DADDY, IS THERE REALLY A SANTA CLAUS?

From the time that our kids were little, I determined that I didn't want to mislead them about Santa Claus. Now I also want to be truthful with our grandkids. But I don't want to play the role of the Grinch! So my answer, when the direct question comes, is "There was a real man named St. Nicholas who lived many years ago. He was kind to children and poor people, and over many years his name changed to Santa Claus. Our Santa Claus is a fun way that we remember St. Nicholas at Christmas."

Here's one way to tell the story:



HOW SAINT NICHOLAS BECAME SANTA CLAUS

Saint Nicholas, the legends say,

became our Santa in this way:

while passing by a widow's door

his heart was moved to help the poor.

Her humble hut brought to his mind

the  little shed Joseph did find

on Christmas Eve so long ago,

when Christ was born to Mary. So

he went to church and knelt in prayer

to ask a way that he could care

for widows and for chidren, too;

and as he stood, he spied his shoe!

His shoe?! An idea came to mind:   

"I know just the place to find

a way to do what I will do!

The answer's here inside my shoe!"

He took a stocking(!) from the shelf,

and – all in secret, by himself –

he poured a few gold coins inside,

and said, "I’ll take a Christmas ride!”

No--no reindeer – no, not yet.

Don't rush the story – don't forget

that we're still at the early part.

He rode off in a donkey cart!

They trotted up the village road

and found the widow's small abode.

"Shh, you stay here," said good St. Nick,

"While I go play my little trick."

He tossed the sock as he passed by,

but then his aim went far too high!

(The old saints eyes were old, you see.)

He threw it down the chim-n-ey!

(And ever since, on Christmas Eve,

like all good children, we believe

St. Nicholas with his sock of gold

will find all Christmas chimneys cold!)

The widow thought she heard a sound

and toward her hearth she turned around,

and there upon the ashes cold

she found a stocking full of gold!

In her happiness she knew

exactly what she had to do:

A feast for the whole neighborhood!

(The good saint's deed was doing good!)

And Nicholas kept giving more,

kept finding ways to help the poor.

Stockings, sacks. And sometimes toys

were in his bag for girls and boys.

All this started way down south;

but soon – by song and word-of-mouth –

the story told on desert sands

had found its way to winter lands.

So way up north, in ice and snow,

the donkey – well, he had to go;

he's grazing in the southern sun.

It's reindeer now for St. Nick's run!

And stockings? It's not hard to see

that they're still near the chim-n-ey;

but not down in the fireplace –

the mantle's a much nicer place.

And lips like cherries? Twinkling eyes?

Reindeer flying through the skies?

All that about "The Night Before...?"

The credit goes to Clement Moore.*

But what about old Santa's name?

you said St. Nicholas became

the Santa that we know today.

Has Nick's name changed along the way?

That's easy. Say it two times, fast:

Saint Nicholas, San-ti-calas;

now, two times more, don't stop to pause:

San-ti-calus – Hey! "Santa Claus!"

Some things change, some stay the same.

And Santa Claus by any name

is still the spirit of St. Nick,

still chuckling at his little trick.

And we, with stockings lined up straight

on Christmas Eve can hardly wait.

We go to bed, we wake to see

what Santa brings for you and me.

But there's a lesson we learn, too,

when Santa visits me and you.

It's from a story, long and old:

The widow shared good St. Nick's gold.

Saint Nicholas, the legends say,
became our Santa in this way:

While passing by a widow's door

his heart was moved to help the poor.

                                                                                                    
 © Richard Jorgensen

This  story is based (very loosely!) on legends that grew up around the historical

figure of Nicholas, a bishop who lived in Turkey in the fourth century. Nicholas

was renowned for his good deeds, and was later declared to be “Saint Nicholas.”

*Most of our images and traditions about Santa Claus today come from

the delightful poem, “A Visit From St. Nicholas,” (“’Twas the Night Before

Christmas”) written by The Rev. Clement Moore for his children on Christmas

Eve, 1822.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THE ELECTION? (OR IS THAT "HOW DO YOU FEEL...?")

Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them.    ~David Hume, 1739

"It was not reasoning in search of truth; it was reasoning in support of  their emotional reactions." ~ Jonathan Haidt, observation regarding the subjects of a university research project in moral psychology. 

