Last year I auditioned for a hospital print ad. It was my first time getting called in as “Dad,” a horror that can be discussed another time. The audition consisted of my audition-wife and me asking our audition-children—two home-schooled brothers, ages five and two—about their favorite holiday.
“Christmas,” said the five-year-old.
“What’s your favorite part about it?” asked my wife.
“The presents,” he replied.
“Ooh, Santa bring you anything good this year?” I asked.
“We don’t do Santa,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, perplexed. “Well… what do you do?”
“We focus on Jesus,” he said.
I just stared at the boy.
“That’s awesome,” said my wife. That was the end of the audition, and I didn’t book the job.
“We don’t do Santa.” It seemed unthinkable. How could anyone, religious or not, exclude Santa from Christmastime? Why would anyone?
One of my favorite Christmas experiences is during our Christmas Eve church service. I grew up going to this church nearly every Sunday. It’s not a megachurch, where there are maps to help you find your way like in a mall. But it’s a sizeable church nonetheless, with a sizeable congregation, and they all come out to celebrate the little baby Jesus. The church’s services are typically a big theatrical production, and Christmas Eve is when they really bring the guns out. Each hymn is bolstered by a large choir, a full orchestra, and a booming organ. Everything is covered with poinsettias and gold ribbons. The readings are profound and the lay readers are endearing. There are moments of heart-pounding joy and thoughtful sadness. There is even an ill-advised light show.
But the most beautiful part comes at the end, when each member of the congregation – filling the sanctuary and pouring out into the hall – holds a small candle and passes around a flame while singing “Silent Night.” And by the end, there is no accompaniment, no organ or bells or band. There is only our voice and our light. And after the final verse, in the brief moment of shared silence before we extinguish our flames, you are reminded that you are part of a family much bigger than you could ever comprehend.
My other favorite holiday experience comes on Christmas morning, a tradition from my mother’s side of the family. When I was younger, that side would often gather together at my grandparents’ in Fairfield, IA: four daughters, their husbands, and all the little grandchildren. On Christmas Eve all the kids would sleep on the bottom floor of the house. Grandma would stock her second fridge with treats for the morning, because we weren’t allowed upstairs until a certain time (in fact, the top of the stairs was blocked by an impenetrable cardboard sign). On Christmas morning, we would eat our pastries, drink our juice, and then wait at the top of the stairs until Grandpa’s inevitable cry: “Oh no! Santa Claus forgot to come!” To which we’d all reply, “No he didn’t, Grandpa!” and run in for the frenzy.
It’s a tradition my family’s been carrying on ever since. We set a time for presents, and no one is allowed into the living room before that time. We usher ourselves into the kitchen, where we sip on orange juice and coffee and tap our feet. Then Mom walks into the living room and cries out that infamous line: “Oh no! Santa Claus forgot to come!” And my sister, Olivia, and I still reply, “No he didn’t!” And, lo and behold, lying by the fireplace, there are two groups of unwrapped Santa presents next to our stuffed stockings.
I’ve graduated from college and moved away, but the tradition still holds an immense power for me. The presents have gotten decidedly older and more mature, as have I. My toy saxophone and Brio train set have been replaced by an iPhone and a teeth-whitening certificate. And even though I know Santa probably didn’t assemble that smart phone, if anyone told me for certain that he didn’t, I’d cry out “Blasphemer!” and run them out of town.
You don’t do Santa? Because you want to focus on Jesus? What a dumb reason. Not because focusing on Jesus is dumb, but because it is entirely possible to do both. My parents did. You can emphasize the religious and spiritual side of the holiday for your children, and still awe them with a visit from the jolly old fat man. Awe. That’s what this season’s all about, isn’t it? Why wouldn’t you do all you could to inspire it? Christmas is a time where—however frustrating the practice might actually be—we torture ourselves over what will make the other person happy. If anything, Santa strengthens these sentiments: giving, selflessness, joy. Not to mention the whole “If you’re good you will be rewarded” aspect the two guys share. (And, frankly, I never understood the “Love your enemy” thing, I think giving them coal is much more fitting. Trump card: Santa.)
There is no reason why Santa Claus and Jesus Christ can’t be friends. And if you can’t figure out a way to make that happen, well, I feel sorry for you and worse for your kids, because you’re all missing out on something truly magical. Also, if your home-schooled son’s favorite thing about your Santa-less Christmas is presents, I’d say your plan didn’t really work anyway.
My parents moved last year. I don’t know where to look for my Santa presents. I don’t even know if there will be any. I’m worried that this year my mom will go into the living room, tell me that Santa forgot to come, and it will actually be true. And then I don’t know. Then I guess I’m an adult. And that may be the worst gift of all.
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