unexpected surprise to come out of my research has nothing to do with the historical facts I learned. It was the people I met. I discovered Saint Nicholas has fans. Some of his fans are deeply spiritual and pious, some style themselves as collectors of old toys and memorabilia, some are just obsessed with all things Christmas. And something else I learned—how many men devote their post-retirement lives to playing the role of Santa Claus, certainly more than enough to staff a North Pole workshop. Many Santa Clauses commit to a year-round beard, red suspenders, and an all-around red, white, and green wardrobe.
More than a few of these men fell into the role of Santa Claus by accident. Some have always worn beards and find one day that those beards have turned white with age. Suddenly their grandkids and random strangers begin greeting them as Santa. Some put on the red suit and funny hat as a hobby, some treat it as a part-time seasonal job, others just love the holiday season. One military veteran was asked by a friend if he would help out in a pinch by coming onto the base and meeting with the families and children of deployed soldiers. The heart-warming response of the children at the appearance of Santa touched him deeply. So, he volunteered to appear again the following year. Before long, he bought his own suit, grew a beard, met with area Santa groups, and had more requests in a season than he could fill. And yes, in case you wondered, down in Coral Gables, Florida, there is an official Santa Color Guard—a battalion of Santas clad in red, white, and green camouflage pants.
One man, Jay from Kentucky, suffered a life-threatening car accident with his wife. He stayed in the hospital over two weeks recovering while his wife lay in a coma. To this day she has residual health issues from the trauma. As Jay convalesced, he neglected to shave. A fine white beard grew. He walked the hospital halls for exercise and came upon a cancer wing full of children. Young kids in much worse condition than him would poke their faces out of their rooms and ask if he was Santa Claus. Jay realized that God had hand-delivered him a ministry, practically gift-wrapped with a bow on top. All Jay had to do was accept this new calling and play the part.
He visits children’s wards regularly dressed as Santa Claus. One time a little girl sat on his lap and when he asked what she wanted for Christmas, she answered, “I want a new eye.” Jay spoke honestly with the child. He told her he could not promise that she would have a new eye for Christmas, but he promised that he would pray for her.
The next day he went back to the hospital and the mother of the girl found him and asked, “Do you remember my little girl?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You made her day yesterday. She said, ‘Mama, Santa Claus is praying for me.’”
And then there is Father Joseph Marquis. A tall and barrel-chested priest in the Byzantine rite Catholic Church, Father Joseph has a well-groomed beard and a voice deep as a gravel truck. He has accumulated over forty years of experience portraying the character of Santa Claus. When he changes out of his black, clerical garb and into his custom fit and embroidered Santa suit, white gloves, and wide black leather belt, he makes the transformation complete.
He got a phone call one morning in June from a man who said his granddaughter, Angela, was dying of leukemia. She had always loved Christmas and probably would not live to see another one. Would it be possible for her to receive a visit from Santa Claus? Father Joseph agreed on two conditions: first, that the grandfather would drive him, since it is hard to steer a vehicle in a full Santa suit, and second, that the grandfather would clear his visit with the hospital—he did not know how the hospital staff might react to a man dressed as Santa in mid-summer walking through their halls unannounced.
The appointed day was one of those sweltering June days over ninety degrees. The grandfather pulled to the curb in a pickup truck with unfortunate news: “I’m sorry to tell you, Father Joseph, but my air conditioning just went out.”
Even with the windows rolled down, they roasted and sweated all the way to the hospital. They arrived and Father Joseph stepped off the elevator and into the children’s ward to find that the entire floor had been decked out for Christmas: music, streamers, candy canes, and nurses dressed in green and red scrubs.
Father Joseph did not walk directly to the patient he had come to see. Santa loves all children, so Father Joseph made the rounds. To each boy he gave a button that read “Santa says I’ve been a good boy” and to the girls a button that read “Santa says I’ve been a good girl.”
Eventually he made it to Angela’s room. Her eyes widened with joy and she sat up in bed to meet Santa. He gave her a button and led the family in singing a few carols and songs. The grandmother decided this was the right time to give Angela a blue dress that she had sewn herself. It was a lovely dress made with loving care. The grandmother also made a little matching dress for a doll with curly blond hair. Angela squeezed the doll as Father Joseph bent down and said, “Angela, this doll is your guardian angel. God’s angels watch out over us, so whenever you see this doll, remember that God loves you and is watching over you.”
Angela would cherish the day as a dream come true. Father Joseph would cherish the memory in his own way. Two weeks later, on a Saturday, Father Joseph received a phone call in his parish office. It was the grandfather. “I just wanted you to know that we buried Angela this morning. She looked so peaceful laying there with her eyes closed, her doll tucked into her arms. She wore her new blue dress and pinned to it was that button—‘Santa says I’ve been a good girl.’”
Father Joseph hung up the phone and sunk back into his chair. He almost succumbed to grief and despair at the tragedy of it all when a thought occurred to him: maybe, just maybe, his investment of time and money and energy into becoming Santa Claus, maybe his avocation in the ministry of Saint Nicholas, maybe his obsession with all things Christmas, maybe all of it was for Angela. Maybe it had all come about just so that he could bring a smile to this one little girl on the lonely edge of death.
Father Joseph’s experience narrates the bricolage beauty of Christmas. It can come in June at a children’s ward. It can combine seasonal toys and commercial decorations with the heavy blows of life and death, hope and despair. It is the place where Persian magi and unwashed shepherds duck low and gather in, where Christ is found not in his radiant glory and power, but wrapped in swaddling clothes and laying in a manger.
1. Ælred, “Sermon 30,” in “Two Sermons,” 87.
2. Luther, Sermons II, 21.
3. Ephrem, Hymns, 22.26–28, p. 183.
4. Luther, Sermons II, 278.
5. Brown, Messiah, 401.
6. Whether or not they were a despised class of society in the first century, as is sometimes said, is a matter of debate. Bailey, Good Shepherd, 33–65.
7. Luther, Sermons II, 25.
8. Ibid., 37.
9. Augustine, Sermon 189, Sermons III/6, 36.
Instigating Word
By the year 500 BC, the decisive moments in Israel’s foundational history could do no more than dust up distant memories. Abraham, Sarah, Moses, Miriam, David, and Solomon had long since entered the halls of immortal glory. The twelve tribes had risen and dissolved. Jerusalem had existed as a city for over 400 years. The major drama of the Hebrew Old Testament had fizzled out even though some of its books like Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi were still undergoing composition.
Meanwhile,