Andy Borowitz, in his New Yorker blog, wryly reports that in the last campaign the nation “spent $2.5 billion on nothing” – his point being that after the expensive dust had settled, the political scene looked much the same as before.

We keep hearing that both sides use negative and attack ads “because they work.” But we are also hearing, increasingly, that, on the one hand, they don’t really change many minds and, on the other, there are only a handful of actual “independents” out there toward whom the ads are supposedly targeted. So what gives?

Jonathan Haidt’s very persuasive theory in “The Righteous Mind: Why Good People are Divided by Religion and Politics” is that we are all guided fundamentally by our intuitions and “feelings,” and that our powers of reason and logic are used primarily to support what we feel. (Run, don’t walk, to order this book. It will change how you view your own strongly-held beliefs as well as those of your political opponent.)

The central metaphor of much of Haidt’s thesis is that

...the mind is divided, like a rider on an elephant, and the rider’s job is to serve the elephant. The rider is our conscious reasoning—the stream of words and images of which we are fully aware. The elephant is the other 99 percent of mental processes—the ones that occur outside of awareness but that actually govern most of our behavior. 

The elephant and the rider.

In this metaphor, the elephant (our "gut feeling") lurches where it will, and the rider (our "reasoning") follows dutifully along--trying to make the best of it.

This is why--if objective facts contradict my subjective belief--I will maneuver or discount the facts so that I do not have to abandon my feelings.

This is why I give my candidate the benefit of the doubt, but hold the other guy’s feet to the fire. In both cases I use “reason” to be able to do this.

This is why a legislator in our Minnesota House of Representatives can say, “I just don’t feel that global warming can be true."

This is why there are no consistent biblical literalists. All “literalists” accept what they feel is right, and interpret the rest away. (In all of the Bible-based argument against homosexuals, I’ve never heard anyone propose that they should just be killed. That’s in there, too. Leviticus 20:13)  1

You can give yourself a little test to determine the applicability of this theory: 1) From the time you began to care about political matters, did you “think” yourself into your current place on the conservative-liberal spectrum, or did you come to “discover” your social and political persuasion. 2) Regarding an election, what would it take to change your vote to the opposing candidate? Do you approach debates and speeches with an openness to changing your mind if the opponent makes a more intelligent, reasonable argument? Or do you just hope "your guy" wins. 3) [This applies only to self-described Christians:] The New Testament clearly states that your wealth is to be surrendered and divided up to benefit the poor. Do you do this? Or do you find a way to interpret it away? 2

Haidt does not say that reason is never relevant or consequential, it is just that, most often, when we think we are being guided by reason and rationality, it is something deeper and more primal that is actually calling the shots. 3

It would be easy to conclude from this that the billions spent on attack ads are a waste of money, because nobody’s mind is going to be changed. Yet we are told that they are effective. The other recent truism in campaign politics is that it may be more important for a candidate to motivate his or her own supporters to vote than to try to win over the supporters of the opponent. If we combine these two theses, perhaps what is happening is that the negative ads are feeding the primal beast (to slightly adapt Haidt’s elephant metaphor) – throwing red meat to nourish the antipathy we already feel, not to change our minds but to stoke our “feelings.”

But I hope that it could lead to a more civilized conclusion: If we all realize that (with a few exceptions) our minds are made up and are not going to be changed, the whole campaign ad industry could be re-directed to simply and positively encourage us to see the importance of voting as a way of supporting our candidate. It becomes a contest not of who can change the most minds, but who can get out the most voters.

And to Haidt’s psychological research we can add another intriguing subject of recent study: that our political (and religious) tendencies may be genetically influenced. If we put all this together, we could arrive at a conclusion that the most negative thing you can say about your political-opponent neighbor is, “He can’t help it.”

_____________________________________________________

1 Another conclusion of Haidt's study is that our beliefs can be influenced by someone whom we respect and are close to. I think the reason most biblical literalists don't work for a ban on divorce (even though it is roundly condemned in the Bible) is that it's literally too close to home.

