Yes, Church, there is a
Santa Claus. No, he may not look and act like you think. But he
does exist; don't let anyone tell you different. Santa Claus is
real. But he may not look like you think. Take away the sleigh and
his eight tiny reindeer. Get rid of the boots and the fur suit.
Shrink that belly that shakes like a bowl full of jelly. Ditch the
cheeks like roses and the nose like a cherry. Turn back the clock,
from Santa Claus to Sinter Klaas to where it all started: St.
Nicholas. Not a “jolly old elf.” Not a personification of the
holiday, like some “Father Christmas.” A saint, a real man,
anchored in history, with a birthday, a family, a story, different
than what we've done with him.
The truth is, the man on
the Christmas cards in the big red suit would be horrified to learn
that there are people who honor him, or some version of him, as the
central figure of Christmas. He would be aghast to think that anyone
would pit him against Jesus Christ and tell you to choose him as a
nice, safe, secular Christmas man. The real Santa Claus would hate
that thought. He didn't want to stand in our spotlight, not like
that. The holiday isn't about him, and he'd be the first to tell you
that. He may be nice, maybe, but he's not safe and he's not secular.
Santa Claus versus Christ? No falser words could ever be said!
Because the truth is,
Santa Claus is a pastor. Yes, you heard that right. Santa Claus is
a pastor. And dear old Pastor Nicholas, our Jolly Old St. Nick,
loved Jesus – loved him
with every fiber of his being – and he still does. Santa's entire
life has been about serving Jesus. He would run like Dasher, he'd
fly like Donner and Blitzen, to kneel beside the manger. Santa says
that the most important thing you can do with Christmas is to see
that it's all about Jesus and act accordingly.
As we get ready for
Christmas, Santa himself would want us to serve Jesus. So for the
next few weeks, we're going to give Santa Claus a fair hearing.
We're going to learn his story – the real one, not Germanic
folklore or Clement Clark Moore's poem – to see better how we, too,
can serve Jesus – like Santa did.
To find the start of that
real story, we need to cross nearly 1750 years of time and a third of
the way 'round the earth. Way across the ocean blue, on the
southwestern tip of the land we call Turkey today, sat a once-great
city called Patara. It stood there in New Testament times – the
Apostle Paul, on his trip back to Jerusalem, changed ships there. It
was one of the great trade centers of Lycia, famed for two things.
One: it had a stunning lighthouse. And two: for six months out of
the year, the Greek god Apollo made his winter home there, and so the
local oracle was the place pagans went to get the inside scoop. It
was a thoroughly pagan place, in Paul's time.
And the same was still
true over two centuries later, when there lived a man and his wife,
their names unknown, who were one of the town's few Christian
households. They weren't quite so vulnerable as some of the rest;
they, in fact, were rather wealthy. They'd prospered, possibly as
ship owners or being otherwise involved in the trades. They could
have let their gold, their silver, their house and all that was in
it, distract them from what really mattered. But they didn't.
They'd made a commitment to Jesus Christ with their lives, and they
didn't shy away from that.
They lived in the middle
of a pagan city, full of idol temples and the smell of heathen
sacrifices, with pilgrims swarming in half the year to get advice
from demons at the oracle. It was not an easy place to be a
Christian. The gospel was not a comfortable fit there, the way we
too easily think it is here. And you almost wouldn't blame people in
a place like that for deciding they didn't want to bring children
into that sort of world.
But they had faith. And
so one day, around the year 270, that man and that woman welcomed
into their family one child – one, and no more. He broke the mold,
as it were. And this couple gave him a rather unusual name – well,
it was unusual then; but the boy grew up to make it popular. And
that name was Nikolaos. It's
a Greek name; it means, “victory of the people.” When his
parents surveyed the pagan culture all around them, when they
reflected on the growth of their little church as it waxed and waned
through the years, they were convinced that the real victory wasn't
in some great triumph of Caesar, nor in some twist of fortune, nor in
some whispered secret of Apollo, nor in a windfall of prosperity.
No, the real victory was belief in the gospel. And the gospel is for
all people. One day, it would spread throughout Patara and
throughout all of Lycia and beyond, and that would be the real
victory of the people. And so, faithful in hope for that day, thus
they named their baby boy Nikolaos.
