I’ve been living in the future for a while. It’s working for the church that does it, but it happens to most writers, too. You end up planning life months in advance, putting thoughts and words around the upcoming seasons. At least I don’t have it as bad as the writers in the glossy foodies mags, posing for photos with their festive turkeys in the middle of a sweltering July. For me, it was September before I was into the thick of Christmas. It started with putting put together some thoughts for Glad Tidings, the WMS publication. That was all about Santa Claus.
Basically, the gist of the article was that you don’t need to throw out Santa Claus in order to have an authentic Christian Christmas. A little bit of historical digging will give you a richer understanding of the man in the red suit that hits all the right notes: charity, devotion, and theological interest to boot. Here’s the run down:
Santa Claus was originally Saint Nicholas, born during the third century, in what is now part of Turkey. He was raised in a Christian family by parents keen to share the faith with their son. They died while Nicholas was still young, and Nicholas dedicated his life to God’s work, using his whole inheritance to serve the poor and suffering. As the Bishop of Myra, he attended the Council of Nicaea in AD 325, where he contributed to the writing of the Nicaean Creed. (Bet you didn’t know that about Santa Claus!) Nicholas’ generosity and compassion were widely known, as you might imagine from the abiding legends of secret gifts. When these stories came to North
America with the large waves of European immigration, they evolved to describe someone more akin to a northern European elf than a Middle Eastern bishop. Saint Nicholas became Santa Claus and joined the ranks of popular culture, leading to Santa the Coca-Cola mascot, Santa the cell phone hawker, and, my favourite, Santa selling cigarettes. Cute, eh?
Now, in my congregational hat, I find myself planning the Sunday School Christmas party and, rumour has it, the jolly gent might be dropping by. I’m not sure what to do about that. Sure, I’d love to talk more about St Nicholas and the fascinating cultural shifts that give us Santa Claus, but I don’t want to undercut the magic. In September, it seemed clear and interesting. But now there’s a nip in the air and the radio is playing those songs again.
With my own kids, I play it out by talking about stories. “The story about Santa Claus goes like this…” Perhaps a little subtle or nuanced, and this will likely all unravel in us later. Who knows? Do kids actually get traumatized by the fact that their parents tell them stories? Does it actually build up mistrust? Or maybe they will gracefully make the transition to an adult understanding. Or they will be the obnoxious kids in the playground, shouting at the top of their lungs—”there is no Santa Claus!” Hmmm.
Growing up is going to happen at some stage, probably all too soon, and in the meantime, I’ve got little kids with Christmas to enjoy. But speaking of growing up and Christmas, I have to mention Alistair McLeod and his excellent short story To Everything there is a Season. Absolutely marvelous. Everything you could want in a Christmas story. Provided you don’t think ghosts are essential. I know that there are many who do. But Alistair McLeod’s story is earthier than that. It touches on what it means to be growing older and growing old. It is a story that it good to share.
Last year, I shared it with the college and careers group at church. It being December, they were tired, having more or less got through their busy exam period. The last thing they wanted from me that night was a Bible study. So instead, I read them the story. For me, it was a luxury to sit and read the long short story aloud. We’re not talking A Christmas Carol, but it does take some getting through. Which is good, because it is a story that invited you in. And I’m not going to spoil it for you. I’ll just say that McLeod address the question of Santa Claus and family, of growth and the change of seasons. Go and find it for yourself. And read it aloud, with others if you like, or even just to yourself. It is magical. It’s intensely human. It’s Christmas, too.
Maybe there’s a tradition to build on. I’ll send out invitations: Come to my house and I’ll read you a story. It would be interesting to fall into a yearly rhythm of reading this one Christmas story aloud. I wonder how the story would change over time. I’ll see what kind of group I can rustle up to listen with me this year. Though perhaps not the Sunday school.
