Her name is Rachel and she has been suffering from unexplained and violent convulsions. She seizes up and struggles to breathe. It happens every half hour to every hour. She spent a few days in a hospital, giving blood and marrow and undergoing tests and prodding, and was discharged without a diagnosis. Her family has been updating people online, and in a recent update her father quoted Psalm 91:4. “He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge.” As I read these words I imagined this family of eight huddled together in the middle of a desert, a little disoriented under an oppressive heat. And then, all of a sudden, they’re enveloped in this gloriously cool shade, under the cover of massive wings, each pinion as thick as a Cadillac but as soft as heaven. They nestle up under the wings like baby birds, and as the shade moves across the sand, so do they. They are in the process of following the shade, and we’re all praying it leads them out of this desert to somewhere with answers and healing. Please pray with us. 

I’ve been in many fights, most of them in my head. In fact, all of my fist fights have been in my mind. And I’ve won a lot of them.

I’m not sure why, but I have this ugly habit of creating confrontations in my mind. Arguments. Debates. Brawls. It’s the cynic in me. These fictional dramas are born in the same insecure spaces of my heart that house self-elevating sarcasm and lead me to expect the worst in people. 

This cynicism of mine emerges like a shark fin when I’m on social networking sites. People love to update, you know? As I read these updates I hear the Jaws theme playing in my head. I’m looking for someone to sink my teeth into. “Just enjoyed a delicious burger,” someone writes. “What a lunch!”I think to myself, who cares? I guess I just want people to stop rubbing their happiness in my face. Is that too much to ask? 

Maybe you can relate. Maybe you’re sympathetic. Maybe you’re thinking, that’s no big deal, Sean. You’re right. Who cares what they had for lunch? But here’s the thing: it doesn’t stop there. People post about getting a new job or their baby taking its first steps and I roll my eyes. These are real wins in people’s lives, but it’s as if I’ve forgotten how to “rejoice with those who rejoice.” Now, there’s definitely something to be said about simply enjoying a moment without feeling compelled to provide the Internet with a play-by-play. I think it’s getting to the point that people often look to social networking as a way of validating their lifestyles, refreshing their pages and waiting for a “like” or a comment or a retweet. But that doesn’t justify my cynicism, acting like a miserable curmudgeon whenever someone shares good news—even if that news is as trivial as eating a delicious burger. 

I’m beginning to realize that silliness is a great counteragent to cynicism. Be ridiculous and absurd in your support of other people. Go over the top with your enthusiasm as you read their status updates. Become cartoonish in your celebration of others: clap your hands over your cheeks, go all bug-eyed, gasp, say oh my, whistle with jubilation. It may seem pretty disingenuous at first, but it’ll grow on you. Like C.S. Lewis said, “Do not waste time bothering whether you ‘love’ your neighbor; act as if you did. As soon as we do this we find one of the great secrets. When you are behaving as if you loved someone, you will presently come to love him.”

I once watched a special on television about guys—I’m talking adult males, fathers and husbands—who visit Comic-Con every year dressed as Jedi. But they aren’t just playing dress up. These men believe, deep down in their souls, that they are force-wielding protectors of the universe. Jedi Masters. I watched the special and snickered a little. But I also felt sort of sad. Who hasn’t stretched out their arm toward an out-of-reach remote control when they were younger, curling their fingers and contorting their hands, attempting to summon the remote with their minds? But most people grow out of these illusions.

I believe in resurrection. Not metaphorically or anything like that. Literally. I believe that the dead will live again. I’ve lost some of you. Your minds have gone to zombies and “The Walking Dead.” You’ve snickered a bit, just as I did at the middle-aged Jedi. But you also feel sorry for me. Poor kid hasn’t grown out of the fantasy, you might be thinking. That’s OK. 

Have you ever lost a loved one? If you have then you know that the nature of grief is a lot like the nature of joy. At least at first. What I mean is, crying is a lot like laughing, the way it forms in your stomach and moves through your chest like a parade. But once grief reaches your throat it catches, almost choking you, and then it spreads behind your face and stings your eyes.  

