Doubting Christmas?

“Who gave you permission to tell Charlie there was no Santa Claus? I think if we're going to destroy our son's delusions, I should be a part of it.”
---Scott Calvin, (played by actor Tim Allen in the movie, The Santa Claus, 1994).

“Some of the kids at school say Santa’s not real, but I don’t believe them. Santa is real. I just know it.” My sister-in-law, Lisa Suriano, was quoting her 8 year old son, Cooper. “What do you think I should do?” Lisa asked me. “Should I tell him?”

I didn’t need to ask, “Tell him what?” I knew exactly what she meant: the truth about Santa Claus.

Should parents tell their kids that Santa Claus is not real? Or is it okay to “play along,” and enjoy a child’s season of magical thinking with Santa at Christmas?

For some parents this is a big issue, and they are quite intense in their conviction: participating in the Santa tradition is tantamount to deceiving children, setting up a situation that can cause a child to doubt the trustworthiness of the parent.

But for others, it’s a healthy way of experiencing the joy and anticipation of receiving gifts. And, in those homes where the Santa tradition is welcomed, he is enjoyed for a while until the kids discover he is a myth. For some, as with our daughter Mary-Elizabeth and son Harrison, it comes when they see mom and dad, or an uncle or aunt, putting out the Santa gifts; for others, as with our son, Dave, it’s another sibling who breaks the news about Santa’s demise; and then for some, like our daughter, Madi, it’s schoolmates who are the informants about Santa’s fictional identity.

I don’t think any of these children, although they may have been disappointed at the time, experienced emotional trauma at the discovery that Santa doesn’t exist .Nor did it lead them to doubt their parents on larger life issues.

But, still, I have a concern here about how this plays out: a distinction should be made somewhere in the conversation with children between what is true about religion and morality and what is simply playful make-believe. I fear we may undermine the reality of the religious event we celebrate. We may inadvertently communicate to our children that it’s all just a story, nothing more than a myth: the birth of Jesus and Santa; Christ’s resurrection and the Easter Bunny--- both melt into the same fictional genre: simply children’s fairy tale stories we outgrow.

But Santa Claus does have a history, although it’s embedded in tradition. His story grew from St. Nicholas, who was a bishop in a region of what is now Turkey. According to tradition, he was known for his love for his church and for the plight of poor children. St. Nicholas was reputed to have secretly delivered three bags of gold down a chimney to a poor family to provide a dowry for three unmarried sisters. From this developed the tradition of Santa Claus, a Dutch version of St. Nicholas.

Perhaps, by telling about St. Nicholas and how the story of Santa came from him, those who want to keep the Santa tradition can uphold the spiritual aspect of this season and still let Santa come down the chimney. Maybe they could say to their children something like, “Santa Claus is a wonderful story about a person who gave gifts and loved and cared for people. The main thing we need to remember is that Santa reminds us that God is the greatest gift-giver of all, and that’s what Christmas is really all about.”

What parents do with Santa is a personal matter; each family must come to terms with their own family traditions. But no matter what we do with Santa, it is unlikely we will shield our children from the possibility of doubt---and that includes the “real” Christmas. After all, Jesus’ own cousin, John the Baptist, had his doubts. In prison, he found himself knee deep in confusion. “Is it true? Is it him? Is he just another self-proclaimed messiah? Should we wait for another? Is it just another story?”

So John asked. And Jesus answered, “Go back to John and tell him what you have heard and seen—the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised to life, and the Good News is being preached to the poor. And tell him, ‘God blesses those who do not turn away because of me.’”

Notice, if you will, Jesus never said, “I’m the Messiah, for certain; without a doubt, I’m the one.” He only pointed to the evidence. He answered, but his answer still left room for the necessity of faith. For without faith, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas, would it?

No doubt.


Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. David’s website is davidbwhitlock.com.

