I have in my possession an old newspaper clipping. It's from 1963. At the top of the article are twelve black and white photographs of some first graders of Elkhorn Elementary School. Just beneath the pictures is a story about the opinions that these first graders have about Santa Claus.
My picture is right there - including the requisite buzz haircut and the missing front teeth.
One day during school, Mrs. White called some of us forward and ask us to visit with a reporter. One by one, the reporter asked us about our views of Santa. As first graders, we were wise beyond our years. We knew all about Santa - and we were thrilled to share our wisdom with the world. Most of my fellow students talked about what Santa looked like and how he accomplished his herculean task of delivering all those toys in a single night.
But I took a different approach.
In fact, I was the only one in the group who questioned the very existence of Santa. "Parents give gifts," is the quote just beneath my picture. The words in the article, however, provide a more nuanced explanation. Evidently, I assured the reporter that parents give the gifts under Santa's name. But then I thoughtfully added this: "I plan on writing Santa a letter just to make sure that's an accurate understanding of the situation."
My equivocation is easy to understand. When I was very little, my dad put white footprints (made from powder) on the rug in front of the fireplace. He said that those footprints belonged to Santa. I was utterly convinced that there was a way that he could get up and down the chimney. In later years, my dad would have a friend call us on the phone and say that he was Santa. The voice always sounded familiar, like somebody we knew from church. But he said that he was Santa and was just checking up on us. Every year, he wanted to know if we had been naughty or nice. My older sister, I think, believed in Santa until she was in junior high school. Clearly, we had a pretty strong grounding in the Santa tradition. So calling that into question, especially as a six-year-old, was no easy step for me. Even as I did that, I wanted to leave room for every possibility. I mean - if there was any chance that Santa really did exist and if he really did give the gifts, why risk offending him unnecessarily?
Completely true to my upbringing, I told the truth - and I acknowledged the possibility that I could be wrong. That is pretty much the pattern for my entire life.
At the time, it seemed like a clever approach. I would deny Santa's existence - even as I wrote him a letter to make sure that I was right about that. It's kind of pointless to make fun of my first-grade self, but I see how silly that is now. The lack of logic never dawned on me when I was six. I thought it was simply a way to cover every base. I had a conviction, but I didn't want to be dogmatic about it. I was never the kid who ran around and spoiled Christmas for all the other kids by telling them that Santa didn't exist. In fact, I was pretty quiet about my views - and only shared them because the reporter asked.
It's funny, but I've used that same kind of argument as I've tried to share my faith in God over the years. I've met lots of people who are pretty sure that God doesn't exist. And when I meet somebody like that, I playfully suggest that they simply ask him if he's there. And I know that it's silly to have a conversation with somebody who doesn't exist. On the other hand, it's amazing how often God answers a question like that.
Now that I think about it, it's not a bad way to live. To say exactly what we think . . . but, even then, to acknowledge the possibility that we could be wrong. That works with our views about Santa. And it works, too, with our views about God.
Today, I'm pretty sure that parents give gifts. But I think I'll write Santa a letter just to make sure.
My equivocation is easy to understand. When I was very little, my dad put white footprints (made from powder) on the rug in front of the fireplace. He said that those footprints belonged to Santa. I was utterly convinced that there was a way that he could get up and down the chimney. In later years, my dad would have a friend call us on the phone and say that he was Santa. The voice always sounded familiar, like somebody we knew from church. But he said that he was Santa and was just checking up on us. Every year, he wanted to know if we had been naughty or nice. My older sister, I think, believed in Santa until she was in junior high school. Clearly, we had a pretty strong grounding in the Santa tradition. So calling that into question, especially as a six-year-old, was no easy step for me. Even as I did that, I wanted to leave room for every possibility. I mean - if there was any chance that Santa really did exist and if he really did give the gifts, why risk offending him unnecessarily?
Completely true to my upbringing, I told the truth - and I acknowledged the possibility that I could be wrong. That is pretty much the pattern for my entire life.
At the time, it seemed like a clever approach. I would deny Santa's existence - even as I wrote him a letter to make sure that I was right about that. It's kind of pointless to make fun of my first-grade self, but I see how silly that is now. The lack of logic never dawned on me when I was six. I thought it was simply a way to cover every base. I had a conviction, but I didn't want to be dogmatic about it. I was never the kid who ran around and spoiled Christmas for all the other kids by telling them that Santa didn't exist. In fact, I was pretty quiet about my views - and only shared them because the reporter asked.
It's funny, but I've used that same kind of argument as I've tried to share my faith in God over the years. I've met lots of people who are pretty sure that God doesn't exist. And when I meet somebody like that, I playfully suggest that they simply ask him if he's there. And I know that it's silly to have a conversation with somebody who doesn't exist. On the other hand, it's amazing how often God answers a question like that.
Now that I think about it, it's not a bad way to live. To say exactly what we think . . . but, even then, to acknowledge the possibility that we could be wrong. That works with our views about Santa. And it works, too, with our views about God.
Today, I'm pretty sure that parents give gifts. But I think I'll write Santa a letter just to make sure.