For as long as I can remember I’ve heard that grief has stages: denial, guilt, anger, loneliness, and at some point acceptance.

My last post was about my dog, Bert, dying. But he’s not the only dog I’ve lost. More recently I lost another dog, Heidi. I found her in the hallway of my home. No euthanasia this time. Just old age. In her sleep. I knew she was dead, because she was cold and stiff, but also because of the grief and the stinging sensation in my eyes. I put my hand on the white tuft of hair on her chest. No heartbeat. I held my hand in front of her nose. No breathing. But I could have sworn I saw her move. I studied her, waiting to see if she would move again. She didn’t. I dug a deep hole. I covered her up in a blanket. But I was reluctant to put her in the ground. I kept feeling for a heartbeat. I held a mirror in front of her nose waiting for it to fog. I went online and googled “How to check for a dog’s pulse.” What if she isn’t dead? I thought. I guess this might seem a little neurotic or delusional, but it’s not like I don’t believe in death—I accept it as a fact of life. I just don’t have any trouble believing in life after the fact. 

Paul said that if Jesus hasn’t been raised then our words and our faith are all in vain. If we only have hope in Jesus in this life then we are to be pitied above all people, more than the middle-aged Jedi. I can live with that because Jesus, unlike Obi-Wan Kenobi, is historical. He walked the earth. He died. And I’m convinced he lives. I’m convinced of this for more reasons than I have time to share or words to express. In simplest terms, I believe because he changed my life and does so on a fairly regular bases. I ended up burying Heidi. They ended up burying Jesus. Heidi is under a flower bed now. Jesus isn’t. 

*An old journal entry. Can’t remember if I’ve posted this before, but I came across it this morning and thought I’d share. 

What a tragedy, to realize what life is all about just as the life is leaving your eyes. But Bert knew. Well before the cataracts and cancer, Bert knew.

I was nine years old when Booth, my mom’s now ex-boyfriend, introduced me to the puppy he had impulsively adopted. Booth named him Bert, after a dog he had growing up. Bert was a mutt—probably a mix of border collie and chow—smuggled in an overgrowth of jet black fur with an island of white on his chest. Bert turned out to be a good fit in our little family, but Booth wasn’t. So when Booth left, Bert stayed behind with us.

Over a decade gone by and I still remember him as a puppy: his sharp white teeth, his puppy breath before it took on the smell of a fish market, the way his head cocked at the discovery of something new, and the speed at which he became spellbound by my mom, as evidenced whenever she walked through the door.

When I returned home from school he would greet me with the proverbial tail wag, but when my mom returned home from work it was a different story altogether. To my eyes, mom returned home as she always did, dropping the mail on the dinner table and kicking off her high heals. But I’m convinced that Bert saw something else entirely, something more theatrical: the door swinging open to reveal my mom’s silhouette, a halo of sunlight outlining her, perhaps. It was like some strange form of alchemy, wherein an ordinary and everyday event magically became a seminal moment in Bert’s life. Mom’s arrival, like my own, received the standard tail wag, except that this time the tremor made its way through the rest of Bert’s body until he resembled a flag blowing in the wind. Evidently this was what he had been waiting for all day.

One afternoon, before Booth had left the picture, he took Bert out for a drive. Bert was in the flatbed of his truck and at some point between start and finish he fell out. While he was missing everyday felt endless, dragging along like the last day of classes before summer break. The phone would ring and we would answer, praying for news that Bert had been found. Every disappointment felt like a broken promise, but after a couple of inconsolable weeks we finally received the call we had been waiting for.

“We found your dog,” said a voice on the other end of the line. It felt like a resurrection. I’ll never forget what they said when we arrived to pick up Bert. 

“He was just sitting on the side of the highway under a tree, like he was waiting on someone.” No sooner did Bert see my mom then it became clear to us all who he had been waiting for: the flag was blowing once again.

