“Beth will be the Christmas Angel this year.” Every girl in our little country school was dreaming of being the angel and with this announcement my heart sunk into the basement.
The teacher did not bestow this honor because I had any special talents but because, she said, “Beth’s father is a pastor and so of course she has to be the angel.”
And then it got worse. She went on to say that Santa Claus would not come to visit us during the school program because it would offend my father— who was a pastor. I was sure all my friends would hate me.
The teacher was new and wanted to succeed, but we missed our beloved teacher and wished she would come back. My friends were as indignant as I was, but they were also wiser and more level headed, convincing me to be the Christmas angel. True Christmas angels, they even said they could endure the loss of Santa.
But giving up Santa was asking too much. For years, maybe forever, Santa Claus had come to our Christmas program and handed out bags of treats—fresh apples, oranges, nuts, candy. It was a splendid tradition. And it was my only chance to see him. Red velvet with white trim, soft white beard, and all that laughter and joy.
Santa never came to our house. Christmas was a time for remembering and welcoming the Christ child. Each year Dad would read the Christmas story from Luke 2 by the light of the Christmas tree and we would pray together and give thanks for the light and love of God as we each opened our present. One year I got a long stocking cap with a tassel and I loved wearing it as I flew down the sledding hill to the river.
Another year I got a warm, soft sweater and finally a beautiful, white leather Bible with the words of Jesus printed in red so I could read the wonderful words myself. Words about friendship, about a gift that would be revealed to everyone… all people, not just a few and a world where everyone would have equal value and justice would reign and truth would set us all free.
On Christmas morning there were stockings filled with little treats and treasures, but they never had anything to do with Santa. Still, my friends got things from Santa and I thought he seemed like a really nice guy and I loved the song about Rudolph the Red- Nosed Reindeer. It never occurred to me there could be a conflict until the new teacher banned Santa. Dad was very puzzled that the teacher would assume he did not like Santa. He said the school and the teacher were free to celebrate in whatever way seemed best to them.
The day for the program came and I reluctantly got into the beautiful angel costume. To my surprise and delight Santa did show up and with the usual amazing treat bags in tow. He was oddly familiar and although I could never get my dad to admit it, I am quite sure it was him that day, “ho-ho-hos” pouring out from the bottom of his heart and wrapping us in joy. He had the best laugh and to this day I have not seen a more joyful Santa.
Somehow, Dad and my friends brought Jesus and Santa to the same table that year, modeling an openness and hospitality that I have never forgotten. After all these years I can still hear them as they “repeat the sounding joy…” In this world of argument and conflict, of taking sides and building walls, I hope for friendship growing across the chasms of division. I listen for the sounding joy, trying to make room for it to be repeated again and again.
Each month a member of the Cook County Ministerium will offer Spiritual Reflections. This week our contributor is Pastor Beth Benson of the First Congregational Church, United Church of Christ.
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