"It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year"

“It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year”

Or

“Bah! Humbug!”

By: J. Thomas Hunter

While most people prepare to enjoy the most popular holiday in America, I reluctantly rejoin—as I do annually—the cadre of Scrooges and Grinches. Yes, it is true, I am not a big fan of the Christmas holiday and I have not been since I was very young. To be clear, I do not reject Christmas in the religious sense. I am a Christian, and as such, I celebrate the Christmas holiday as commemorating the birth of the Christ. What I am much less enthusiastic about is the more secular Christmas holiday, and I am for reasons as clichéd as the lamentable culture of consumerism to reasons that you should only hear if you are charging me $200 an hour. That being said however, I do not think it is fair to count myself as a Scrooge or a Grinch…just yet. As a new father, though, I am faced with a conundrum that could determine whether or not I will find myself legitimately ensconced in the ranks of Scrooges and Grinches.

Scrooges and Grinches have something in common that I, so far, do not share—they are not content with simply disliking Christmas, they find it necessary to ruin Christmas for others. Like the atheists who wasted money posting the irritating and juvenile “You Know [Christmas is] a Myth” sign along the Lincoln Tunnel in New Jersey, Scrooges and Grinches wish to suck the joy out of Christmas for everyone else.

My wonderful wife was astonished to discover that I was not a fan of the holiday. She asked me why I wasn’t moved by the magic and cheerfulness that is associated with Santa Claus and red and green Christmas cookies. She has already started two Christmas traditions in our family. First, she insists that we make a gingerbread house each year—something I had never done before we did so together. Second, after Lucy was born, she bought the “Elf on the Shelf” toy, which is a cute tool to perpetuate the Santa Claus lore. For me, though, the Santa mystery was broken before I was even 7 years old.

 

***Flashback to 1988***

My mother was on the phone, but I wasn’t exactly sure with whom she was speaking, so I impetuously cried out to her.

“Mom! Mom! Mom! Mommy! Mom!”

“What,” she gasped desperately. “I’m on the phone!”

“Who are you talking to?”

“I’m talking to Santa,” she replied straight-faced. My head cocked to the side like a puppy’s when it sees something for the first time. I almost couldn’t believe that she was talking with Santa on the phone but then I remembered the numerous telephone hotlines that would advertise during my cartoons that, for an exorbitant amount of money, would connect you to Santa Claus. It was not completely unfeasible to me that she was talking with Santa Claus when I factored them in. I also remembered having gotten in trouble once for calling some of those numbers without my parents’ permission. On the other hand, from the little that I had gleaned from the conversation, Santa was getting the skinny on the mundane details of our family life. After all, why would my mother tell Santa about her day? If I were talking to the big guy, I would just sit and listen to his tales—for as much as $4.99 a minute.

“If you don’t let me talk to him in peace,” my mother said, “he won’t come by the house this Christmas.”

That was a serious threat. Every year since I had learned the song “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” I would reflect on the fact that I was sometimes naughty in some of the 365 days of the year. From what my mother told me every time I was acting up from November through Christmas Eve, I was on the cusp of receiving coal from the North Pole—and a spanking, of course. Here, though, she told me that all I had to do was allow her to hold a peaceful phone conversation with the man who stood between me and a new bicycle to ensure that my Christmas would be a merry one. I did as I was told, but not before making one last simple request.

“Can I talk to Santa when you’re done, Mom,” I asked.

“Okay, but only if you’re good.”

With that deal, my mother inspired more instantaneous virtue out of me than she could ever have imagined. I sat patiently humming Christmas carols at her feet, waiting for my turn to speak to Santa. A million questions ran through my mind—things I had always wanted to ask him: Why does he live in the North Pole? How does he read all of the letters that children send to him? How does he make so many mall appearances, and why does he always look a little different each time I see him in public? Will I get gifts this year? What about my wicked aunt?

After waiting an eternity, I finally got my turn, and of course, I was blown away when I heard Santa bellow his trademark “Ho, Ho, Ho!” He sounded just as I had expected him to sound. I was thoroughly convinced that I was speaking to him, in fact, so much so that I was too excited to ask any of the questions that had been mulling in my little head while I waited. Instead, he just talked to me.

“Have you been a good boy this year,” Santa asked.