Nikolaos didn't necessarily have an easy childhood. His parents were
relieved he survived infancy – not that there was anything wrong
with him, but just because, in those days, one out of every two or
three kids didn't pull through. He grew up in the lap of privilege,
with most all the luxuries his parents could afford. He was raised
on a diet of fish, grapes, figs, olives, and whatever grains the
ships brought to and fro. Most important, he was raised on a healthy
spiritual diet. His isn't a story of coming to the gospel late in
life; he was taught the faith from an early age. And as far back as
anyone could remember, he had a laser-like focus on the Christian
life and its ways.
In
the days of his childhood, no one heard the word 'church' and thought
of a building. 'Church' – ekklesia
– just meant the people, the people of God. It had been passed
down from the New Testament, and really, it was – and is – a bold
word to use. See, in the Greek world, an ekklesia
was the town council, the assembly of citizens empowered
to make all the important political decisions. The apostles said
that that's what the meetings of believers were – they were the
true centers of all local politics that really mattered, the politics
of God's kingdom. A shocking thing to hear, and still shocking in
the days of Nikolaos' childhood, when the local ekklesia
looked a bit like a very strange social club and met in private
houses – maybe even his parents' house.
And from little on up, whether at his house or a neighbor's, Nikolaos
would have met with other Christians each Sunday before sunrise, and
maybe sometimes after nightfall, for worship, for fellowship, and for
celebrating a holy meal of bread and wine. Sometimes, they met
outside town at the local cemetery, to remember the martyrs – not
martyrs from long ago, but people they and their parents had known.
Like Leo, who had been one of their own – Nikolaos' parents surely
knew him personally – but one day, before Nikolaos was born, Leo
grew angry at the paganism in the heart of town. So he marched into
the heart of the city, to the Temple of Fortune, where people burned
candles and made little votive offerings to the god in hopes of
improving their luck. And Leo had stormed into the temple, smashing
the offerings and toppling candles, in protest. And so he lost his
head. It was his tomb where Nikolaos and his parents went, every
year on the anniversary of Leo's heavenly birthday, to celebrate
communion in his honor.
While the fellowship of believers raised Nikolaos in the teachings of
the faith and the way Christians should live, he meanwhile got the
best schooling his parents could provide. Like most boys, he went
through primary schooling between the ages of seven and twelve; but
unlike most, he as a son of privilege learned the classics of Greek
literature, all the myths and plays and epics, in grammar school
until he was about eighteen.
Growing up in his teenage years, with
his peers enjoying entertainment at the theater and various other
then-sordid sorts of amusement, Nikolaos could have been tempted,
like most teens are. But his parents had warned him from his infancy
not to be seduced by the temptations of the world. And he listened
to all that they taught him, choosing to live his young life in a
Christian way. He was determined to be holy.
But then his idyllic and privileged home life was shattered.
Throughout his youth, a plague had spread throughout the countryside
of all Lycia, reaching even down to the coast and its beautiful,
broad beaches. Plagues don't care about rich or poor. You can't
bribe them. And the best medicine money can buy is no guarantee even
now – how much less then, when doctors were as likely to harm as to
heal? Maybe the plague is what did it. But we know that, when
Nikolaos was in his late teens, his parents' earthly pilgrimage
ended. Leaving him, in terms of natural family, all alone.
And that's how, as a young man, Nikolaos became the heir of the whole
estate. He may have been fatherless, he may have been motherless,
but he was far from penniless. He had plenty of gold, plenty of
silver, and plenty of property at his disposal. But his parents were
gone. So what would he do? How would he find his way in the world?
He could do just about anything he wanted – but what was right?
Those were the questions on his mind at the ripe age of eighteen.
Think back for a moment to when you were that age. If you had been
left alone, but given a considerable fortune, what would your next
step have been?
Well,
I'll tell you how Nikolaos responded. He remembered that, even with
no father on earth, he still had a Father in heaven. And so Nikolaos
began, all throughout this day and the next day and the day after
that, to get down on his knees and pray. He told God that he and his
life and all his belongings were at God's disposal, and he was ready
to do whatever God wanted.
And then he turned to one of his family's
prize possessions – a scroll or a codex, with the Greek translation
of Psalms. And he started to read aloud to himself, in the privacy
of his home. And he started finding lines like, “Make
me know the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul. … Teach
me to do your will, for you are my God”
(Psalm 143:8, 10). And that's exactly what he began to pray.
And
then young Nikolaos kept reading. “If
riches increase, set not your heart on them”
(Psalm 62:10). Those words got him thinking. His riches had
certainly increased. He had more than he knew what to do with. But
he couldn't afford to surrender his heart to them. He couldn't
afford to be tied to his gold. He had to keep wealth at a healthy
distance. It said so, right there on the page, in those words penned
by David over a thousand years ago. Nikolaos could have dismissed it
as irrelevant, as a relic from a simpler time. But he knew better.
