When I was a kid, I hated Santa Claus. I couldn’t stand the idea of his army of elf informers spying on me and judging me all the time. The presents at Christmas just weren’t worth the anxiety that this constant surveillance caused. Fortunately, like most kids, I didn’t give Santa much thought until November of each year. Then I would be filled with dread and foreboding because of the many sins I had committed during the first ten months of the year. Yet, somehow I foiled the spying elves every year and got presents despite being a sinful wretch. Santa helped me get an early start on the path to recrimination and self loathing.
How much better it would have been to realize that the presents came from my parents and that they were gratuitous tokens of their love for me. They were acts of grace. It wasn’t about deserving at all; it was about love. Why ruin that with the Santa myth? After all, Christmas is about Jesus who was all about grace, and the Santa myth seems to pervert the whole spirit of the celebration.
Also, it is a little disturbing to discover that your parents have been lying to you for years.
If I had kids, I wouldn’t do the Santa thing. I would let them know that I love them and that the gifts come from me as love offerings.
My car pool companion claims that Santa is valuable for manipulating his children into obedience for several weeks a year. He has been known to get Santa on the horn to inform on his own children from time to time, and he has found this ploy to be effective. It seems like it sucks to have kids.
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