying mother a pair of new shoes:
It was almost Christmas time, there I stood in another line
Tryin’ to buy that last gift or two, not really in the Christmas mood
Standing right in front of me was a little boy waiting anxiously
Pacing ’round like little boys do
And in his hands he held a pair of shoesHis clothes were worn and old, he was dirty from head to toe
And when it came his time to pay
I couldn’t believe what I heard him saySir, I want to buy these shoes for my Mama, please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry, sir, Daddy says there’s not much time
You see she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes would make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful if Mama meets Jesus tonight
However, the song’s heartstring-pulling tale is betrayed by its conclusion. Shortly after the shopper has given the poor child a few bits of copper to cover the cost of the shoes, the good Samaritan comes to an epiphany:
So I laid the money down, I just had to help him out
I’ll never forget the look on his face when he said
Mama’s gonna look so greatSir, I want to buy these shoes for my Mama, please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry, sir, Daddy says there’s not much time
You see she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes would make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful if Mama meets Jesus tonightI knew I’d caught a glimpse of heaven’s love
As he thanked me and ran out
I knew that God had sent that little boy
To remind me just what Christmas is all about
Yes, Christmas Eve shopper, God gave the mother of this impoverished child an incurable disease just so that you would, you know, feel all warm and fucking fuzzy. What an asshole — not God of course. Jesus is more than all right with me. I’m talking about the selfish, self-important twatmop who wrote this crap.
“The Christmas Shoes” is yet another in a long line of soulless songs that have been adopted by the megachurch set who offer dime-store platitudes, pep-rally praise, and shallow, self-help sermonizing to a god who only exists to bestow gifts on his charmed followers — a nice house in the suburbs, a new mid-sized sedan, and DirecTV.
Songs like “The Christmas Shoes” are not written for those who struggle, those who toil, those who suffer. They are written to assure the lucky few that there is no reason to feel guilty for their blessed lives and that those who suffer do so because they do not wave their hands in the air and shed a tear whenever Michael W. Smith takes the stage. These songs exist to let these sad souls know that to be a true servant of the Lord you don’t have to care for the sick, the poor, or the elderly — you only have to praise the Great DJ in the sky. And the request line is always open.
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