There’s a particular Christmas song that’s been stuck in my head a lot this month. You might know it, too:
You better watch out, you better not cry
You better not pout, I'm telling you why
Santa Claus is comin' to town
sing along!
He's making a list and checking it twice
Gonna find out who's naughty and nice
Santa Claus is comin' to town
He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good
So be good for goodness sake
Ohhh, You better watch out, you better not cry
You better not pout, I'm telling you why
Santa Claus is comin' to town
I think it got into my head because so many of my Facebook friends had something to say this month about an Elf on a Shelf in their house: watching the family, taking notes, and reporting in to Santa at the North Pole.
This North Pole spy phenomenon has gotten so big that The Atlantic magazine recently ran a story about it in which they had to point out that it is not, in fact, part of a NSA surveillance program, but rather a part of our Christmas culture that’s been familiar for generations.
There are a number of cultures in which Santa has a sidekick who keeps tabs on the naughty children and brings them “consequences” at Christmas time while the good children get rewards. And our own Santa has a reputation for dropping lumps of coal into the stockings of misbehaving kids.
I can clearly remember childhood Decembers in which I evaluated each day based on whether Santa would approve, and worried over the advice in that Christmas carol:
no crying, no pouting, be good even when you're sleeping.
(How could I be naughty in my sleep? Apparently Santa knows!)
Was yelling at a very provoking younger brother enough to cost me new bunny slippers? Would volunteering for chores make Santa happy? Was I praying enough? Keeping my room clean?
Christmas is more like Judgment Day than the advertisers want you to believe.
Which actually brings us right back to the Christian story.
After all, some two thousand years ago, while the Roman Caesar Augustus was taking his census, and Joseph and a heavily pregnant Mary migrated to Bethlehem, the people of Israel weren’t looking for a charming story of hope and love, but praying for God to send a Messiah who would bring Judgement Day — for the Romans, at least.
God’s people were longing for God to finally give the wicked their comeuppance and the good their reward.
That’s the Messiah we were supposed to get.
And instead, we got a baby.
A poor and powerless baby, in no shape whatsoever to judge the Roman oppressors or reward the righteous.
And when he is born, tucked in a feed box in an obscure stable, angels roust out a pack of nearby shepherds to make the astonishing point that this child is good news for ALL people.
Not some.
Not good, righteous, well-behaved people, but ALL people: Poor, rich, good, bad, cop, criminal, illiterate, smart, smart-aleck, noisy, quiet, old, young, religious, agnostic… even, perhaps - no, almost certainly - the rotten Roman oppressors.
All people.
Which brings the circle back around to Santa Claus.
Because every single year, Santa showed up at my house.
Because every single year, Santa showed up at my house.
Santa brought fantastic stuff to my brother, who clearly was not perfect.
Santa came to my cousins, and friends, and kids on TV,
and Santa brought me wonderful things, even when I had been flat out rotten on Christmas Eve.
All people.
Even the naughty ones.
It kind of embarrasses the seminary-trained theology nerd in me to admit this, but I learned one of the most essential lessons about God not from the Bible, or Sunday School, or from seminary, but from Santa.
Santa sometimes shocked me with generosity and forgiveness, replacing the coal I thought I might deserve with thoughtful surprises and pure delights, rewards I’d never earn in a million years.
And it slowly dawned on me that that’s the story we tell in the church at Christmas, too.
That God — who sees us when we’re sleeping, and knows when we’re awake — shows up to judge the world as a lovable, gentle, heart-melting baby, and wakes up the good-for-nothing drifters on the outskirts of town to announce that good news, salvation, and love are here for EVERYone, today.
Everyone.
Even the naughty ones.
God’s decision to give us that baby, to come among us as a vulnerable, poor, messy but lovable little child, is shocking in its generosity and forgiveness.
Shocking in that generous lack of discrimination between rich and poor, wisemen and day laborers, in the unambiguous announcement that God sends good news to ALL people.
Shocking in the forgiveness implied in becoming a helpless infant, chased around the earth by imperial whim, vulnerable to all the nastiness and indifference that human beings can manage, accidentally or on purpose.
Shocking, because it's meant to stun us into great, overwhelming joy.
I learned from Santa that God loves nothing better than to give,
and to give more than we can try to deserve.
God so delights in giving that nothing we can do will stop God.
I learned that from Santa, too.
By high school, I’d found that it was a lot of trouble to wait for Santa.
I could buy some of the stuff I wanted for myself; I found it harder to be thankful for surprises (instead of exact wish-fulfillment); and I didn't expect miracles in my stocking the way I once did.
So I kept mentioning to my parents - and anyone else who might have an "in" at the North Pole - that Santa didn’t come to fifteen-year-olds, to eighteen-year-olds, to college students… (Surely college students couldn’t be considered kids anymore right? right?)
But every single year, Santa came. I couldn't stop him.
All people.
Naughty and nice, hopeful and bored, young and old, even when we are way too cool for God.
God’s generosity and forgiveness, God’s loving giving, isn't confined to those who are hoping and praying for joy.
God keeps on giving, redeeming, and forgiving even - or maybe especially - after we’ve gotten a little bored with the story and don’t want much from God anymore. Even - maybe especially - when we don’t have time to pray and dream, when we’ve gotten buried in disappointment or heartbreak and trouble, or given up on expecting the world to be worth saving.
That baby — stable-born but announced by angels — that baby is a miracle for all people,
and God is never going to give up on that.
Because you see, it’s true that God sees us when we’re sleeping, and knows us when we’re awake.
God knows the bad and the good, all the stuff in between,
and every exasperated “for goodness’ sake!” in our hearts.
And God’s response to all of that is shocking, extravagant generosity and forgiveness.
So make space in your heart tonight for your inner child,
creeping anxiously down the stairs,
and overwhelmed with astonished delight at unearned gifts in a stocking or under the tree.
Because that’s the gift of the child in the stable each Christmas,
shocking generosity and forgiveness,
and astonished delight,
and it’s for all people.
It's for you, tonight.
Excellent! Thank you!
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