He felt God speaking the words to his heart, probing at the depths of
his soul.
Nikolaos
set aside the Book of Psalms, and he picked up what comes next: the
Book of Proverbs. And there, too, he began to read. “Let
not mercy and truth forsake you, but bind them around your neck: so
shall you find favor and honest things in the sight of the Lord and
of men”
(Proverbs 3:3-4). “A
merciful man does good to his own soul”
(Proverbs 11:17). There it was again. 'Mercy.' Nikolaos could feel
God underlining that word to him. What does 'mercy' look like?
Nikolaos
kept reading. “God
loves a cheerful giver. … He that has pity on the poor shall be
maintained, for he has given of his own bread to the poor”
(Proverbs 22:8-9). There! That's mercy! Mercy is care for the poor
– not out of some public storehouse, but from his own sustenance,
his own bread, to care for the poor cheerfully by giving to them.
That's mercy!
Nikolaos read onward: “Deliver
them that are led away to death, and redeem them that are appointed
to be slain”
(Proverbs 24:11). Nikolaos understood what God was telling him.
Some of the poverty he saw around him led to death – not just death
of the body, but death of the soul. And it was right there in the
scriptures: God wanted Nikolaos to use his wealth to rescue the
poorest of the poor.
Some of the most respected Christians of the age, like the desert
hermit Antony far away in Egypt, had once been as rich as Nikolaos.
But they had given away all their wealth to all and sundry – not
being intentional in their giving, just getting it out of their hands
like a lump of burning coal. Nikolaos didn't want to burn his hands
with money either, but he wasn't the impulsive type. He'd read the
whole way through. He wanted his giving to matter – to actually do
good, and in fact to do the most good it could. He wanted to obey
God's word in the best way – intentional, targeted, personal
giving. And to do that, he needed to plan and study.
There are probably dozens or hundreds of now-forgotten stories about
people whom Nikolaos found to give his money to. But one story has
been remembered ever since. There was a man in the neighborhood who
had once been rich – in the same class as Nikolaos and his parents,
maybe. But things had taken a turn for the worse. He lost
everything. And I mean everything. It was a catastrophe ripped from
the pages of the Book of Job. And that man – formerly inclined
toward the church – was desperate. Maybe he'd turned to pagan
promises, maybe he'd taken offerings to the Temple of Fortune and
cried out with tear-stained cheeks for relief. But he got none.
This man had three daughters. In the custom of that day, it was the
dad's responsibility to provide his daughter with a dowry, in order
to marry her off. But now he was poor. So poor that none of his
daughters could have a dowry; he just couldn't afford it. And no man
in town would marry a woman without one. His daughters were
unmarriageable, pretty though they were.
He struggled to even put
food on the table for himself, let alone to provide for them. And
there weren't a lot of options. He first did what a lot of us do
when times are tough, sad to say: feeling abandoned, he turned his
back on God. But then he made plans to do what a lot of us don't and
can't. He would send his daughters to work the only work a single
young woman really had back then – in the red-light district.
Somehow, Nikolaos found out what that family was going through. He
watched the situation. He saw that it was important. Marriage is
important. Nikolaos felt called to a different life personally –
he knew that it wasn't in God's plan for him to ever get married.
But that didn't mean marriage didn't matter. A lot of Christians in
those days were starting to think it didn't. Some were adopting some
really dysfunctional ideas against marriage – thinking that it was
just a hindrance to spiritual life, and should be avoided. But
Nikolaos knew better. He could see that marriage was important to
God, even if it wasn't his own path.
But it was important, too, because if the man went through with his
desperate act, it would lead to death. Not death of the body, but
death of the soul, for him and maybe his daughters, too. Nikolaos
began to plan. He made his list, his list of important things to
value in the situation. He wanted to find a way to save these young
women from that fate and meet their needs. But he also wanted to
preserve their father's dignity and honor. Nikolaos knew that was
important, too – not to embarrass the man or put him in awkward and
humiliating circumstances; not to demean the man or treat him as just
another charity case.