As the years went by Bert became more protective and less social. So much so that we often had to isolate him while company was over, for fear he might bite someone. His jet black hair showed traces of gray and his eyes became shadowy with cataracts. But one thing never changed: Bert’s unspoiled love for my mom. People marveled at their interaction, as if watching a lion tamer put his head in the mouth of the beast.

On his last day with us, Bert enjoyed the simple pleasures of milk bones, car rides, air conditioning, and belly rubs. Our veterinarian, Thad, came over that evening. We talked, ate dinner, and fed Bert some scraps before beginning our long goodbyes. Thad explained to us that Bert would receive two shots. The first shot to relax him and keep him comfortable, and then the second to lull him into endless sleep. The first shot was powerful enough to put down a football team, he told us, and even if the second shot wasn’t administered there was no going back. Thad’s words reminded me of the apothecary’s warning in Romeo and Juliet. “If you had the strength of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.” This time there would be no phone call revealing that Bert had been found; the finality of it all was overwhelming. 

The first shot. Seconds passed, then minutes. Bert became lethargic and lay down in the living room. His eyes closed and his heartbeat slowed. I was at his head, Thad sat next to me at Bert’s midsection, and my mom knelt at his hind legs.

The conclusive second shot. Seconds passed, Bert’s eyes remained closed, but suddenly and without warning he woke with a start. In a rush of adrenaline he lifted his head and looked left and right until he found my mom. He stretched towards her, licked her across the face, and then lay back down and closed his eyes for the last time.

Bonnie Ware, a former palliative care nurse, spent years working with the terminally ill and compiled a list of the top five regrets expressed by her patients. Among the most common regrets were unfulfilled dreams, neglecting loved ones, and not expressing true feelings. At some point everyone must say goodbye, as those who are left behind and, in the end, as those who are leaving. The question is, will the goodbye be characterized by regret, or like Bert’s goodbye will it be a reflection of the kind of life lived. Bert was guilty of several things, like snarling at company and eating my crispy chicken sandwich from Wendy’s, but he certainly wasn’t guilty of unfulfilled dreams, neglecting loved ones, or not expressing true feelings. Sometimes dog’s can be truer than people. 

It’s been said a million different ways by a million different people—including Gandhi, Jonathan Edwards, and even the country music philosopher Tim McGraw—but I learned it best from a dog: live like you will wish you had lived from your deathbed. Bert’s final moment wasn’t some deathbed epiphany, like a dad saying, “I should have spent less time at the office and more time at home.” If anything it was a deathbed confirmation, that he had known all along what many people only realize at the end of their lives: life is indeed short, and what’s more, regrettable if you have not been true, if you have not loved. Bert might as well have lifted his head and said, “I’ve always loved you and I always will. No regrets.”  

One of my favorite movies is Dan in Real Life. In one scene Dan, played by Steve Carell, has just kicked his daughter’s boyfriend out of the house, much to his daughter’s dismay. His daughter howls as she chases the car taking him away. She stops, turns, and through the tears screams at Dan, “You are a murderer of love!”  

Marie, Dan’s love interest, remarks, “That’s sweet.”  

“How is that sweet?” asks Dan.

“To be that certain, to feel that much love,” replies Marie.

Bert taught me that love is with you in the comforts of home, as well as under unfamiliar trees next to chaotic highways. It teaches you to wait, turns ordinary moments into gold, guards against deathbed regret, and even staves off euthanasia long enough for you to say goodbye, just one more time. I envied Bert, and still do, to be that certain, to feel that much love.  

A duck fell in love with a rock. It was a large rock, about the size of a duck actually, that
was situated off the bank of the river, a little past the old elm.

Every day after lunch, the duck would saunter off to admire the rock for a while.

“Where are you going?” said the other ducks.

“Nowhere,” said the duck. “Just around.”

But the other ducks knew exactly where he was going. And they all laughed at him behind his back.

