The Catholic New World talks with (the fictional) Deputo Populus.

It’s that time of year again. Christmas always comes with certain expectations. If you’re a kid, you expect to get presents. If you’re a parent, you expect to give presents. (And sometimes you’re expected to believe Santa Claus did it.)

If you’re a believer, you expect that, once again, images of the child, the manger and the Holy Family will begin anew the story of faith and redemption.

And, if you’re a reader of The Catholic New World, you should expect another holiday-linked interview with a bit-player in the faith-drama that played out more than two millennia ago.

It’s a tradition we’ve developed over the last half-dozen Christmases. Through The Interview, readers have chatted with Santa Claus (who put an altogether different spin on holiday gift-giving) and the donkey who labored to carry Mary from Nazareth to Bethlehem. There was a whimsical visit with that sad little Christmas wreath, Melancholy Holly, who shared a story about the power of symbols, and even a conversation with the Last Wise Man. A year ago, we chatted with the obscure Bethlehem innkeeper who found the almost-homeless Holy Family a place to stay.

The best Christmases don’t happen all alone. That also was true for the first Christmas. Bethlehem was small and peaceful then, hardly the shattered city it has become today. But there were people who had roles large and small in the story that has become central to faith.

And, societies being societies, some people are stereotypical.

Like the guy we found named Deputo Populus, the bureaucrat. We’ve all had to put up with his type: petty, arrogant, demeaning.

The Romans were a pretty organized bunch. You don’t rule the world for hundreds of years without a system. So when the Romans wanted a census, they got a census. Scripture tells us that’s why Joseph and his pregnant wife Mary made the arduous trip to Bethlehem.

And that’s where old Deputo Populus came in. (If you recall your high school Latin, his name means, literally, “to count the people.”)

Deputo’s over there now, getting set up. Let’s catch him before he starts counting.

The Catholic New World: Excuse us, sir, but you’re in charge of today’s census operation, aren’t you?

DP: Yes, yes. Can’t you see I’m busy? I have to make sure the rabble get counted correctly.

TCNW: OK, but can you tell us why there’s a census?

DP: Why? The emperor wants it; what other reason do you need?

TCNW: I mean, does the census determine how much aid the people get back from the emperor?

DP: Get back? From the emperor? Did a donkey step on your head? The census tells how much more the emperor can take in taxes. Now, if there are no more foolish questions, let me be. The census begins tomorrow, right after my mid-morning wine break. With any luck, I can stretch this into a two-week gig before I move on.

TCNW: Well, (mumbling) it’s nice to know how some traditions got started. Mind if we check back with you when you’re done counting?

DP: I suppose so. I’ll have to get permission from the chief census-taker to talk with the media, but you just spell my name right, OK?

Days passed and the counting seemed on schedule. People kept coming and going from the census-taker’s stand in the middle of the village. The line would move for a while, then inexplicably stop as the official took an unscheduled break. Meanwhile, his pile of scrolls kept growing, listing the people whose roots were in Bethlehem, the town and lineage of David. Finally, the line petered out. Deputo Populus was finishing up.

TCNW: How’d the counting go?

DP: Oh, all right, I suppose. You get to meet some strange people in this job, though.

TCNW: What kind of people?

DP: Let’s see, I’ve had farmers, camel-drivers, wine-makers, Pharisees, centurions, date-pickers, even the occasional shady character. You get used to that. It’s a routine: name, address, family, occupation, how much money ya got? Next … and it all starts over again.

TCNW: So, was it different this time?

DP: Only once, but it got me wondering.

TCNW: What do you mean?

DP: There was this couple. He was a little older. She was very young. And very pregnant. One day they waited in line with a goofy-looking donkey for hours. Got right up to the counter when I closed up; hee, hee—boy, do I like doing that. Love to see the look on their faces when they know they have to come back the next day and wait all over again.

TCNW: You know, you’ve got a cruel streak.

DP: Hey, you try standing here day after day going through the same thing: “name, address, family, occupation, how much money ya got?” Even bureaucrats gotta have a little fun.

TCNW: OK, but what was so different this time?

DP: That couple didn’t get mad, didn’t get upset. They showed up the next day and finally went through the routine. But even that was different. At least she was.

TCNW: How so?

DP: It was like she knew something, that’s all. Like it didn’t matter what I did; like she knew there were more important things. The guy, a carpenter by the way, was a little more down-to-earth. Probably comes from making things with his hands. But, well, it was like she knew a secret, a secret that would change the world.

TCNW: Maybe she did. People who have faith are like that.

DP: Faith? I’m a pagan and my faith is in the bureaucracy. But she made me think that counting people wasn’t such an important, thing. And that having fun making people jump through “official” hoops wasn’t so great either.

TCNW: You mean …

DP: Yeah, like people have value; that people are more than lists of names on a scroll. That people who have—what’d you call it, faith?—can make difference in the world.

TCNW: (Under his breath) Brother, you ain’t seen nothing yet.

DP: Boy, if everyone were like that couple. …

TCNW: You know, there’s a moral here, but you probably won’t understand it. It has to do with changing the world. Stick around a few millennia, though. It’ll still be working itself out.

D: Huh?

TCNW: It’s a very simple one: You can count every Christian. But it’s more important to make every Christian count.

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