
The world, too often with help from the Christian church, is intent on removing from the world all of its wonder. We may see the universe as a plenty amazing machine. But even the most amazing machine is cold to the touch, and can’t touch us back. The glory of creation, of God speaking galaxies into existence has been replaced in the world’s thinking with natural selection, the brutal and banal motor of progress given us by Darwin. Every man has ceased to be an image bearer of God most high, and has become instead the product of genetic determination or the product of his environment. Nature and nurture turn us all into Stretch Armstrong until we break. History has ceased to be that stage upon which God manifests His glory and has instead become random, aimless, a tale full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
It strikes me that the world, and we must always remember that such once were we, and even now we are to be about the business of putting to death that which remains in us that is of the world, is like a cynical teenager, eager to show his own wisdom through giving vent to skepticism. So, ashamed of his past innocence, he hides and stays awake deep into the night, waiting for Santa Claus to come. As he hears the first rustle of a present being put under the tree he leaps into the room, switches on the light with an angry, “A-HA!” The father blinks, and is heartbroken to have the truth exposed. He’s just a man pretending to be something he’s not. The son’s joy of discovery swiftly descends into ennui; this is all there is, men dressing up to be better than they are.
Our story, however, is different. We may struggle with doubts. We may battle our own cynicism. We may even find ourselves waiting to expose the truth one Christmas Eve. When, however, we hear that rustling present and switch on the light we find not that Santa Claus is really just our father, but that our Father is the real Santa Claus. We find in the truth not a letdown, but that we are surprised by joy. Beneath the red suit, under the white beard is the One who brought us into this world. And the one who brought into being this world. The reason He knows when we’ve been bad or good is because He knows all things. Our Father really does live in a distant land, pure as the driven snow. He brings us gifts all day every day, but none better than that which He sent at Christmas.
Because our Father is Santa Claus, because the gift for the Magi walked out of the tomb alive we have no need to fear the world. It’s His. It belongs to our Daddy, and we are His heirs. Indeed we have no need to overcome the world. He, after all, has already overcome the world (John 16:33). Who’s my daddy? Santa Claus.