“Stupid duck is in love with a rock,” they snickered. “Wonder what kind of ducklings they will have.”

But there was one duck, a girl duck, who did not laugh. She had known the strange duck for a long time and had always found him to be a good and decent bird. She felt sorry for him. It was hard luck to fall in love with a rock. She wanted to help, but what could she do?

She trailed after the duck and watched him woo the rock from behind a tree.

“I love you,” the duck was saying. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you more than the stars in the sky. I love you more than the fish in the river. I love you more than, more than—” And there he stopped for he could think of nothing else that existed.

“Life itself?” said the girl duck from behind the tree. She hadn’t meant to pipe up. The words just sort of leapt out of her.

The duck spun around to look at her. He was terrified.

“It’s OK,” said the girl duck, waddling out from behind the tree. “I know you’re in love with the rock. In fact, everyone knows.”

“They do?” said the duck.

“Yes,” said the girl duck. “Yes, they do.”

The duck sighed and sat down on the ground. If he had had hands, he would have buried his head in them.

“What am I going to do?” he said. “What am I going to do?”

“Do?” the girl duck said.

“How can it go on like this?” Said the duck. “I love a thing that can not speak, can not move, can not— I don’t even know how it feels about me.”

The girl duck looked at the rock. She didn’t know what to say.

“I know,” said the duck, “you think I’m crazy. You think it’s just a rock. But it isn’t just a rock. It’s different. It’s very different.” He looked at the rock.

“But something has to happen,” he said, “and soon. Because my heart will break if this goes on much longer.”

That night, the girl duck had a hard time sleeping. She kept paddling around in circles, thinking about the rock, and the duck, and his heart that might break.

She thought long and hard. And before morning, she had an idea. She went and woke up the strange duck.

“Things happen when they must,” she said, as if it were an extremely meaningful statement.

“So?” said the duck.

“So I have a plan,” said the girl duck, “and I think that it will work.”

“Well, what is it?” said the duck, nearly bursting with excitement.

“We will need help,” said the girl duck. “And it will take some time. And also, we will need a cliff.”

Two days later they set out. It took four ducks to carry the rock. They worked in teams and traded off every 15 minutes.

Everyone joined in, even though they laughed, for ducks are all brothers when it comes right down to it.

“The cliff is over that hill and then quite a ways to the south,” said the most elderly duck. “I remember flying over it when I was fledgling. It looked like the edge of the world.”

The ducks trudged on under their rocky weight for hours. For hours, and then for days.

At night, they camped under hedges and strange trees, and ate beetles and frogs.

“Do you think it will be much farther?” said one of the ducks.

“Maybe,” said the old duck. “My memory is not so good anymore.”

On the sixth day, the ducks began to tire.

“I don’t believe there is a cliff,” said one of them.

“Me neither,” said another. “I think the old duck is crazy.”

“My back hurts,” said a third duck. “I want to go home.”

“Me too,” said a fourth. “In fact, I’m going to.”

And then, all the ducks began to turn for home. The rock fell to the forest floor and lay there. The strange duck looked imploringly at the girl duck.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t leave you.”

They watched all the other ducks flee homeward. And then they hoisted the rock onto their backs and trudged on.

“What do you think will happen when we throw it off the cliff?” said the duck.

“I don’t know,” said the girl duck. “I just know it will be something.”

Finally, they came to the edge of the cliff. The drop-off was so great they couldn’t see the ground. Just great white clouds spread out before them, like an endless, rolling cotton blanket.

“It looks so soft,” said the duck.

“Yes, it does,” said the girl duck. “Are you ready?”

The duck looked at the rock.

“This is it, my love,” he said, “the moment of truth. And whatever happens, please remember, always remember, I love you.”

And the two ducks hurled the rock off the cliff together.

At first the rock simply fell “like a rock,” one might say. “Like a stone.” But then something began to happen.

It began to slow. It began to grow. It began to change. It narrowed. It elongated. And it also spread sideways.

“It’s becoming a bird,” the girl duck said.

