Results tagged “Santa Claus” from Reformation21 Blog

Atheist activists are making headlines for recent advertising efforts, this time in the southern states of America. Several years ago a similar effort in the United Kingdom caused some degree of consternation among British evangelicals. I was living in Scotland at the time, and came face to face with one of the public advertisements (pronounced ad-VERT-is-mints) promoting atheism before I ever heard about them on the news. I remember the moment quite well. I was parked across the street from the Aberdeen Royal Infirmary at 7 a.m., waiting to pick my wife up from a night shift at the hospital, when a bright red double decker bus pulled into the hospital bus stop immediately across from me. Written large across the bus (where one would normally expect an ad for the latest film) were the words: "There's probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life."

My gut reaction to that message -- once I got over the surprise of encountering it on the side of a bus -- was puzzlement. I couldn't, and I still can't, understand how someone could consider life as the product of random chance more enjoyable (or at least less worrying) than life as a gift from an all-powerful, all-wise, loving God. Who enjoys a diamond ring more, the man who stumbles across it with his metal detector on the beach? Or the girl who receives it from the boy who loves her and wants to marry her? I'd argue the latter. The ring sustains the same monetary value in either scenario, but it brings greater pleasure to the girl because it is a gift to her which constantly serves to remind her of a relationship worth infinitely more than whatever dollar value might be placed on the diamond. Who enjoys life more? The person who believes himself and everything around him to be the product of random chance, and so treats every day as something he has effectively stumbled across in the sand? Or the person who sees her life as a whole and every day in it as a gift from Someone who loves her with a perfect and constant love, and intends to spend forever with her. I'd argue the latter, by the same logic as before.

If God didn't exist I wouldn't be able to stop worrying. If this world and this life were in fact all there is, I'm fairly sure I would squander it in a constant state of anxiety about whether I was squeezing enough pleasure, or the right kind of pleasure, out of my pitifully few days on this earth. Despite these atheists' apparent intention to help people relax and enjoy themselves, it seemed to me (and still does) that they had prescribed a fairly heavy dose of anxiety and misery for folk with their (false) news about God's non-existence.

These more recent, American atheist advertisements (pronounced ad-ver-TIZE-mints) have me equally puzzled. Billboards in a variety of southern states picture a young girl wearing a Santa hat and a mischievous smile, writing a letter to Saint Nick. Her letter reads: "Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is to skip church! I'm too old for fairy tales." My puzzlement over this particular advertisement has been of an ambivalent sort, corresponding to my ambivalent feelings about Old Saint Nick. There's a part of me that simply finds the ad ironic and sad. It's ironic insofar as the girl is writing to a mythical creature called Santa Claus to express her disbelief in God. (I'm guessing that this irony was intended, and that most atheists don't themselves believe in Santa, or think him to be the most appropriate person to register one's unbelief with). It's sad, however, even to see in a fictional scenario a young child willing to trade in belief in an omniscient God who freely offers forgiveness for our sins for an omniscient man from the north pole who annually promises to reward you (or punish you) purely on the basis of your performance, with absolutely zero possibility of repentance for your misdeeds. "He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake. He knows if you've been bad or good." Santa Claus, at least as depicted in popular song, is scary. The ethical punch line of the Santa Claus story is "you better be good for goodness' sake." But what about those of us who haven't been good? There's no promise of rescue for naughty children in the gospel of Santa. The best you can hope for is moral improvement for the years you have left (so, get to it...). What a tragic substitute for a God who not only knows everything you've done but offers you full and complete forgiveness on the basis of the incarnation, person, and work of his Son, who has lived and died in the place of sinners.

But I'm not really such a Santa hater as all that. The truth is, I like Santa, maybe even believe in him a little bit. Whatever the rhetoric of our Christmas jingles, the reality -- so far as I can tell -- is that Santa delivers the goods to children irrespective of their moral fiber or performance during the year. Santa's gift giving scheme doesn't really seem to be a meritocracy in the end of the day. And, whatever the truth about his knowledge of your doings, what's not to like about a guy who drives a sled pulled by magical reindeer and squeezes down chimneys to stack packages under the Christmas tree.

