Those Christmas Shoes...
My sister called me before work this morning because she regards me as the source of her theological advice. (Which might not be the best choice, but, well, I'm a professional Church lady and she knows she can ask me anything. Whether I can answer is another matter.) So, besides calling to tell me that 100 feet of fresh pine garland in the back of the mini-van is the best car air freshener ever, she wants to know what kind of God requires shoes for entrance into heaven. And would want a dying woman's child out shoe shopping on Christmas Eve. Yes, you can see where the Smith sisters stand on mawkish religiosity. We may differ on many other metaphysical details, but this one? Oh great googly moogly, how nauseating can popular 'art' get? (Maybe worse...but I'll save that for later.)

My professional opinion was that:
Are we so sure she's going straight to heaven?
If shoes were necessary, wouldn't the kid been better off at his mother's bedside checking out Zappos on his laptop?
Last, but not least, the Mother of God who went straight to heaven didn't need shoes. And I think she sets the standard.

Haven't heard that song yet this year. (If it is playing on the PA at the gas station, I would choose to get back in my car and drive off without filliing up. Or scream.) But Barbra Streisand singing Jingle Bells caught me off guard on my way home from Dominick's. Oh, the inhumanity.