The Demise of Santa Claus

When my mother-in-law and I discussed religion and the possibility of belief in the midst of earthly disorder and chaos, she sneered at my naïveté: “Well, God isn’t Santa Claus, you know.”

I thought this a shame.

During my childhood, Christmas held an inner joy for me, not because of tree trimming. cookie making, ridiculous numbers of presents, or trips with my mother to 5th Ave. to admire the decorated shop windows.

It was a sacred and joyous time as people awaited the birth of a child with unconditional love and delight. How I yearned to be that child, watched over by a loving family and universe.

But I now see that Santa Claus would make a pretty poor God—manipulated by boys and girls who have been nice in order to avoid the coal that naughty children get.

At 65, and having Parkinson’s for 8 years, I find more joy and delight than I have ever experienced before.

And I don’t have to be nice to be granted these gifts. I can skip a meditation, do a poor meditation, and feel decidedly non-spiritual feelings toward people.

And yet some power upholds me and calms my fears, turning me to a better path.

Now I know what the Puritans meant by a conversion experience, although Jonathan Edwards’ wrathful God would not recognize the loving one that freely offers me Grace in the face of my limitations.

The coal in my stocking has turned into a pearl of great price.

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