2 This little test is my own crude application of Haidt’s thesis. The case made in his book is much more sophisticated.

3 In the New York Times column, “The Stone,” Haidt has an ongoing debate with some philosphers regarding the use of reason. It is interesting (to me) that in the last campaign my gut, or "feelings" lurched me unquestionably into one political camp; but I had to use my reason to ponder between two candidates within that camp.

FROST AND SANDBURG

(In the midst of a local school levy campaign, I've been reflecting on the gift and gifts of learning I was given by good public school teachers. Here's where one reflection leads me.)


In ninth grade English we were introduced to Robert Frost and Carl Sandburg as the two great poets of the American experience. (They were both still alive then, such is my advanced age.) Frost is the more literary; Sandburg, the populist, the poet of the people.

I recently began reading Jay Parini’s life of Frost, when, purely coincidentally, a day or two later PBS presented a review of the life and work of Carl Sandburg as a part of their excellent American Masters series. (You can view the program here.)

When I say Frost is the more literary, I wouldn’t want that to be taken as off-putting. What I mean is that, compared to Sandburg, he was more interested in and careful about classic poetic form and structure. But he, too, was a poet of the people in one important sense: He was devoted to (and almost invented) the poetry of natural speech. (He would agree with his literary successor, R.S. Thomas, who said of the rural Welsh farmers among whom he worked, "I know, as I listen, that your speech has in it the source of all poetry....") Frost hides the refinement of poetic structure under what sounds like real people really speaking. In "The Death of the Hired Man" an unreliable farmhand, nearing the end of his life, has come seeking work once again:

“What did he say? Did he say anything?”
 
“But little.”
 
“Anything? Mary, confess
He said he’d come to ditch the meadow for me.”
 
“Warren!”
 
“But did he? I just want to know.”
 
“Of course he did. What would you have him say?
Surely you wouldn’t grudge the poor old man
Some humble way to save his self-respect.
He added, if you really care to know,
He meant to clear the upper pasture, too…"

Frost was not guilty of the charge Sandburg laid against some “literary” poets: “I think I understood it until you explained it to me.”

I considered suggesting to whom these two might be compared, but they are both almost incomparable. Although there are certainly literary paths that lead to their work, they are, nonetheless, creative originals. If I had to summarize, I’d say that Frost writes exquisite poetry which elevates common speech to art; Sandburg writes of common people and common stuff, and it becomes exquisite in the reading.

Sandburg and Frost (and, I think, most poets) benefit from being read out loud. This poem by Sandburg, with which I conclude, certainly should be. Read it to a child, read it to someone you love. Ham it up. (It's long, but fun to read.)


'Little Word, Little White Bird"

Love, is it a cat with claws and wild mate screams
in the black night?
Love, is it a bird--a goldfinch with a burnish
on its wingtips or a little gray sparrow
picking crumbs, hunting crumbs?
Love, is it a tug at the heart that comes high and
costs, always costs, as long as you have it?
Love, is it a free glad spender, ready to spend to
the limit, and then go head over heels in debt?
Love, can it hit one without hitting two and leave
the one lost and groping?
Love, can you pick it up like a mouse and put it in
your pocket and take it to your room and bring it
out of your pocket and say,
O here is my love,
my little pretty mousey love?

Yes--love, this little word you hear about,
is love an elephant and you step out of the way
where the elephant comes trampling, tromping,
traveling with big feet and long flaps of
drooping ears and straight white ivory tusks--
and you step out of the way with respect,
with high respect, and surprise near to shock
as you say,
Dear God, he's big,
big like stupendous is big,
heavy and elephantine and funny,
immense and slow and easy.
I'm asking, is love an elephant?

Or could it be love is a snake--like a rattlesnake,
like a creeping winding slithering rattlesnake
with fangs--poison fangs they tell me,
and when the bite of it gets you
then you run crying for help
if you don't fall cold and dead on the way.
Can love be a snake?

Or would you say love is a flamingo, with pink feathers--
a soft sunset pink, a sweet gleaming naked pink--
and with enough long pink feathers
you could make the fan for a fan dance
and hear a person telling their lover,
Speak, my chosen one,
and give me your wish
as to what manner of fan dance
you would have from me
in the cool of evening
or the black velvet sheen of midnight.
Could it be love is a flamingo?

