St Nicholas paid his annual visit to St George Church last night. All the children left their shoes outside our new chapel (which is dedicated to St Elizabeth the Mother of the Forerunner), while we prayed the Akathist. Bags of chocolate gold coins somehow found their way into the footware. Here’s a picture of me and the culprit.
The following edited repost is from a couple years back …
Back in 1997 our daughter came home from day care and informed us that her class wasn’t doing just one Christmas that year. Rather, they were going to be celebrating many holidays. Upon further inquiry we found that her class, she was 3 at the time, was going to be studying Christmas, Hanukkah and Kwanzaa — never mind that there were no practitioners of either of the latter faith traditions in her day care class. We reacted by pulling her out of day care. [The good news is she was home schooled from that point until 4th grade.]
When she was coming of “Santa age,” we decided that, though it was the practice of our families, we weren’t going to do the Santa thing. Besides, back then we were in the Russian Church Abroad, therefore on the “old calendar,” and it didn’t make much since. To complicate matters further, our parish was named St Nicholas and we already had a “visit” with presents from our patron each year on his Feast, December 6/19.
Back in 2002, when my son was 4, we were doing last minute shopping in the mall on December 23rd. As we rested by a fountain, he saw the Mall Santa at a distance and said, “Dad, can I go talk to him?” “Basil, I thought you didn’t believe in Santa,” I replied. He said, “Dad, I don’t. I just wanna go talk to him.” I told him to look at how long the line was and reminded him that we didn’t have much time and were just sitting there waiting on mom and the girls. When the said party arrived, I no sooner exchanged news with them — a mere moment, mind you — when someone asked, “Where’s Basil?” Immediately my eyes shot toward the great line of people and, sure enough, there near the back of the 50 people or so was a little four year old boy. So, we let him. I went and waited with him. “No,” I told them, “we don’t want a picture.” He eventually got to sit on the old man’s lap. That’s about the time their camera/computer equipment broke. As they worked to repair it — for about 20 minutes — Basil sat right there and talked to Santa. No harm done, everyone went home satisfied, except maybe the old man.
The following year, on the eve of St Nicholas Feast, we were having Vespers in the church. Basil was serving in the altar and he asked if I thought St Nicholas had visited St John’s [fellowship hall] Building yet. Having replied that I did not know, and though freezing rain and sleet was falling, he asked if he could go check. I’ll never forget the sight of my 5 year old son eagerly and expectantly running up the stairs through inclement weather to peer into a building to see if a Saint had yet visited with presents.
A week later we found ourselves traveling to visit my father on, as we said as kids, “Christmas Eve eve,” December 23rd [or as some friends call it: “Christmas Adam” (as in, Adam comes before Eve)]. Our dinner was interrupted by the headlights of a car’s arrival. “Who’s that?” I asked. My dad said, “I don’t know. Basil, go to the door.” I was a little uncomfortable with my son being sent to answer a strange door … when in walked the best looking Santa I had ever seen. I swear to you for a moment I was a kid again. A grown man had a “Miracle on 34th Street” moment. I almost wept. This Santa knew all about my kids. He knew their names — all our names — and family trivia. He had wonderful answers to their questions about Rudolph and the other reindeer. His white hair & beard, costume, red cheeks, twinkling eyes … all came together to make me feel like a cad for ever doubting. When finally he approached me he said, “Howdy cuz” with a wink and a smile. Danged if I wasn’t just plain confused from that point on.
[Later in the evening, after Santa’s exit, my dad explained to me that the man was indeed a cousin of mine who played Santa during the season.]
Okay, so I’m a hypocrite. At least, given what I’m about to say, some might accuse me of such. Those who know me know I ain’t much on Halloween. I never was much on Halloween, even as a kid. It seemed a bit odd to me that perfectly normal devil-hating church folks would go all out, once a year, to root for the other side. But, that’s just me.
Then, I’m hip on Santa.
You see, I SAW Santa. Really, I did! Back when I was young. This is one of those impossible memories. Here’s the way my mind — you know, the REAL mind where anything’s possible — tells it …
I was asleep on the couch, having dozed off out in the den on Christmas Eve. The only “vision” I had was of his back — red outfit, white trim — as he passed by my sleeping self. The most unbelievable part of the memory is: I went back to sleep.
Why is this impossible? Well, I never fell asleep on the couch, staying through the night, on Christmas Eve. I mean, what? I wake up and there are all the presents (before the time)? My parents would actually leave me there? On Christmas Eve?
Notice the proofs given do not include: Santa don’t exist. Nope.
I know, I know. I’m an Orthodox priest and there’s others of my stripe — even my pal, Frederica — who hold a contrary view of the man. But try as I might, I can’t … I won’t, I say! … let go.
I still have a visceral reaction when I see a “good Santa” — you know, the ones with a real beard, real gut, real red cheeks, real joy. You know, real. I can’t help it. It gives me hope. I become a kid again. The kid with memories that, I guess, can’t be proved. You know, real memories.
I did go through a period, don’t we all, where I tried to be anti-Santa. Then God allowed me to start a Mission named St Nicholas. Well, dang. Ain’t that the way? I ended up giving in. I’ve repented. But even during that rebellion, if ever I saw a “good one,” I knew — hypocrite or no — I knew!
I hate the shopping. I hate the frivolous debt. I hate supporting Communist China. I hate the extended commercial season. I hate the styles, the driving, the lack of sleep, the over nourishment.
But I cannot help but be touched by the magic. Somewhere along the line, every year, it touches me. No, no, no. I don’t mean Santa magic. He’s just an image of it. No. I mean the magic that makes steeples look brighter, loved ones look lovelier, hearts seem bigger, and homes seem warmer. I mean the magic that makes the impossible possible.
At this point, even I am wondering … okay, ain’t it time you said something about Jesus?
Well, I don’t know how to say this without sounding hokey but, forgive me … here goes … to my mind at least, I just did.
As a Patriarch once said, “[Christmas] … the day when God bent down and kissed the earth.” And somewhere along the line, in the midst of the madness of the season, we are confronted with another question: What am I to do about it? May we, like Our Lady, the Shepherds, the Maji, and all the Saints before us answer the question. Our answer, our conviction — our confession — is a prerequisite for our worship.
Venite, adoramus Dominum!
Here’s hoping that you and yours all become like kids again — and soon.
Oh, and St Nicholas?
— Pray to God for us!