So, too, Nikolaos wanted to keep himself humble. He didn't want
praise and honor for anything he might do to help. He remembered
what Jesus said about giving in secret (Matthew 6:1-4). That was
countercultural in that era, and especially among Greeks. Secret
giving just wasn't something people did. If you gave to somebody
outside the family, the whole point was to get a good reputation out
of it. That was the trade: money for honor. It's why the rich
sponsored so many public works projects: to see their names inscribed
and celebrated for all generations to come. That was just the norm,
even in Patara. But it wasn't what Jesus taught. And to Nikolaos,
when culture and Jesus collide, it's culture that has to bend.
However long he mulled over the plan, finally Nikolaos sprang into
action, before it was too late. One night, long after dark, he found
the house of the family in trouble. Stealthily, he crept as close as
he could on the public street. From his pocket, Nikolaos pulled a
small bag. Back home, he'd stuffed it with all the gold it could
take without bursting, and he'd tied the string tight. And now, in
the midnight hour, he pulled back his arm and let it fly – fly, fly
through the open window and into the man's house. Whether it
disturbed those asleep inside, we don't know – but Nikolaos wasn't
about to risk finding out. He quickly and quietly ran through the
night until he was home.
Dawn came, and that father found the bag. And when he untied it, and
saw the gold coins pouring out, he was astonished. Not just
astonished – he was filled with joy and amazement. And as he wept
with delight, he called out to God and gave thanks for the incredible
provision. And he counted out the coins, and saw that it would make
a fine dowry indeed. And without delay, he made arrangements for his
eldest daughter's marriage – that meant a good life for her, and
one less mouth to feed for him, and spared both of them from doing
harm to their own souls.
After the wedding, Nikolaos saw that God had taken his good deed and
used it to bless the family. So later that night, Nikolaos filled
another bag with just as much gold. And what he'd done before, he
did again: crept out in the night, took aim, tossed the bag through
the window, ran home. Morning came, and the father saw the bag. He
never expected it – not again. But it knocked him off his feet.
He fell prostrate on the ground, overwhelmed and speechless, but
grateful to God and wishing only that he could find out what angel
God had sent to answer his unspoken prayers.
The father made arrangements for his middle daughter's marriage. And
some night soon after the wedding ceremony, Nikolaos filled a third
bag with coins of gold. He tied it tight. He crept once more
through the night, during the quietest of hours. And there was the
open window once again. He pulled back his arm. And there's the
toss! The bag sailed through the air, through the window, and landed
with a soft crash. But it did not, as before, go unnoticed. No,
each night since the wedding, the father had kept vigil, waiting up
and listening carefully for that sound.
And so he was ready. He
pounced into the street and ran after Nikolaos, whose efforts to flee
were unsuccessful. The father caught up to him, grabbed him by the
arm, spun him around, saw his face – and recognized him. He knew
Nikolaos, knew why he did it – he knew it was because Nikolaos
loved Jesus and wanted to serve Jesus and do his will. And as the
father fell to the ground and hugged Nikolaos by the legs and thanked
him with great sobs, Nikolaos asked only one thing: to promise not to
tell the public for as long as he lived. And so the father agreed.
His youngest daughter was married soon thereafter, poverty was
relieved, and they all returned to the faith of Jesus Christ.
This is maybe the most famous story from Nikolaos' life. It takes up
about a third of his earliest biography. It shows up in art from
some of the earliest portrayals of St. Nick we have. As the story
kept being retold, it mutated and changed. In some versions, the
bags of gold landed in the girls' shoes or stockings. And as the
story spread to northern Europe, it came to climates where open
windows at night just didn't connect with people. And so somebody
tweaked the story even more as they retold it. It wasn't through an
open window that the bags flew; no, no, the window wasn't open –
the bags fell down a chimney. And ever since then, Santa in the
public mind has sent his bag of presents down the chimney to bless
all the children of the house.
The
title of this series is, “Serve Jesus Like Santa.” And now we
know what Santa did. The great thing about this story is that you
don't need miraculous powers to imitate it. You don't even need to
be as wealthy as he was then. You don't need great age or lots of
life experience. You just need the desire to obey God and a
willingness to take your own resources, the money of your own bread,
and use it for mercy to those in distress – those in danger, not
just of physical harm, but of being pressured into spiritual harm.
It may take some thinking. But that's why we're together as a
church, as the ekklesia
here. And it's why we partner with groups like The Factory Ministries and the Together Initiative. None of us has to do it
alone. We, too, can bless the children, and the rest, in this place
– our Patara – where God has seen fit to raise us up. That's
serving Jesus like Santa. And this season is surely about nothing
less. Go and, as his Spirit makes clear to you, do likewise. Amen.