“Yes,” I lied.

“Have you been helpful to your mother and sister and brothers?”

“Yes, Santa.”

“Well, according to my list, you have just a little more good work to do before I can bring you toys,” he said.

“Okay,” I replied. “I’ll be good.”

I felt a sense of urgency and hope. I could save my Christmas but I had to be good, and I knew I could do it if I just tried a little harder. Immediately, I started thinking about the chores that I could do. I thought about being kinder to my sister and brothers—being more obedient to my father. I could take care of the dog and not harass the cat just to get a rise out of him. My head was spinning with the permutations of virtue I needed to accomplish, and I was touched to the core thinking about my conversation with Santa—something I was already prepared to tell all of my friends about. My mother reached for the phone and took it effortlessly from my tiny hands.

“Okay, dad,” she said mindlessly. “I’ll talk to you later.”

The record skipped.

“Dad?”

I knew my mother was a special lady, but there was no chance she was the daughter of Santa Claus. I knew my Santa lore well, and I knew that Mrs. Claus’ womb was as barren as the Sahara. That’s why they kept elves. In a flash, I realized that not only had I not spoken to Santa Claus, but there was no such thing as Santa Claus. It was all a hoax. The magic spell had broken.

I feel a little silly admitting this, but I felt pretty depressed when I learned this fact. My parents will tell you that I was always a skeptical child. I never took anything at face value, so those kinds of elaborate tricks were necessary to solidify my faith. Christmas is to me now, what it has been since I learned that Santa was as grand and as nonexistent as the Wizard of Oz—the celebration of Jesus’ birth.

What is the birth of Jesus compared to His resurrection, though? The resurrection, a magnificent, glorious conquest over sin and death, receives little fanfare in comparison to Jesus’ birthday celebration—an event that is important, but seemingly not as mind-blowing. Besides, I have seen many movies about Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection, but none that culminated in His birth. The hype surrounding Christian holidays, therefore, seems not to be consistent with the theological or historical relevance of the events. In the case of Christmas, the hype is almost purely secular.

So, to my conundrum:

Little Lucy, my daughter, is only 16 months old. She knows God, but not Santa. Should I teach her about Santa, knowing that someday she will learn the truth—perhaps devastatingly by accident?

My wife supports the Santa story, if not only to bribe our daughter to be good for two months at the end of the year, but to also preserve her innocence and childhood. My older brother, a proud father of three children, concurs. He and his wife have perfected the Santa story by referring to him as a spirit. That supernatural explanation explains why Santa can appear at many different malls, in many different depictions, and why Santa can deliver so many gifts worldwide. As his children age, they will discover that Santa is not a physical person but rather a representation of the Christmas Spirit. Clever.

So why would I balk at preserving my daughter’s innocence?

My argument is simply that childhood innocence is mostly overrated. I think about children on the frontier who saw their siblings die from malnourishment. Some saw their mothers die during childbirth. Many braved harsh winters not knowing whether they would live to see another spring. Disease and poor medical standards brought them face to face with death regularly—what innocence did they have? How much more productive were they compared to their descendants who grew up with much more innocence but burned their bras and American flags and embraced selfish ideologies? Does innocence matter?

I have a few years yet to come to a firm conclusion. As a conservative, I err on the side of tradition, but deciding what tradition to look to is the question. Whichever I choose, I will be either making Christmas more or less enjoyable for my daughter, and that will determine whether or not I am a Scrooge and a Grinch.

You are now privy to the Christmas controversy that rages in my home. Should Lucy be a Santa skeptic or true believer?

I look forward to your suggestions.

Article Sources: http://www.northjersey.com/community/religion/Atheists_ad_blitz_calls_Christmas_a_myth.html

Photo Sources: "Grinch" from http://chud.com/nextraimages/GrinchHolyFreakingEvilF.jpg; "Santa Claus Hotline" from http://cbswsoc.files.wordpress.com/2010/12/santa-phone-call.jpg?w=385&h=240; "Jesus' birth" from http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uoWOKDkAAb4/StDTMk2cRNI/AAAAAAAAB30/FxsNJOinH3w/s400/5.+Jesus+birth.jpg; "Pioneers" from http://www.blackpast.org/files/blackpast_images/Black_Pioneers_Roslyn_Washington.jpg