(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on December 15, 2011, in my “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)
As the Salvation Army Santa rang his bell for donations in front of the Stop ‘n’ Shop last week, I couldn’t help but think that this really improves his image. Like many kids, I had thought of Santa as my “go-to guy” for years, writing more letters to him than to all my relatives combined. Unfortunately, he’s only human. Or mostly human. Either way, he can only be trusted up to a point.
My Sunday School teachers always tried to put the holiday season in perspective: “Christmas is more about the birth of Jesus than the appearance of Santa Claus,” they’d say. That was always a tough sell. The end of the calendar year was like a holiday clearinghouse: Halloween, All Saints Day, Thanksgiving, the Immaculate Conception, Christmas, and the Feast of the Solemnity of Mary (New Year’s Day) all fell within two months of each other. In this crucible of holiday craziness, young Catholics like me were told we should turn to Jesus, not Santa Claus, for all we needed. However, material concerns often outweigh their spiritual counterparts when you’re eight and you’d trade your immortal soul for a new GI Joe with the Kung-Fu grip.
It was a delicate dance. How could we manage to keep both of them happy so as to maximize our Christmas haul while still keeping a door open for future salvation? After all, this wasn’t Jesus vs. the Easter Bunny. All the Easter Bunny did was hop around and hide eggs—he didn’t even have an opposable thumb. Santa, on the other hand, was famous for making a list and checking it twice. Whereas Jesus did not appear to retain a written record of my past transgressions, Santa seemed to hold a grudge.
Santa also provided children with a clear list of what not to do, and everyone knows it’s easier to be told what not to do than to be told what you should do. Don’t pout… check. Don’t cry… check. Jesus, on the other hand, was fond of saying things like, “Love thy neighbor as thyself.” I mean, how do you know when you’re doing that right? It was easier to follow the things like the Ten Commandments, which seemed to have been written by Santa. He also made it clear that there would be immediate consequences if we didn’t do what he told us to do. He saw me when I was sleeping, and he saw me when I was awake. If I screwed up, he’d keep my presents and put a lump of coal in my stocking. Coal. I might as well have woken up to the bloody, severed head of a horse in the bed next to me. Santa dealt in black and white. With Jesus, I figured I’d always get a second chance.
Santa had immediacy: we could sit on his lap in the shopping mall and put the screws to him about that new bicycle we wanted. One time when I was eight years old, I jumped on his lap and begged for a new Lionel engine train. Santa leaned into my ear where my mom couldn’t see and whispered, “You’ll have your train.” I was elated. I had backed a winner! I was still very fond of Jesus, but he had never looked me in the eye and promised to deliver like Santa. Jesus was fond of cryptic messages and fuzzy promises of rewards later on, but Santa was as subtle as an oncoming bullet. “You’ll have your train.”
On Christmas Eve, I went to midnight Mass with my family and tried to smooth things over with Jesus. I wished Him a happy birthday and hoped He understood. The next morning I ran downstairs to clear a spot in the basement for the train tracks. Santa was known to have somewhat questionable taste at times, and my impatience grew with every unwrapped pair of socks or knitted sweater. It wasn’t until the last present was opened that I began to doubt Santa. Surely he was on his way back, I thought, secretly putting out the fire in the fireplace so he wouldn’t hurt himself. The train set must have gotten stuck in his bag.
And that’s the rub with Santa. I learned that sometimes he couldn’t help himself, making promises he couldn’t keep. After all, if he’d had any restraint, he probably wouldn’t be so morbidly obese. We forget that he moved off the grid, setting up shop in the middle of nowhere like the Unabomber or Abe Vigoda. How could I expect him to remember the important things like my train set when he didn’t even have the foresight to install fog lights on his sleigh?
So ended my crisis of faith. It was fine to believe in Santa up to a point—as my mom would say, he was only doing the best he could. However, much like the Easter Bunny, I couldn’t put all my eggs in that basket.