My ultimate problem, then, with this particular atheist advertisement is not that it promotes belief in Santa, but that it grossly deceives people into thinking that somehow you can do away with God but still retain a bit of magic in the world. The truth about atheism, which they so desperately want to obscure, is that when you do away with the One who made us and this world, you deprive us and this world of meaning, moral absolutes, and magic. Without God, the world becomes a closed natural universe, where nothing (or rather, no one) can intervene because there's no one there to do so.

As strange, then, as it may sound (given a fair degree of Christian nervousness about Santa Claus and his tendency to steal the spotlight from Christ on Christmas), I'd suggest that it really does take a Christian perspective on things to sustain a story like Santa Claus (at least as anything more than a collective effort on the part of parents to elicit good behavior from their children). G.K. Chesterton once wrote: "The sense of the miracle of humanity itself should be always more vivid to us than any marvels of power, intellect, art, or civilization. The mere man on two legs, as such, should be felt as something more heartbreaking than any music and more startling than any caricature." Mankind is not the product of chance. Mankind, spoken into existence by God, is a miracle. And once you realize that, it doesn't take a huge leap of imagination to entertain the possibility of one particular man who lives at the North Pole, travels by reindeer-drawn sled, and squeezes down chimneys to leave presents for boys and girls under Christmas trees.

When, alternatively, you deny mankind itself to be a miracle, all possibilities of one miraculous man named Saint Nick evaporate. Atheism is, without a doubt, the quickest route to the disenchantment of the world in which we live. The child (or adult) who no longer believes in God really is "too old"  -- or too something, at least -- to believe in fairy tales. If these atheist activists were honest, then, they wouldn't have a child professing her atheism to a fairy tale creature. They'd have her sitting by herself, lonely and scared, professing her unbelief to no one, because that is who is ultimately there. And they'd better wipe that mischievous smile off her face, because mischief is a symptom of the magical that exists in this world.

Of course, in the end, the false advertising of atheists -- dressing a child up in the trappings of an enchanted world while she effectively pulls the plug on all the enchantment -- is pretty much what you'd expect. What else can you do when you're peddling a product that leads to misery and death (Prov. 14.12)?

A seasonal warning

You may be planning a seasonal sermon. In a spirit of ministerial solidarity, I would bring to your attention a fell tale from long ago. Be warned, gentlemen, be warned!

'Twas the Sunday pre-Christmas: a cautionary tale

I do not often sympathise with Anglican vicars, but I did feel a mite of solidarity with the Reverend Simon Tatton-Brown of St Andrew's Church, Chippenham, Wilts., when I heard his unfortunate story. Caught short by the demands of a nativity address, he decided to regale his infant congregation with fables of Nicholas of Myra restoring to life three children who had been pickled by a wicked butcher to be sold as ham. Had I been there, quite apart from the obvious, I could have told him that you mess with any iteration of this gentleman at your peril. You see, I once made the unforeseen error of mishandling the modern take on the bearded one. Apparently, even in some Dissenting congregations, to fail to revere Santa Claus is a fearful mistake to make. Here is my tale of woe. May it serve as a warning for fellow ministers.

UPDATE: To clarify: yes, it really did happen; no, the violence is embellished for comic effect but everything else is true to life; yes, we do call Santa the Christmas Clown in my house; yes, I have no particular appetite for Christmas as a whole; yes, I may have overstated the case about telling your children the truth, but I think that there's a good-sized kernel of truth there; no, it's more a bit of fun, and I hope that you enjoy it.

'Twas the Sunday pre-Christmas ~ a cautionary tale

'Twas the Sunday pre-Christmas, and all through the church,
On the laps of their parents the children did perch.
All sitting agog in great anticipation
Of the visiting preacher's pre-sermon oration.

(For this was a place where the children receive
Their own little talk and then promptly they leave,
And the preacher is left with a half-congregation -
But that's not my point in today's proclamation.)

And so I began to compare and contrast
With an image I hoped would be sure to stick fast,
Between God and his goodness in giving his Son
And the myth of the Chubby and Red-Suited One.

I spoke of a gift that is given, not earned,
Made other connections I hoped could be turned
To some gospel advantage; to bring to a close
To a climactic contrast I gradually rose.

"Here is the great issue," I cheerfully said,
"There's a man on a cross and a myth dressed in red:
And I hope that by now you all know and you feel
That the difference between them is - Jesus is real."