A Glimmer of Hope

It’s been a tough week for world peace. Tensions between North and South Korea are severely strained after North Korea launched a deadly artillery attack last week; the war in Afghanistan drags on as U.S. leaders ponder the duration of our presence there; a strategic arms pact with Russia appears to be on hold, at least for now; a new English-language web magazine produced by Al Qaeda entices alienated American Muslims to “attack the enemy (America) with smaller but more frequent operations” that will “bleed the enemy by a thousand cuts;” a 19 year old American-Somali man, Mohamed Osman Mohamud, was accused of trying to blow up a van full of explosives during Portland, Oregon’s Christmas tree lighting ceremony; and we have yet to see the full impact on national security that the newly released WickiLeak documents will have.

Meanwhile, millions of us barreled past Black Friday and then with grand élan, having taken a breather over the weekend, millions more enjoyed the convenience of shopping online for Cyber Monday. And somewhere in all this---oh yes, Sunday--- the first day of Advent lie hidden in the corner of the church house, quiet as a mouse.

If we aren’t intentional, amidst all the crises of our world and the cries from retailers beckoning us to catch the next best buy, we will miss the true celebration around the manger. That’s what Advent is about: taking the time to prepare for Christ. Taken from the Latin word adventus, meaning coming, Advent is observed by many Christians in the West as a way of preparing for the celebration of Christ’s birth 2,000 years ago. Even churches that don’t formally observe Advent have different ways of anticipating the celebration of Jesus’ birth.

The time to do that is now, not December 24th. And that requires something most of us are short on: patience. We do not like waiting on Christ, nor preparing for him. We prefer him to catch up with us. The French philosopher and Christian mystic, Simone Weil, said, “Waiting patiently in expectation is the foundation of the spiritual life.” Expectant waiting takes place most often in the quiet, in the secret place of a heart yearning for more than the world can offer. It’s heard in the strained voice of one crying in the wilderness, “Prepare the way of the Lord.”
Some eight centuries before the birth of Jesus Christ, when a foreign military superpower, Assyria, threatened tiny Judah’s national security, the prophet Isaiah proclaimed hope in the midst of despair. It may have only been a glimmer, but that was all the hope necessary to give words to his vision of a better day, a time when the nations would “hammer their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks.” In a day of fear and intimidation, distraction and disarray, dishonesty and corruption, Isaiah, waiting patiently, caught a glint of hope--- eight centuries yet away. But he saw it. And he wouldn’t let it go.
Sometimes small glimmers of hope are all that is necessary to birth a new tomorrow, even when that tomorrow seems an eternity away.
Tempted to despair this Christmas season? Small wonder. It’s the way of our world; the world we know, the world of anxiety, anger, and ultimately annihilation. It’s only in looking away from it that we can gaze into another world, the world within the Word---a strange and mysterious world where miracles happen, where a virgin gives birth to a Savior, where good news announces freedom to captives, hope for the despondent, and light for those dwelling in darkness---the world you’ve longed for, where the songless choir is given the rhythm of joy by which it rejoices with heaven and nature, singing: “Joy to the world, the Lord is come!”
It’s a world worth waiting for, and as we listen, ever so intently, we can almost see it, faintly, obscurely, dimly, but undeniably there---peeking over the morning horizon: a glimmer of hope. Do you see it?
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. David’s website is davidbwhitlock.com.

Skipping Thanksgiving

Have you noticed how easily we pass from Halloween to Christmas, from October to December, from “Trick or Treat,” to “Here Comes Santa Claus”?

And Thanksgiving gets bypassed once again. Only now it happens with greater celerity and casualness. We’re beyond feeling any guilt about it.

I understand. I feel it, too. Thanksgiving’s absence matches the seasons: October is filled with fall foliage, arresting in its brilliant colors of orange, yellow, amber, and red as the maple, ash, oak, and hickory trees reach the peak of their autumn display; December, with the Christmas decorations of green wreaths, red and white candy canes, shiny silver tinsel over boughs, is a month of anticipation: the possibility, the hope, for a blanket of white snow on Christmas Eve, the jolly St. Nick Christmas stockings in red, white, and green, hanging over the warm glow of the fire place, awaiting the descent of Santa down the chimney in his contrasting uniform of red and white with black boots and belt.

