Holiday Hyperbole

Earlier this month, a federal judge struck down South Carolina's attempt to sell state-sanctioned license plates that read, "I believe."

The design included a gold cross and a stained-glass window. Just so nobody thought they were talking about Santa, I guess, or the tooth fairy.

Thankfully, the judge knew our country's Founders weren't joking when they said that government should not be in the business of endorsing religion.

Some conservatives denounced the ruling as just another example of the vicious persecution of Christians. Which Christians, I'm not sure. I'm a Christian, but I don't see any oppression of my faith in this season of holiday hyperbole.

One yard after another across America has been invaded by mechanical reindeer, saluting Santas and giant inflated characters, from baby Jesus to Homer Simpson. (Is it just me, or does Homer look a bit menacing when the wind kicks up?)

Aisle after aisle of store merchandise telegraphs how this time of year is so all about us Christians, from Santa-fur thongs to the foil wrappers on York peppermint patties. And how about that Muzak? Who knew there are 47 versions of "Mele Kalikimaka"?

I don't see the threat. To us Christians, anyway.

Besides, what's up with touting our religion like membership in a special club? Aren't we supposed to be living our faith? You know, leading by example?

Maybe I bristle because my own Christian faith has been bolstered so often by those who aren't Christian.

Take Hope and Stanley Adelstein, for example. They've been the closest thing I've had to parents since mine departed. Hope cups my face and tells me I'm perfect; Stanley occasionally sees room for improvement and gently nudges. And both of them laughed at the dirty birthday card I gave Hope, which tells you they aren't your typical 80-somethings.

You might guess from their name that they're not Baptist or even Episcopalian. But if there were ever two people who embodied the Christian values of tolerance and social justice that my mother hammered into me, it would be Hope and Stanley.

Fifty years ago, they were a brand-new married couple looking for a home.

Unfortunately, back then Pepper Pike also required a screening process to keep out Jews. At one stop, the real estate broker peered through their open car window and asked their name.

"Adelstein," Stanley said.

"Don't bother getting out of the car," the broker said. "You wouldn't like it here."

Hope and Stanley are not easily intimidated. They chose another house nearby. Then the bank threw up another obstacle: The Adelsteins had to get their neighbors' permission to qualify for a loan.

Why not walk away? Why live where they clearly were not welcome?

"We didn't want to be surrounded by people just like us," Hope said.

Well, man plans, and God laughs.

Stanley rattled off their first set of neighbors in 1950: "The Cobens were actually the Cohens; the Rhodes were the Rosenblums; and the Dolans were the Dolanskys," Stanley said, chuckling. "They were all Jews who had changed their names."

It takes a forgiving heart to stay in a town that didn't want you. Stanley and Hope have lived in the same house ever since, and their neighborhood has caught up with their good intentions. Their life is their message, which is what real faith looks like.

A friend once asked me what my mother would have made of my close friendship with Hope and Stanley. I quoted my mom's only bumper sticker: "My Boss is a Jewish Carpenter."

I think of that now, and Mom's smile warms me to the bone.

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate.

Thanks to everyone else for putting up with us.

Connie Schultz is a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist for The Plain Dealer in Cleveland and the author of two books from Random House: "Life Happens" and "… and His Lovely Wife." To find out more about Connie Schultz (cschultz@plaind.com) and read her past columns, please visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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