Christmas. What is it? From where Why are we granted? Around hanging darkness. The will dried up. Soul is tired to fight. One attack after another. Explode from the gas house. In the Donbass shoot guns. Another official is taken away in chains to prison. From the noble palaces they carry out bags of currency and gold watches. The child dies of cancer, and the state has no money for its treatment. The titled thief buys himself a second plane and a third yacht. Bridges collapse and explode at the start of the rocket. All over the country, a stinging bastard insults the Russian people. Two lesbian pops were married in front of everyone. Another bastard hides his fortune in London, winds his gilt nest, preparing to run away from Russia. On the TV screens exposed human shame and vice. The Russian writer receives pennies for his creations, and the pop-door with triple citizenship is making money with a shovel.
How in these conditions not to become hardened, not to die a soul, not to turn into a hating misanthrope? In these hate and despondency, one cannot give birth to children and launch a rocket to the Moon, build beautiful cities, compose poems and symphonies.
But suddenly Christmas happens - a wonderful baby is born. You do not see him, but you know that he was born. In front of you, a blue star floats across the sky, and you follow this star, and others are walking alongside you. First, there are three of them - the Magi. Then dozens, then countless thousands. And all the people follow the star to where a miracle and transformation await him. The people are led there by a delightful Russian dream, where there is no evil, violence and death, where divine gardens are blooming and the Russian Victory that once appeared and no longer leaves us reigns.
Christmas is the great mystery of Russian history, the mystery of the Russian soul. Russia is the Christ who takes upon himself all the world darkness, all the twilight of the world evil and violence, transforming them into light. Russia is the Star of Bethlehem, which shines above the world, leads other peoples behind it, promising inevitable prosperity.
All nations sit down at a huge common feast. And the Savior pours fragrant wine into each bowl. Christmas is celebrated in all Russian churches. People bypass the temples in crisp Russian snow, carrying in front of them a golden book, a silver banner and a never-burning precious lantern.
Let Christmas be celebrated by those who, on heavy arctic icebreakers, turn over the sullen polar ice, who in Syria get into the cockpit of combat aircraft and fly to smash the last terrorist headquarters. Let those whom it found on the Crimean Bridge celebrate Christmas, and they will see the divine star above the night Chersonesos. Let them celebrate Christmas in the homes of the rich and the poor, distant and close.
Babies are born in maternity homes, and each is similar to the one born in a manger.
Let him celebrate Christmas in the Kremlin, and the divine rays of the Star of Bethlehem, this diamond floating in the sky, will touch the president, strengthen his will, save him from mistakes, remind him that he is the son of the greatest, kind, hardworking and beautiful people, that he has a share manage the most mysterious, enormous, like the universe, country. And may he go on the procession, surrounded by children and old people, soldiers and peasants, artists and priests, for all of us are parishioners of a huge, delightful parish, whose name is Russia.
Merry Christmas to you, Russian people!
The point of view of the author may not coincide with the position of the editorial board.