Santa Claus

Being Santa is not easy.

I've only had the opportunity to don the Santa suit once in my life. I was not prepared for it: physically, mentally or emotionally. All my experiences of Santa occurred in a mall when I was younger. Usually, Santa was sitting in the center of the shopping area. Situated on a throne, usually red, surrounded by bored looking teenagers dressed up in elf costumes, Santa was probably the premier draw for the synagogue of capitalism. Scores of kids would line up for the privilege to sit on the lap of this jolly, obese, octogenarian to ask him to lend his ear to the whimsy of children. For some reason, Santa's throne was always cordoned off with a rope as if families would rush the throne, trampling each other for Santa's boon. I never understood the power of the rope: it's not like kids couldn't just stoop under it (or, for the vertically challenged, walk under it) - but for some reason, that golden cord held the kids at bay whispering animatedly to each other about all the presents that Santa was going to bring them. You could watch them checking their lists - if another kid had a good idea, the child would pull on the sleeve of their impatient parent and ask for a pen to add that special doll or toy to the list. (I'm not even sure if kids ask for dolls or toys anymore. It seems as if they are all asking for technical gadgets or movies?)

So, the elves would carefully take each young boy or girl to the seat of honor - the ever diminishing lap of the red-suited genie. I'm sure that some kids enjoyed the experience, but I don't know if I ever saw one. Most of them were frightened of the outlandishly large beard which obscured the Santa's face ("Does Santa have a mouth?" I heard one child ask) The child was placed on the lap of Santa who almost always had a bit of halitosis. The prerequisite "Ho, Ho, Ho, what would you like for Christmas little..." He would look at the parent who would whisper the child's name "Janie." The child would start to understand that perhaps, just perhaps, this wasn't the same man that lived at the north pole because he knew every child's name - even identical twins, in my case. The child would then rattle off an enormously large list of Christmas gifts that Santa was to pack in his enormously undersized sleigh. The list brought to Santa realistically was a list for the parents who really wanted to know what their children wanted.

Then, after list was spewed out, Santa would inevitably pat the child on the back, promising all sorts of things that no human could keep, and attempt to send the child on her way. Invariably, the child would want to add a few more things to Santa's ear who then would have to employ the slaves, er... the elves as bouncers sending them away from the throne in tears.

It's a tough thing to be Santa.

So, as I began telling a bit before, my connection of being stuffed in the fat suit occurred when I was a senior in college. I had neither white hair, nor the girth to pull it off, but sometimes pillows do wonders. After I had donned the traditional attire of the merry man o' the north, I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. No mouth. This might be a problem. I tried talking but every time I did, I ended up with Santa's beard hair caught between my teeth. It was then that I wondered how many Santas before me had eaten the same hair. Filled with revulsion, I walked sideways out the door and squeezed behind the steering wheel of my 1986 Chevy Cavalier. As I drove to the piano store, I wondered to myself, "What have I gotten myself into?"

My piano teacher in college was a short, willful woman who always liked to be called Doctor. It was much more formal than Suzanne - that was the name for a nurse, or a receptionist - but certainly not a piano teacher. The piano teacher I'd grown up with was Shirley - she was a strict, rote, pedagogical teacher who I actually learned to love greatly after I stopped taking piano lessons from her. Anyway, Doctor had convinced me that I was the special student chosen that year who would be playing the part of 'Accompanist Santa' at a local piano store where local students were having piano recitals. Doctor decided that my personality lent itself well to playing "Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer" at ingloriously slow tempos.

So, I said yes, not because I was particularly enamored with the task, but because it's never wise to say 'no' to piano teachers. It will come back to haunt you.

I drove twenty miles in that stuffed Santa outfit. On the way down, as I waited at stoplights, I did garner a lot of attention. One time, I looked to the left and a little girl was staring at me. I could almost read her mouth as they pulled out in front of me. "Mommy, Daddy, where is his sleigh?" I'd hate to have been in that car for the rest of the drive.

I arrived at the piano store fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. The local piano teachers greeted me at the door with their thanks and appreciation, and, I think, a great sense of amusement that I had been connived into doing the role. The kids arrived later; many of them shrank from fear looking at me. Others were inquisitive: some of the smallest ones were pushed forward by their parents who then came to me and tried to get their lists in first. Mostly, I just stood by the Christmas tree wanting to drink some eggnog but knowing I couldn't because I'd get a hairball from doing so.

The recital started; I took my place at the piano. One by one, the children came forward to sit by me at the piano bench, I on the left and they sitting as far as they could to the right side. Some of them even standing because they really didn't want to sit that close to an icon of epic proportions. Most of them wouldn't even look at me; only one of them started crying. It was a good thing she had the song memorized really well because her whole body was shaking with sobs. While I was playing, I looked around at the director of the store who gave me a frustrated point of the finger and mouthed the words, "Keep playing!"

By the end of the evening I think I had frightened three quarters of the piano students in the Waterloo area and the other twenty-five percent had torn up their lists. Their was no way any of them were going to get close to the piano playing Santa. I stood up, turned around and said, "Ho, Ho, Ho! Merry Christmas!" You'd think I'd said, "I've got a gun and know how to use it!" Everyone seemed to jump a little bit. The children cowered between their parents' legs and the parents stood with kind of a smug disapproval of a twenty-two year old Santa that couldn't seem to connect with kids.

Everyone liked the idea of Santa coming but I don't think they really wanted Santa to be there. The idea of Santa was kind of nice - a well proportioned, happy, old man who wanted to bring gifts to every boy and girl on the planet within a 12 hour time frame. The idea of the aforementioned jolly man sliding down the chimney when everyone was asleep is a nice little myth that we tell our children to appraise them of the situation of why there are dozens more presents under the tree in the morning than when they went to bed. But in reality, no one wants anyone sliding down their chimney (or coming in any other entrance) in the darkness of night. Instead of leaving cookies and milk, most of us would be calling the cops and having Santa brought up on charges of B & E. The idea of Santa is much more appealing than the reality of him actually showing up.

Same with Jesus, I think. Before I get all sorts of theological vitriol about comparing Jesus to the saintly old fellow, let me say this, I don't think Jesus is Santa, but I think some of us view him like that. That Jesus is somehow this cosmic baby that comes at Christmas every year, who we can bring our wish list to and he will deposit them in some way to our lives during the darkness of night. The idea of Jesus is very nice; that Jesus is a nice, peaceful comforter who was sent to this earth to basically provide a buffer between us and his dad - God. You know, because God is the ever angry God who wants to punish - even at Christmas. The idea of Jesus is very nice; a baby we can hold, like that big cartoon figure that holds Bugs bunny and says, "I'm going to hug him and stroke him and call him George."

The idea of Jesus is nice, but the reality is, when Jesus sits on the throne of our hearts, everything else is pushed out of the way. There isn't room selfish ambition, vainglory, pride, ego, lust - you remember the list. When the king sits on the throne, those that come to him must listen. When Jesus says, "Take up your cross and follow me," that doesn't mean - well, maybe tomorrow, or, let me see if I can go to the Christian store and find the smallest cross possible. What it means is, Christ calls us to pick up the cross and die - die to ourselves and let him...

Be born in our hearts again.

At Christmas.

That is not the idea of Jesus - but the reality. The gift of Christmas is not something we hold in our hands but the Spirit of Christ that grows in our hearts.

He is here. Christ has come.

O come let us adore him.



Merry Christmas,

Santa