The youngsters then left, and I (not a bit nervous)
Proceeded to get through the rest of the service,
Descended the steps and, without a thought more,
I walked down the aisle and I stood at the door.

The first lady out was a grandma in rage,
Who I think would have been better off in a cage,
On a mission, it seems, to accuse me of sin:
She swung with her bag but I blocked with my chin.

As I slumped to the floor - though I listened intently -
She spoke straight and clear, crisp and sharp, and not gently,
That I was a preacher perverted and sick
For telling her darlings there is no Saint Nick.

The next lady out seemed a little more gracious,
But was, to be frank, still a tad disputatious;
As they ranted, the details began to emerge -
A story explaining their violent urge.

For it seems that the classes of children that day
Were awash with salt tears and with waves of dismay.
Why was it their sweet little hearts did all break?
Well, the preacher had told them that Santa was fake.

So I strapped myself in. It was well that I did
For time after time the poor preacher was chid:
It was my presumption to pull off the veil -
That's parental business, a pastoral fail.

Here and there I received a brief word of respite,
But these were scant stars in a very black night;
But to see the full horror, you must understand
That the evening service already was planned.

When I got there that night I was taken to pray,
But before we began they had something to say.
That the poor chap was harried was clear in his eyes:
"Your effort this morning seemed rather unwise."

It seems that a battle quite royal had begun;
Yours truly, unknowing, had started the fun.
While some were quite happy with what had been said,
A number of others had called for my head.

As I walked to the pulpit I should have been bolder;
To be honest, I kept looking over my shoulder
In case the fierce lady who clobbered me one
Had returned for the service equipped with a gun.

I tried to make peace, made a plea for goodwill,
But in spite of the season, there lingered a chill
As I, without wishing to retract a bit,
Confessed no intention to cause a church split.

I had no idea, I explained with heart humble,
That my little message would cause such a rumble.
(I had never imagined a Christian would spew
The nonsense that old Father Christmas was true.)

Then I mopped off my brow and I took up my theme,
Making clear I'd been told I was part of a team
Working section by section through deeds apostolic,
And was tasked with explaining some things diabolic.

The pattern there was to progress through a book,
Each preacher in sequence the next section took;
Now, brothers and sisters, I give you facts:
My part was assigned from the Book of the Acts.

"Which chapter?" you ask? It was chapter nineteen.
With the quickest of looks it will quickly be seen
That my problems were mounting, my troubles were legion:
I had to expose superstitions Ephesian.

We began with Paul casting out spirits of evil,
And how this had caused a great social upheaval;
Then the saints in the place, when they saw what occurred,
Began to confess, being thoroughly stirred.

When they saw deeds of darkness exposed by the light,
They abandoned those things which belonged to the night,
Took what they'd indulged in while wandering lost
And burned it all up without thought of the cost.

I made it quite clear: when the heart is made new
We hold to those things which are clean and are true;
Abandon the false and all crass superstition
And serve the Lord Christ of our own free volition.

I governed my tongue and I took no cheap shot
(And not just because one shook out a garrotte).
I went Puritanic: "You're wise, you apply it,"
But I don't think too many were ready to buy it.

But how can you offer both truth and a lie,
Then hope that your children will learn to rely
On your words about Christ, while they just filter out
All the fabulous nonsense you readily spout?

When I finished, I strolled down the aisle to shake hands,
While keeping an eye out for bag-wielding grans;
The first chap came out, and he said, "That was needed;
You might want to leave, you're about to be bleeded."

And there, down the aisle, rolled a gaggle of nans,
A choice set of weaponry clutched in their hands,
And with them a cluster of parents all fuming;
It seemed that the poor preacher's doom might be looming.

And what was the crime? How had suffered their youth?
The dastardly fellow had spoken the truth.
The reason the visitor had to be fried
Was the kids had discovered these people had lied.

Their eyes were aflame and their flesh a chill pallor,
And sometimes discretion's the best part of valour,
So I picked up my bag, swiftly shrugged on my coat,
And with that I dashed out before I could be smote.

I sprang to my car, turned the key, to the floor
Pressed the pedal before I had quite closed the door;
And they heard me exclaim, 'ere I drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night."