But Thanksgiving falls in November, when the fall leaves have disappeared and have to be raked, the tree limbs are starkly naked, the sun sets before you get home from work, and a gray drabness seems to permeate the universe with a dismal somberness. Thanksgiving, set in between the ghosts and goblins of Halloween and the Santa and elves of Christmas, doesn’t stand a chance with its hapless turkey marked down on special at the local grocery store. Thanksgiving is in-between, and like the insecure middle child, seems uncomfortably out of place, having to fight for attention and recognition.

But it goes deeper than merely the differences in seasons. We Americans identify ourselves, the United States, as a consumer nation, and we do so with good reason: with only 5% of the world’s population we consume 25% of the world’s energy resources. We accumulate stuff and rent spaces to store the stuff we’ve bought on credit. And our lifestyle has come to roost on Wall Street with a financial debacle, in our environment with compromised resources, and in our health with overstressed bodies. We take and take, and stretch and stretch, for more and more, until we have made ourselves sick with Halloween candy and driven ourselves in debt with Christmas gifts.

And there sits that lonely turkey in the middle of the table. We barely have time anymore to pause, and sit, and share stories with family about life, and memories, and journeys, so busy we are with our rushing, and work, and previous commitments.

We would do well, this Thanksgiving Day, to reflect on our thanksgiving roots, remembering that the first Thanksgiving was born out of adversity: a few pilgrims and Native Americans, having survived the harsh winter of 1620, gathered to give thanks for the harvest of 1621. Grateful for the basics of life---God, family, and friends---they shared some food, laughed, talked, and rejoiced amidst their grim circumstances. It wasn’t until 1863 that the thanksgiving tradition became an official holiday. President Abraham Lincoln, spurred by journalist Sara Josepha Hale, declared the last Thursday of November a national day of Thanksgiving. You’ll recall Lincoln’s situation was less than ideal: the future of a United States was in serious question, the carnage of thousands of young men at Fredericksburg, Antietam, and Gettysburg was fresh on his mind as he called for all Americans to pause and give thanks for, “the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy.”

Instead of skipping Thanksgiving perhaps we would do well to draw on the spirit of thanksgiving past, pulling up a place and a time where not so long ago, amidst trying circumstances, people propped their chairs back, talked and listened to one another, reflected on life, and thanked God for it.

Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is DavidBWhitlock.com

Forgotten Things Remembered

Forgotten Things Remembered

I hadn’t seen or touched it in almost 49 years. It was a homemade schoolbook satchel before the days of book bags. It belonged to my older brother, Doug. He carried it home the last day of school, 1961. Having completed the first grade that day, he skipped home from Washington Elementary School, proud of his report card and happy to be officially a 2nd grader. And I, being one grade behind him, was as usual anxiously waiting for him to get home so we could play. And that was the last day I touched that satchel or saw my brother. That’s because that was the day my brother died.

Now, almost 49 years later I was back home, helping mom go through boxes and boxes of things long forgotten. And we had only scratched the surface.

That’s when I found myself holding a white satchel with “Douglas” neatly written in big, red block letters across the top of the bag. Drawings of sports cars had been sewn on the front of the bag. It was a bit soiled--- definitely a boy’s bag, a tough survivor of the first school year.

The satchel was just as it was the day he dropped it in our room to go out and play with me. It even had his writing tablet and the “Crayola Crayons,” still inside. And tucked to one side, his report card, signed by Mrs. L.D.Whitlock every six weeks, with the lonely exception of that last six weeks, the one left to be signed, left blank forever.

Mom had buried all this in that box, entombing it in a crypt of memories, leaving it there these many years until I--- reverently holding it in my hands as if it were an urn containing sacred artifacts of a historical memory---flashed back to that day 49 years ago, to that emergency room where the two of us---brothers, playmates, friends---were being treated after a car accident, and where I heard him speak his last words to me, “Am I gonna die?” And I didn’t know what to tell him.

