An Impossible Possibility

An Impossible Possibility

That night there were shepherds staying in the fields nearby, guarding their flocks of sheep. Suddenly, an angel of the Lord appeared among them, and the radiance of the Lord’s glory surrounded them. They were terrified, but the angel reassured them. “Don’t be afraid!” he said. “I bring you good news that will bring great joy to all people. The Savior — yes, the Messiah, the Lord — has been born today in Bethlehem, the city of David! And you will recognize him by this sign: You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.” Suddenly, the angel was joined by a vast host of others — the armies of heaven — praising God and saying, “Glory to God in highest heaven, and peace on earth to those with whom God is pleased.” When the angels had returned to heaven, the shepherds said to each other, “Let’s go to Bethlehem! Let’s see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.” (Luke 2:8-15)

Some call him Sinterklaas, others Père Noël, or Papa Noël. He’s been known as Hoteiosho, Sonnerklaas, Kanakaloka, Jelly Belly, and to most English speakers, Santa Claus. His original name was Nicholas, which means “victorious.” He was born in AD 280 in present-day Turkey, and was orphaned at the age of nine when his parents died of the plague. Though you’d think that Santa must have majored in toy making and minored in marketing, the original Nicholas actually studied Greek and Christian theology.

He was honored by the Catholic Church by being named the Bishop of Myra in the early fourth century, and held that post until his death on December 6, 343. And although history has recognized him as a saint, he was actually a bit of a troublemaker. He was jailed twice – once by the Emperor Diocletian for religious reasons, and the other for slugging a fellow bishop during a fiery religious debate at the First Council of Nicaea. So much for that naughty and nice stuff, I guess.

Old Nick never married. But that’s not to say he wasn’t a romantic at heart. He was best known for the kindness he showed a poor neighbor who was unable to provide dowries for his three daughters. So one night, Old Saint Nick slipped up to his neighbor’s house and dropped a handful of gold coins through the window so that the eldest daughter could afford to get married. Later, he repeated this act on two other nights for the remaining daughters, as well. The gold coins, it appears, came from the inheritance he received upon his wealthy parents’ passing, who’d encouraged Nicholas, as a young boy, to respond to Jesus’ words to “sell what you have and give to the poor.” This story, then, became the seed that, when watered with the centuries, became the Santa legend. Every generation since has adorned it with another ornament, until the legend today sparkles brighter than a Christmas tree.

For instance, the gift grew from a handful of coins to bags of coins. Instead of dropping them through the window, he dropped them down the chimney. And rather than landing on the floor, the bags of coins landed in the girls’ stockings, which were hanging on the hearth to dry. The centuries have also been as good to Nicholas’ image as to his deeds. Not only have his acts been embellished, but his wardrobe and personality have undergone a pretty remarkable transformation as well.

As Bishop of Myra, he wore the traditional ecclesiastical robes and a mitered hat. He was known to have been slim, sporting a dark beard to go along with his very serious personality. By 1300, however, he was wearing a white beard. Then, by the early 1800’s he was depicted with a rotund belly and an ever-present basket of food over his arm. A little later came the black boots, a red cape and a cheery stocking on his head. In the late nineteenth century his basket of food became a sack of toys. In 1866 he was small and gnomish, but by 1930 he was a robust six-footer with rosy cheeks and a taste for a Coke.

Santa reflects the desires of people all over the world. With the centuries, he’s become the composite of what we all seem to want: a friend who cares enough to travel a long way against all odds to bring good gifts to good people. A sage who, though aware of each act, has a way of rewarding the good and overlooking the bad. A friend of children who never gets sick, and never grows old. A father who lets you sit on his lap and share your deepest desires.

