Live Not By Lies

 We're still learning how to be Catholics. And sometimes we don't always get the memo.

As a convert to the faith, I have few religious traditions that were intentionally handed down to me as a child. Meanwhile all of our good Catholic friends seem to be steeped in them, from Jesse trees to putting out the shoes on the feast of St. Nicholas to various other traditions. We just got an advent wreath and candles this year. Better late than never, I suppose.

To boot, my wife and I also inherited a lot of secular "things you just do" as part of the season. Truth be told, there is a part of me that just wants to be in a cave somewhere this time of year to focus on the "reason for the season." But instead, I'm heading to my sister in laws for a dinner feast on Christmas Eve (when we should be fasting), having to run into Giant to search for the green peas we forgot at home, fighting traffic, and tiredly wrapping presents. I've grown to hate "the season" for these reasons, which in turn makes me feel guilty since it's supposed to be about peace, hope, and joy. 

One secular tradition we never gave much thought about but bequeathed to our children was the idea of Santa Claus. They leave out cookies for "Santa" (and carrots for his reindeer), and some presents are "from Santa", replete with different labels, handwriting, and wrapping paper. Of course, for us as parents, "Santa" is our Christmas altar ego--whether he is man, myth, or legend I do not know. All I know is my kids have bought into it all.

But something went awry this year. I suspect it was a wrapping paper mix up, but somehow my nine year old daughter put two and two together and discovered in tears, that "Santa wasn't real." She wasn't angry, she wasn't distraught--she was simply sad. My wife and I stood over her as she showed us how the jig was up, feeling like our hearts were breaking into a thousand pieces. Not because of the Santa thing per se, or even the loss of childhood innocence waking up to the idea that "it's all bullsh*t." 

Mostly, we realize we had been culpable for misleading and perpetuating an untruth, and our child was now suffering for it. We were "cut to the heart" as it said of the Jews in Acts. 

From an early age, I made a personal commitment to always tell the truth. This was partly pragmatic, since it made my life easier in some ways because I didn't have to remember to keep stories straight; eschewing lying when you have a bad memory just simplifies things--always tell the truth, don't hide things, be honest. 

Now that I realized it wasn't only my daughter feeling betrayed, but myself as well. Because "this was just what you do" during the secularized version of the "holiday season"--you buy presents. You get together with family. You leave cookies for "Santa." Etc.

The Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard's father once cursed God for his misfortunes. He tells us in his journal: "as a small boy tending sheep on the Jutland Heath, suffering many ills, famished and exhausted, stood up on a hill and cursed God! And that man was never able to forget it, not even at the age of 82." In Fear and Trembling, Kierkegaard retells the story of Abraham and Isaac from four vantage points. It is the first version that has always stayed with me: that Abraham convinces Isaac that he’s sacrificing him by his own will, not by God’s. This is a lie, but Abraham says to himself that he would rather have Isaac lose faith in his father than lose faith in God. 

I thought about this yesterday standing over my daughter. My biggest fear in this little "Santa" crisis is that she reasons "well, if Santa isn't real, maybe God isn't real as well. Maybe it's all a lie." It hurts my heart to think about--and that she would be mislead by her own parents about something so dumb and insignificant. I know I'm biased, but my daughter is an especially beautiful and innocent creature. I hated myself in that moment for unwittingly bringing the world into our home, rather than following the lead of our Catholic friends who refuse to do "the Santa thing." Now we know better. 

As much as this incident may stay with my daughter over the years, I pray it doesn't shake her faith in a loving, personal God who cares for her. She's not especially "religious" in the pious sense (none of our kids really are, if I'm being honest) but they are good, innocent, well-adjusted kids. And I realize they are not my own, that I am not in control like I think I am, that they have free-will. 

My indignation at the world and my unwitting betrayal of my own flesh rose up as a fury in my throat the other day. Fool me once, shame on you, as the saying goes; fool me twice, shame on me. Friendship with the world is enmity with God, as St. James says. 

The Lord does not say "unless you don't like your own kin, you cannot be my disciple." He says unless you hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters"(Lk 14:26). My hatred of the world and its lies had cooled, but this incident had rekindled a kind of holy hatred of the secular, the material, the lukewarm, the customary, the "this is just what you do" mentality of the world. Now we know better. 

The world can keep its Santa Claus and its pious secularism. We have the living God, the God who saves, Emmanuel. He is the way, the truth and the life, born poor in a manger, the antithesis of a worldly king. We live not by lies. Restore the innocence of the crestfallen and brokenhearted. Lord, teach me thy way, O Lord: I will walk in thy truth... (Psalm 86:11).