"The birth story of Jesus is a
joy-filled mystery of truth to be accepted and enjoyed as a whole. It is
not a collection of facts to be picked apart and analyzed. [Accept] its
mysterious truth with trust and expectation."
While surfing through the TV channels last week, I came across a Christmas movie I hadn't seen before. It had already started, so I didn't get the title, but after a few minutes the plot emerged as one of the many seasonal stories about Santa Claus. But this story had a new twist. It seems that the original Santa had aged to the point where he could no longer function, and so elves were dispatched to find a replacement.
They returned with a couple who looked just like Mr. and Mrs. Santa ought to look. Once installed, Santa begins his training at their new home, a toy-filled mansion at the North Pole. Finally, the great day arrives. It is Christmas Eve. Santa is fitted out in his new red suit trimmed with white fur and led by the elves to his sleigh, now filled with toys.
Suddenly the new Santa stops, turns to the elves gathered around the sleigh and says, "But how can I deliver these toys to all the children in one night? It's impossible!" His question was followed by a stunned silence. No one had asked this question before at the North Pole.
By questioning their long-accepted story of faith, the new Santa posed a terrible dilemma for the elves. Indeed, it is a dilemma we all face when we break into and break down stories which were meant to be taken as a whole.
A classic example of this was published last week in the Los Angeles Times. The article noted that if Santa visited just the ninety-two million homes of Christian children, travelling at the speed of sound (650 mph) he would have to make eight hundred and twenty-two visits per second. When you approach the story this way, it just breaks down. It is no longer a joyful children's story of faith and hope, but becomes a collection of implausible facts. It is a lot like taking a box apart. If you disassemble a box, you have a pile of boards, but you will no longer have a box to put things into, to bear what you want it to bear. In the same way, if we pick apart and analyze great stories of faith, they can no longer carry the truth they are meant to bear. Stories like the Santa tale are not problems to be solved, but mysteries to be enjoyed; for only taken as a whole does the story have meaning.
The dilemma in the Santa movie was resolved when the number one elf stepped forward and responded: "When Santa flies, time is eternal, so do not fear. Santa, it will remain Christmas Eve until you finish delivering your gifts." With this reassurance, the new Santa jumps in his sleigh and flies off into the eternal night and into the hearts of children around the world.
What I learned from this delightful movie is a very helpful approach to the Christmas nativity story. The birth story of Jesus is a joy-filled mystery of truth to be accepted and enjoyed as a whole. It is not a collection of facts to be picked apart and analyzed.
We can learn this approach from our children who enter into the Santa story wholeheartedly with trust and expectation. In the same way, we too are to enter into the birth story of Jesus, accepting its mysterious truth with trust and expectation.
I'll close with a lovely family Christmas story which I think sums up what I am saying. It was written by a father who learned a lesson of faith from his seven-year-old son:
In our house it has been the custom for years to open the presents on Christmas morning. We have four children and they make this day a joyous occasion. The younger ones believe in Santa Claus with all their hearts. They know that sometime on Christmas Eve Santa will leave a pack of gifts; that he comes into the living room and distributes them under the tree.
We have a rule that requires that the first child awake on Christmas morning must rouse the rest of the family and it is forbidden to go into the living room where the tree stands until the whole family can enter together.
The Christmas my son David was seven years old, he came down the hall to our bedroom about 4:30 on Christmas morning. His face was radiant with excitement. His speech was going along about ninety miles an hour.
"Daddy! Mother! Daddy! Mother! Get up! Come quick! Come quick!"
We wiped sleep from our eyes. His mother looked at me and I looked at her and we knew what had happened. The rule had been broken; our seven-year-old had discovered the new bicycle that he had been wanting for two years. Somehow we felt cheated and disappointed, but it was Christmas and we didn't scold him.
We got out of bed, put on our robes and slippers. He took us by the hand and led us down the hall. We stopped at the girls' room and they awakened his younger brother, John. Then, with all the family in tow, David led us through the darkened living room to the eastern window. He pointed through the window, oblivious to the bicycle which he had not even noticed under the tree with all the other presents. He pointed his finger to the eastern sky and he exclaimed in hushed tones: "Look, Daddy, the star! See the star! The star of Bethlehem! I've seen the star!"
Amen.
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