Once upon a time, I believed in Santa. I believed he was as real as my Uncle Rufus who lived in Georgia.
I believed Santa lived with elves at the North Pole, made toys 364 days out of the year, kept a record of what every child said or did, drove a flying sleigh pulled by eight reindeer (plus one with a glowing red nose), landed on rooftops where children lived, slid down the chimney with a bulging sack, placed presents under the Christmas tree, nibbled a cookie, sipped milk from a glass, pressed a finger to his nose, zoomed up the chimney into his sleigh and rode off to the next house and the next until every child in the world had the perfect present.
All in one night.
No problem.
He’s Santa.
I was a believer from age two until age seven. And then I found out. Santa wasn’t real. The whole thing was a myth. Fiction. I put away that childish faith. Reluctantly.
But real or not, Santa made me happy. Santa kept hope alive. He filled my heart with joy and wonder (and a little fear). He kept an eye on me. He knew where I lived.
Come to think of it, I believed in Jesus too, but he wasn’t as real. I’d never sat on his lap or wrote him a letter. In the Jesus case, I was told to pray, which, I must admit, felt like talking to myself.
But Santa heard me, read my letters, and delivered.
The Santa Claus myth was inspired by an actual, historic person from the fourth century named Saint Nicholas. He was known for his kindness and charity. He gave children gifts.
The legend was embellished by the Dutch (who called him Sinterklaas), brought over to New Amsterdam (New York), memorialized in 1863 by the Harper’s Weekly cartoonist Thomas Nast, whose illustration was inspired by the poem “’Twas the Night Before Christmas,” first published anonymously in 1823. In 1931 Coca-Cola introduced a jolly Santa with rosy cheeks, a white beard, and twinkling eyes.
Santa makes a good story. Facts don’t matter. Children happily believe. Adults play along.
Next week is Christmas. The Christmas story is largely myth. Many believe. Some play along. Real or not, Christmas makes people happy. It keeps hope alive. It fills our hearts with joy and wonder.
Apparently, we can’t live on bread alone.
I was fortunate in my preschool years to live in Richmond, VA, where my dad worked at Miller & Rhoads Department Store, home of the legendary, “real” Santa. I still have a photo of me in my Sunday Best looking up into Santa’s face as I recited my Christmas list. But even then it all seemed about as “real” as Howdy Doody, my favorite TV show. I’ll never forget the time my dad took me to meet Howdy Doody’s buddy, Clarabell the Clown at another Miller & Rhoads extravaganza. I stood outside the dressing tent the store had set up in the toy department, waiting, waiting, for my dad to bring him out. Finally, I couldn’t stand it a second longer and burst into the tent. My dad was surprised but took my hand to introduce me. But where was the famous clown? All I saw was some old guy standing there in his skivvies. I learned a lot about myth that day. I couldn’t articulate it then but now see it as something we fervently wish were true even if it’s not. Because the spirit of the story keeps inspiring us.
The myth of Santa was based on a real person. Jesus WAS a real person. Granted the story about the first Christmas is all made up – except maybe the part about the little drummer boy – that might be true. And I don’t know where Pat Donohoe got his info, but the REAL Santa was at EW Edwards in downtown Syracuse. Why would he go somewhere that didn’t have snow?
Hey, Mike–thanks for your reply and insights–especially about the little drummer boy. Yes, the beat goes on, thank goodness. But who said it never snowed in Richmond? It is the state capital, and the current governor appears to be very familiar with the white stuff.
Santa still makes me happy.
Me, too, Mike! And by the way, my personal pronouns are she, her, and hers.
I hope Saint Nick leaves the Orioles some good starting pitchers.
Merry Christmas!
Early this morning, I returned from New York City, a place ablaze with sparkling Christmas lights shining in the cold darkness. A feeling of wonder was in the air. A long line of happy children with their parents lined the sidewalk to speak to Santa in FAO Schwartz. Manhattan shone like a bright candle aglow with songs of cheer. Underneath the hustle and bustle, I could sense something deeper: a yearning for stillness and, within that, a childlike hope for a better world. Perhaps black theologian Howard Thurman put it best when he remarked: “Do not be silent, there is no limit to the power that may be released through you. I will light candles this Christmas, Candles of joy, despite all sadness, Candles of hope where despair keeps watch.”
I saw the light early on. Dad’s DIY 40-watt blue light strand outlined the roof, mom was a wizard with snow in a can, there was an aluminum tree in the front window along with the persistent purr of the color wheel motor. This all played out in Marty Robbins’s West Texas town of El Paso.
Not sure when it happened, but Santa was displaced by Sears & Roebuck. Christmas then was something new and old. With West Virginia roots, Mom decorated with foil wrapping paper, doilies, and spray-painted folded Reader’s Digests to look like little trees. Dad made ceramic manger figurines at the Army base hobby shop. And I worked “the” catalog that is said to have ballooned to 608 pages by 1968. The list for “Santa” was revised many times leading up to the big day.
True happiness came later when I viewed the season through the eyes of my young children. Those were wonderful times. Visiting Santa on the 2nd floor of the old fire hall. School and town activities. The children-focused Christmas service by the Right Reverend (now retired) Randall Tremba. And the distinct voice of Greg Lloyd breaking the silence of the candle-lit sanctuary with Silent Night, and then we all joined in, and we knew for a moment peace on earth and the power of fellowship.
Thanks again so much, Rev!!! What a wonderful season!! We focus on children, their happiness & joy. We visit family and folks we love. We think about love & compassion. We give gifts. We love the food. We enjoy the festival of lights before the darkness of winter.
I know Santa is real, because my cousin is Santa; I have pictures–yes, we were having dinner with Santa and Mrs. Claus. She calls herself, Debbie. (You didn’t think that her name was “Mrs.”, did you?) My mother always maintained that Santa was the spirit of Christmas, and my mother was a good Christian lady and once a deacon at our church. Why didn’t she say that Jesus is the spirit of Christmas? Let’s face it, Santa encompasses the spirit of giving and caring for one another as human beings. Santa never left a bill at any homes of little girls and boys. He supposedly took care of everybody. As the immortal tune, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”, plaintively asks, “Why can’t we have Christmas the whole year around?”
Such memories you bring back! Yes, to every bit of your story… except I persisted until 10 years old ( after my younger brother & cousins all declared Santa wasn’t real!). That Spirit of Love & Giving & Hope still lives in my heart – & in others here.
Many memories of singing in church, on doorsteps, around our tree, and in town well up inside. The look in children’s eyes, and the belief in miracles makes me happy too! In a world with so many problems, we all need to find happiness where we can – Merry Christmas…
I’d rather believe in the ideal of Santa (and Christ) than not. I know it’s just an unprovable belief in something greater. It’s not true by the modern scientific standard, but as they taught us at Wooster, the spheres of science and faith don’t overlap, and we can preserve both without contradiction.
I would say, the bleed-through of the spheres, faith mixed with science, or science motivated by a faith-like idealism that trumps evidence, these are problems.
Perhaps we should celebrate modern saints a bit more. Perhaps Randy can suggest some.
Excluding Later Day…