When asked the question, “How long does it take to get over a death?” grief therapist, Dr. Harold Ivan Smith, says, “As long as it takes.” Sometimes, perhaps especially with the death of a child, it doesn’t necessarily get better, it just gets different. In his book, Grievers Ask, Smith tells about Izzy, Dwight D.Eisenhower’s three year old son, who died in 1921. Eisnehower, a WWII general and two-term president, said of his son’s death, “It was the greatest disappointment and disaster in my life…the one I have never been able to forget completely.”

Holding my brother’s 1st grade school satchel in my hands, choking down a golf ball size lump in my throat, and seeing the tears in my mother’s eyes, I would have to agree with Mr. Eisenhower. And folding up that book bag, not knowing exactly what I would do with it, I realized as I carried it home, that in its burial, it had become much more than just a bag: it was a satchel full of memories, a bag full of grief, a receptacle of sorrows, the opening of which released images long forgotten, surreal-like as they rose to life, floating before my eyes like moving scenes on an 8 mm family film, portraying a little boy laughing his way home from school, wrestling his little brother in playful fun, chasing his dachshund to the car, edging his way in front of his little brother into the front seat, crashing onto the hood of the car, lying lifelessly with his brother in shattered windshield glass, crying in his brother’s arms on the way to the hospital, asking little brother that final, most ultimate question, and not receiving an answer.

Memories have a way of apprehending us when we least expect it. Pain is the price we pay for having loved, and grief is the residue of memories long forgotten but always remembered.

Overstuffed with Stuff

I have too much stuff. I know I do.

But on second thought, do I? How do we know when we have too much stuff? Who is the judge of that?

My guess is, I’m not alone in thinking I have too much stuff; most Americans would join me in the “I’ve got too much stuff” confessional. In our consumer driven society, owners of speciality stores make money helping us find ways to store more of our stuff so they buy more stuff for themselves.

In your estimation, my stuff may be worthless, while in my eyes, it may be precious. And to me, that stuff you’ve saved for years might be junk. We all have our special stuff.

Take books, for example. I love books, not only for the story they tell or the information they convey. I love to hold a new book, open it and smell the new pages. And I can tell you when, where and why I purchased most of my books. Superstar author Stephen King sees the advantages of e-books, but he still loves physical books. “I have thousands of books in my house,” he recently admitted in a Wall Street Journal interview. “In a weird way, it’s embarrassing…it’s crazy, but there are people who collect stamps,” he rationalized. I started getting rid some of my books. Then just the other day, I recalled a section from one of my books I read years ago. It was apropos for a class I am teaching. I raced into my library to pick it up. Gone. I growled as I remembered its location: Half –Price Books.

My wife and I need only a few coffee mugs Thanks to me, we have way more than we need. But, each one has a memory of the time I got it, or the people I’ve enjoyed coffee with while sipping from that mug. Many times I’ve started to toss them, but then I balk.

Knowing when we have too much stuff is not always easy, and having too much can be a hazard. Like most everything else there is a disorder for this. It’s a compulsive disorder called “hoarding.” Hoarders are people who accumulate far too much stuff and are unable to throw anything away. Their houses are so filled with stuff they can barely move around in them. According the American Journal of Psychiatry, “Compulsive hoarding is most commonly driven by obsessional fears of losing important items that the patient believes will be needed later, distorted beliefs about the importance of possessions, excessive acquisition, and exaggerated emotional attachments to possessions." Uhh, hmm.

Years ago, comedian George Carlin developed a routine around the concept of stuff. “That’s the whole meaning of life,” he joked, “trying to find a place to keep your stuff.” I suppose that’s when our stuff becomes dangerous: when accumulating it truly does become the meaning or purpose of life. You don’t have to be afflicted with hording syndrome to live a life for the sole purpose of acquiring more stuff. The stuff we own then owns us. We essentially become the stuff we’ve accumulated. That’s when we’re overstuffed with stuff.