Or is love a big red apple, and you don't know
whether to bite into it--and you knock on wood
and call off your luck numbers and hold your breath--
and you put your teeth into it and get a mouthful,
tasting all there is to it,
and whether it's sweet and wild
or a dry mush you want to spit out,
it's something else than you expected.
I'm asking, sir, is love a big red apple?

Or maybe love is goofer dust, I hadn't thought about that--
for you go to the goofer tree at midnight
and gather the leaves and crush them into fine dust,
very fine dust, sir, and when your man sleeps
you sprinkle it in his shoes and he's helpless
and from then on he can't get away from you,
he's snared and tangled and can't keep from loving you.
Could goofer dust be the answer?

And I've heard some say love is a spy and a sneak,
a blatherer, a gabby mouth,
tattling and tittering as it tattles,
and you believe it and take it to your heart
and nurse it like good news,
like heaven-sent news meant for you
and you only--precious little you.
Have you heard love comes creeping and cheating like that?

And are they after beguiling and befoozling us
when they tell us love is a rose, a red red rose,
the mystery of leaves folded over and under
and you can take it to pieces and throw it away
or you can wear it for a soft spot of crimson
in your hair, at your breast,
and you can waltz and tango wearing your sweet crimson rose
and take it home and lay it on a window sill and see it
until one day you're not careful
and it crackles into dust in your hand
and the wind whisks it whither you know not,
whither you care not,
for it is just one more flame of a rose
that came with its red blush and crimson bloom
and did the best it could with what it had
and nobody wins, nobody loses,
and what's one more rose
when on any street corner
in bright summer mornings
you see them with bunches of roses,
their hands out toward you calling,
Roses today, fresh roses,
fresh-cut roses today
a rose for you sir,
the ladies like roses,
now is the time,
fresh roses sir.

And I'm waiting--for days and weeks and months
I've been waiting to see some flower seller,
one of those hawkers of roses,
I've been waiting to hear one of them calling,
A cabbage with every rose,
a good sweet cabbage with every rose,
a head of cabbage for soup or slaw or stew,
cabbage with the leaves folded over
and under like a miracle
and you can eat it and stand up and walk,
today and today only your last chance
a head of cabbage with every single lovely rose.
And any time and any day I hear a flower seller so calling
I shall be quick and I shall buy
two roses and two cabbages,
the roses for my lover
and the cabbages for little luckless me.
Or am I wrong--is love a rose you can buy and give away
and keep for yourself cabbages, my lord and master,
cabbages, kind sir?
I am asking, can you?

And it won't help any, it won't get us anywhere,
it won't wipe away what had been
nor hold off what is to be,
if you hear me saying
love is a little white bird
and the flight of it so fast
you can't see it
and you know it's there
only by the faint whirr of its wings
and the hush song coming so low to your ears
you fear it might be silence
and you listen keen and you listen long
and you know it's more than silence
for you get the hush song so lovely
it hurts and cuts into your heart
and what you want is to give more than you can get
and you'd like to write it but it can't be written
and you'd like to sing it but you don't dare try
because the little white bird sings it better than you can
so you listen and while you listen you pray
and after you pray you meditate, then pray more
and one day it's as though a great slow wind
had washed you clean and strong inside and out
and another day it's as though you had gone to sleep
in an early afternoon sunfall and your sleeping heart
dumb and cold as a round polished stone,
and the little white bird's hush song
telling you nothing can harm you,
the days to come can weave in and weave out
and spin their fabrics and designs for you
and nothing can harm you--
unless you change yourself into a thing of harm
nothing can harm you.

The little white bird is my candidate.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you
the little white bird you can't see
though you can hear its hush song
and when you hear that hush song it's love
and I'm ready to swear to it--
you can bring a stack of affidavits
and I'll swear to it and sign my name
to every last one, so help me God.
And if a fat bumbling shopworn court clerk tells me,
Hold up your hand, I'll hold up my hand all right
and when he bumbles and mumbles to me like I was
one more witness it was work for him to give the oath to,
when he blabs, You do solemnly swear so help you God
that in this cause you will tell the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but the truth,
I'll say to him, I do, and I'll say to myself,
And no thanks to you and you could be more immaculate
with the name of God.
I am done.
I have finished.
I give you the little white bird--
and my thanks for your hearing me--
and my prayers for you,
my deep silent prayers.