It is Christmas Eve and the Vanity Fair Mall Santa Claus is nearly finished being jolly old Saint Nicholas for another year. But there is something different about this Santa. He is renting a body from mortal Ken Larsen. Santa listens carefully to Christmas wishes and speaks words of wisdom to each child, but when ten-year-old Billy Mitchell sits on his lap and asks for world peace, Santa suddenly realizes it is the one wish he is unable to grant. After Ken's shift as Santa ends, he heads to his girlfriend Sandy's home with his red bag on his shoulder. They exchange gifts, and it seems like a peaceful Christmas Eve until the doorbell rings. Suddenly Ken finds himself precariously perched on a dilapidated fire escape outside Sandy's window-with her jealous husband inside. Things go from bad to worse when Ken slips on the icy platform and plunges to his death. But all is not lost when Ken meets Jesus and learns he must return to his body and travel to Israel and help the world make peace. Limited only by Santa's rules, Ken must do everything within his newfound spiritual powers to grant Billy's wish. In this fictional parable, one man holds the weight of the world on his shoulders as he makes an unprecedented attempt to achieve worldwide peace.
PEACE ON EARTH
A Mystical Path to Free AgencyBy Kenneth Rex LarseniUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Dr. Kenneth Rex Larsen
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-5903-4Chapter One
Santa's Little Gift
Our story begins on Christmas Eve. I'm about to finish being Santa for one more year. I make a pretty good Santa. I put on his costume, and he speaks through me. I'm perfectly shaped to be Santa. I'm five feet nine inches tall and weigh about 230 pounds. The Santa outfit is snug but not tight. The beard and wig are perfect. Some women have even said I'm an attractive Santa.
I work as Santa at the Valley Fair Mall. I'm seated at the top of a double stairway so that my elves can lead the children up one side and go down the other. I think the decorations are older than I am—dusty snowflakes and snarls of white lights abound. Oblivious to the stale atmosphere, the children, in excitement or fear, come up and anxiously sit on my lap. Some kids are screaming; their parents try to pacify them in the face of this bearded stranger. The photographer only adds to the mayhem, but the store insists that he get each child on film for the parents. I don't care about the parents. I just want to give each child a magic moment. In the case of crying infants, I encourage the mother to sit on my lap, holding her child. That usually works. Somewhere in the madness, I try to have a personal conversation with each child.
"Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas, Martha. You remember what I said—do what your mommy says and have a very happy Christmas this year."
"Thank you, Santa," says a cute little four-year-old as she scampers triumphantly from her experience on my lap.
"Ho-ho-ho! And here comes my last little visitor. Well, actually, you're not so little, are you? So, climb up here on my knee and tell me your name."
"My name is Billy. Billy Mitchell," he says as he straddles one knee. "And you would know it if you were the real Santa Claus."
It looks like Billy is about nine or ten, but his furrowed brow and intense concentration depict a boy wiser than his years. His suspicious commentary suggests he isn't the little boy I would have expected. Oh, well, I'm Santa to the end. It's time again to pull out my Santa channeling trick.
"Well, Billy, I am the real Santa Claus. Right now, I'm renting this body from a mortal just like you. His name is Ken Larsen. He lets me use his body every year so that I can talk to all my friends, like you."
"Wait a minute," says Billy with a judgmental scowl. "You're talking about yourself as if you were someone else. I'm too smart for that kind of nonsense."
"It's called channeling," Santa explains with my voice. "Ken puts on my outfit and channels me. Oh, don't be so negative. We're all born with it. Sometimes it's called having an imaginary friend, like you did a few years ago. All children are born with special abilities. They naturally know how to dance, sing, laugh, love, and channel. Usually, they think they have to lose these things to grow up. They learn how to sit still when they feel like dancing or singing. They learn how to hate others for being different. They learn that imaginary friends aren't politically correct. Then, later, they learn again how to sing and dance. Ken was one of the lucky ones who learned again how to channel. Once you get the hang of it, you can channel anyone or anything, dead or alive, real or imaginary. When children channel, it's called having an imaginary friend. When adults do it, they are called mediums or prophets. Ken channels me, and you get to talk to Santa. It's that simple."
Judging from his displeased expression, Billy's suspicion is deepening. With a scowl, he says accusingly, "Sounds to me like you need help."
"I'm sure I do, Billy," I admit. "We all need help. That's why we are all here—to help and to be helped. Actually, I think the sick ones are those who hide their different personalities from each other, or even worse, those who deny their natural channeling to avoid ridicule."
"I think it's all in your imagination," says Billy.
"Of course it is," I respond. "Everything is imaginary. That's why it's fun and harmless. Anyway, Ken's body and his mind are all I've got. He has stuffed his little brain with all kinds of nonsense, like science, history, and politics. There just isn't room for all the names of the six billion children on the earth."
"Isn't that the whole population?"
"Yes, Billy. My, you're very smart for a ten-year-old boy. Yes, that's the whole population of the world, and Santa sees a child in the heart of each one."
"How did you know my age?"
"Oh, just a good guess, I guess."
"You're different from the other Santas."
"How's that?"
"You're honest ... crazy, but honest."
"Thank you, Billy."
"The others pretend their fake beard is real," Billy says, as the concerned furrows on his forehead smooth out and he scoots a little closer. "They encourage the other kids to believe in something that can't be real." Billy surprises me with a friendly yank on my beard. "Oh!" he cries. "Your beard doesn't come loose."
"No," I explain, "it's securely tied with a shoelace on the back of my head. You want to hear a funny story? A few years ago, I grew my own beard. It was several inches long, but it wasn't white, so I wore the Santa beard over it. Some kids asked about my beard, and I pulled off the Santa beard, revealing my own beard underneath. Boy, then they knew I was the real Santa for sure."
Billy laughs out loud. "Those other kids sure were stupid to believe Santa is real just because you grew a beard."
"Oh, Billy, don't be so sure. Santa may not be a physical person. But that doesn't mean he isn't real. Santa is also a feeling. He's that feeling of joy you get when you give to another. He's that joy you feel when you do something wonderful and nobody knows, not even your mom. The joy is real, and you can feel Santa in your heart just by following his example and giving to others. And if, like me, you put on his costume, you just might channel that feeling into your own imaginary person. Oh, yes, Santa doesn't need a Social Security number to be real."
"Thank you, Santa. That's a good way to think about it."
The store manager interrupts. "Okay, Santa, we're running a bit late. Give the boy his candy cane and let's go. We've got our own families to get home to, and we don't pay overtime."
"Just another moment, please, Mr. Burton. Billy here hasn't yet made his request. And you can take my paycheck and give it to your favorite charity. Merry Christmas."
Mr. Burton steps down in a huff and dismisses the rest of my staff, leaving me alone with Billy. I think how much I'm going to miss that check. I ignore my financial needs as Ken and return as Santa to Billy.
"Now, Billy, where were we? Oh yeah, let's play a little game. You pretend just for a minute that I'm the real Santa Claus and that I can give you anything you want in the whole world, as long as it does not violate my rules of morality. What would you ask for?"
"Peace on Earth," he says with a mischievous gleam in his eye.
"Wow! You don't mess around, do you? I cannot grant that wish. Let me explain my rules a bit. Yes, I have my own prime directives. First of all, I do no harm. So, you can't ask me to punish your enemies or kill your neighbor's dog. Second, I do not force human behavior. I won't force other people to be peaceful."
"Why not?"
"Well, Billy, you...