Surely life has a higher purpose than storing up things only for ourselves or our own family.

Jesus warned us about this when he told a story about a man who tore down his barns to build bigger barns so he could store more of his stuff. And that very day, his soul was required of him. Jesus’ story hits home with most of us. After all, I’ve never presided over a funeral where the hearse had a U-Haul behind it.

Getting rid of my unnecessary stuff reminds me of what is really important; it gives me a sense of inner peace that frees me for the most worthy things in life. I realize that.

But I’m still going to sit down with a good book and some java in one of my favorite coffee mugs.

Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is, DavidBWhitlock.com

The Bully in You

It seems bullying is epidemic these days. The cruel facts reveal that 23% of elementary students report being bullied one to three times in the last month; 77% of students report having been bullied; and each day 160,000 kids stay home from school for fear of being bullied.

I remember being bullied. It happened in my own front yard. I was in third grade, maybe fourth. We were playing football when some kids in junior high invited themselves to our game. Being bigger than us, they quickly took the game away. Then it got ugly. They began to call us names, “Punks,” “Wimps,” “Sissy’s.” Abusive language for the 1960s. The name calling escalated into pushing and shoving. We were intimidated by these older, bigger kids.

And then, from nowhere, or so it seemed, my older brother, Mark, showed up. Somehow he had seen what was happening. Mark was a stand-out football player for the Altus High School Bulldogs. He walked into our humiliating situation, took the football in his grip and zinged it at one of the bullies. It stung the kid, slipping through his hands and bouncing off his chest. “What’s wrong? Can’t take a ball thrown that fast?” Mark challenged. “Well, if you can’t play with the big boys, why are you picking on these little kids who are younger and smaller than you?”

That’s all it took. They lowered their heads and sulked away. Mark tossed the ball back to us and left without saying another word. Nothing more needed to be said. Case closed.

But what happens when no older brother or friend or parent shows up? What happens when our protectors are no longer there? Therein is the problem.

Experts tell us to communicate with others if we are bullied. Tell a parent or some authority. Also, stay in a group, and if possible, stand up to the bully, but don’t fight back.

People bully for many reasons. In one survey, 1 in 5 students admitted to having been a bully or bullying others at some point. Perhaps the root cause for bullying is a sense of insecurity on the part of the bully which expresses itself in a feeling of superiority over someone whose character the bully despises. Unfortunately, gayness has been an object for bullying. In the month of September, 2010, alone, nine young people, gay or suspected of being gay, took their lives after being bullied.

So, what’s the solution? Maybe the best place to start is for everyone to take a look within and ask, “Is there a bully in me?”

All of us have voices from the present and past that haunt us and cause us to engage in less than admirable behaviors. Sometimes the bully within whispers in our ear, “You’re a loser; you’re not worth it; you can’t.” And so, in frustration, we speak words of condemnation to the child in our home, or our spouse, or that different girl or guy at work or school. And we think somehow the negative feelings we receive from the bully within us will be abated by putting another down. Hurting others will make us feel better, we think. But it’s an illusion. It only reinforces negativity; we become less authentically human as a result.

Perhaps the key is to address that bully within. To say, “I am better than that,” is not to exalt oneself above others but to acknowledge God’s positive plan for us. We can live with others who are different--- with red and yellow, black and white, gay and straight, for they are precious in his sight. God loves people. Period. To bully one of God’s creatures is an affront to the God who made them. We don’t have to bully others to prove who we are. We just have to embrace the “Yes,” from the One who loves us always, just as we are, so we can love others just like they are. And then enjoy a life lived with that forever, “Yes.”

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is davidbwhitlock.com

Political Ads Gone Wild

Note: This should have been posted two weeks ago. Sorry for not having it in earlier


Mama always said, “Not all attention is good.”