Santa. The culmination of what we want in a hero. The personification of our passions. The expression of our yearnings. The fulfillment of our desires. And yet . . . the betrayer of our meager expectations. Because Santa can’t provide what we really need. For one thing, he’s only around once a year. When January winds chill our souls, he’s history. When December’s requests become February’s payments, Santa’s left the mall. When April demands taxes, or May brings final exams, Santa’s still months from his next visit. And should July find us ill, or October find us alone, we can’t go to his chair for comfort — it’s empty because he only comes once a year. And when he comes, though he gives much, he doesn’t take much away. He doesn't take away the riddle of the grave, the burden of mistakes, or the anxiety of demands. He’s kind and quick and cute; but when it comes to healing hurts — don’t go to Santa.

Now, I don’t mean to be a Scrooge, and I’m not trying to slam the jolly old fellow. I’m just reminded that, as a people, we’re pretty timid when it comes to designing our legends. Frankly, you’d think we could do better. You’d think that over seventeen centuries we’d develop a hero who’d resolve those fears. But we can’t. As a people, we’ve made many heroes – from Martin Luther King to John Fitzgerald Kennedy; Lincoln to Lindbergh; Socrates to Superman. We give it the best we can, every benefit of every doubt, and every supernatural strength. And, for a brief, shining moment, we have the hero we need — the king who can actually deliver Camelot. But then the truth leaks out, the facts surface amid the fiction, and the chinks in the armor begin to appear. And we realize that our heroes, as noble as they may have been, and as courageous as they were, were conceived in the same stained society in which we live. Except One.

There was One who claimed to come from a different place. There was One who, though He had the appearance of a man, claimed to have the origin of God. There was One who, while wearing the face of a Jew, had the image of the Creator. Those who saw Him — really saw Him — knew there was something different about Him. At His touch blind beggars saw. At His command crippled legs walked. At His embrace empty lives filled with vision.

He fed thousands with one basket. He stilled a storm with one command. He raised the dead with one proclamation. He changed lives with one request. He rerouted the history of the world with one life. He lived in one country, was born in one manger, and died on one hill. And after three years of ministry, hundreds of miles, thousands of miracles and innumerable teachings, Jesus asks, “Who?” Jesus asks us to ponder not what He has done but who He is. It’s the ultimate question of the Christ: Whose Son is He? Is He the Son of God, or the sum of our dreams? Is He the force of creation, or a figment of our imagination?

When we ask that question about Santa, the answer is that he’s the culmination of our desires; a depiction of our fondest dreams. But not so when we ask it about Jesus. Because no one could ever dream a person as incredible as He. The idea that a virgin would be selected by God to bear Himself... The notion that God would have a crop of hair, ten toes and two eyes... The thought that the King of the universe would sneeze and burp and get bitten by mosquitoes... It’s just too incredible. It’s too revolutionary. We would never create such a Savior because we aren’t that daring.

When we create a redeemer, we keep him safely distant in his faraway castle. We allow him only the briefest of encounters with us. We permit him to swoop in and out with his sleigh before we can draw too near. And we wouldn’t ever ask him to take up residence in the midst of a contaminated world. In our wildest imaginings we wouldn’t conjure up a king who becomes one of us. But God did.

God did what we wouldn’t dare dream. He did what we couldn’t imagine. He became a man so we could trust Him. He became a sacrifice so we could know Him. And He defeated death so we could follow Him. But it defies logic. It’s a divine insanity; a holy incredibility. Only a God beyond systems and common sense could create a plan so absurd. Yet, it’s the very impossibility of it all that makes it possible. The wildness of the story is its strongest witness. For only a God could create a plan this crazy. Only a Creator beyond the fence of logic could offer such a gift of love. What man can’t do, God does.

So this Christmas, when it comes to goodies and candy, cherub cheeks and red noses, go to Santa. But when it comes to eternity, forgiveness, purpose and truth, go to the manger. Kneel with the shepherds. Worship the God who dared to do what man dared not dream.

An impossible possibility? Not for God – with whom all things are possible. (Matt. 19:26)

Merry Christmas!

Randy