Whew, we’ve seen the truism of mama’s dictum in political ads this campaign year. Politicians, Republican and Democrat, conservative and liberal, have in an effort to draw attention to the flaws of their opponents, used attack ads, and more often than not, drawn negative attention to themselves.

Take, for example, “The Ad,” in what is now being described as the ugliest campaign in the country, the campaign for the Kentucky U.S. Senate race between Kentucky Attorney General Jack Conway and Dr. Rand Paul. Conway’s ad draws attention to Rand Paul’s involvement in a secret society while an undergraduate at Baylor University. I do recall as an undergraduate at Baylor in the late 1970s, the group to which Paul would later belong. Known for their pranks and satirical writing, they were not taken seriously; they did not take themselves seriously. “What will they do next?” we would ask. Unfortunately for them, Baylor President Abner McCall did take them seriously, especially when some of them streaked across campus, a popular activity back then. McCall booted them and their running attire or lack thereof, off campus.

Now, Conway has used Paul’s involvement in that organization not, presumably, to attack Paul’s religion, but to expose him as part of a lunatic fringe, unfit for office. But in the process, everyone gets hurt, not just those involved in this particular political race.

Indeed the ad got attention on all the major television networks and landed Conway interviews with Matt Lauer (NBC Morning Show) and MSNBC’s “Hardball,” with Chris Mathews. Speaking of the ad, Mathews said, “I think it questions his faith.” And Lauer cited Jonathan Chait’s statement in the New Republic---which Lauer characterized as a “fairly liberal publication,”---that “This (Conway’s ad) is the ugliest, most illiberal political ad of the year.”

“That’s not exactly an award you want to win,” Lauer quipped.

The tragedy of negative ads, of which Conway’s is only the latest example, is that it brings everyone down: I wince every time I see the commercial, “Did Paul really do that?” Then I wince even more, “Did Conway really run that ad?” Stuart Rothenberg correctly dubbed the ad a “thermonuclear bomb.”

It hurts not only both candidates, but all of us, although Conway may not realize that yet. Supposing it does work, and he pulls it off, what does it say about the emerging trend in the political process?

It says to anyone with future political aspirations: “If you’ve ever, done anything inappropriate or perhaps even borderline inappropriate, it can and will be used against you.” The danger here is that we will lose qualified, effective leaders who could help America revive from a punishing recession, change the bleak economic forecast, compete with countries and their growing economies, and more effectively face the unknown challenges beyond the current horizon. We lose potential leaders’ wisdom; we lose their acumen; we lose their abilities. We all lose. Why? Because we have allowed an environment to thrive that few wish to enter. After all, who wants to put themselves or their families through political hazing? Columnist Peggy Noonan, no newcomer to American politics, recently wrote in her Wall Street Journal column about speaking with an entrepreneur, an effective leader with fresh ideas that could help our country. When Noonan urged him to enter politics, his response was, “I’ve lived an imperfect life. They’d kill me.” And they would.

Attack ads have another devastating effect: they spawn cynicism, fuel frustration, and create skepticism among the electorate. People are angry with politicians whom they no longer trust and find increasingly harder to believe. In an interview on Fox News, democratic strategist Richard Socarides defended Conway’s ad: “When the stakes are high you have to use extreme measures.” Who, then, defines, “extreme measures”? Each politician? Having wallowed into the gutter of politics, it’s difficult to shake its stench. And politicians seem surprised with an aggravated electorate.

Conway is by no means the only politician to use “extreme measures.” His ad simply happens to have the attention at the moment. And that’s the problem: Just as water flows naturally to the lowest level, so do we, unless we determine to seek higher ground. And unless we do, the political process will only get sleazier and slimier, as it slips and slides in its descent into chaos. In so doing, we all suffer; it injures all of us. And then, as we look askance at the mayhem in the political arena, which to a large degree determines our national future, we will perhaps with a tinge of sadness be reminded of that other parental warning: “Mama told me not to come.”


Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is davidbwhitlock.com