And it was. It was becoming a beautiful gray bird, really not that unlike a duck. Its wings began to move slowly up and down, up and down. And it dove down, and then coasted up. It looked back over its shoulder at the two ducks on the cliff, and it called out just once, “Good bye.”

And then it was going, going, getting smaller and smaller, flying off over the blanket across the sky.

When they reached the pond, the other ducks gathered around and clamored to hear what had happened. The duck and the girl duck glanced at each other.

“Nothing,” said the girl duck. “It fell.”

In the days that followed, the duck stayed to himself. The girl duck went and swan around in circles. She thought about that rocky bird flying off into the sky. She saw it over and over in her mind.

And then one day, not too many days later, she looked and saw the duck come swimming up. He was carrying a small salamander in his bill.

“For me?” the girl duck said.

And the duck smiled.

(This story is from Ben Loory’s book, “Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day.”)

(I know we’re three weeks into 2012 and everyone else was much more prompt about sharing their favorite albums of 2011; however, I only recently read this article by my friend Chris, who often interviews bands and writes about music. Anyway, I thought it was great and wanted to share.) 

2011 produced a large amount of great and memorable music from longstanding musicians and bands to brand new artists to local favorites. This list is in no way comprehensive, but here are 11 albums from 2011 that hopefully will serve as a guide for any releases that you might have missed out on this year. 

Arthur Alligood, I Have Not Seen the Wind: The third full-length record from Tennessee singer/songwriter Arthur Alligood builds on his patented poetic lyrics and storytelling as well as his blend of folk, country, Americana, and alternative pop/rock. Download: “Keep Your Head Up,” “Gavel,” and “Come On Something.”

The Decemberists, The King Is Dead: Colin Meloy and company deliver a completely different record than their 2009 rock opera, The Hazards of Love. The blend of folk and Americana prove that The Decemberists are one of the most versatile acts in music today. Download: “Don’t Carry It All,” “January Hymn,” and “This Is Why We Fight.”

The Horrible Crowes, Elsie: The debut album of Gaslight Anthem’s frontman Brian Fallon is a much more subdued effort than his main band’s The Clash/Springsteen-influenced sound, but he maintains his energetic vocals, which push the record forward. Download: “Crush,” “I Witnessed A Crime,” and “Cherry Blossoms.”

Fleet Foxes, Helplessness Blues: One of the most anticipated albums of the year, Helplessness Blues does not disappoint. With overt folk tones, gorgeous harmonies, and poetic lyrics, The Fleet Foxes will most likely go on to be one of the biggest bands of the decade. Download: “Helplessness Blues,” “Battery Kinzie” and “Grown Ocean.’’

The Great Book of John, The Great Book of John: The full-length from Birmingham’s The Great Book of John garnered them a number of accolades, including being named the “American Radiohead” by a few critics.  The record expands on Taylor Shaw’s innovative songwriting which drew comparisons to Pink Floyd, Bob Dylan, and Jeff Buckley. Download: “Brown Frown,” “Wiseblood,” and “Simple Things.”

War Jacket, Live Like You’re Going Home: War Jacket is the brainchild of Birmingham photographer and Grey Haven Community co-founder, Caleb Chancey, and features the baritone ukelele as the primary instrument, creating a uniquely ambient sound. Download: “The Core,” “Robert and Jesse,” and “White Picket Cross.”

The Head and the Heart, The Head and the Heart: One of my favorite debut albums of this year, this Seattle folk act delivers beautiful songs of heartache and captures the soul with gorgeous male and female harmonies. Download: “Down in the Valley” and “Lost in My Mind.” 

Bon Iver, Bon Iver: Though this record is a completely different animal than the bare bones For Emma, Forever and may not have the memorable story that marks Justin Vernon’s debut effort, Bon Iver still contains lush instrumentation and melodies that should not be ignored. Download “Holocene” and “Towers.”

The Civil Wars, Barton Hollow: The chance meeting of John Paul White and Joy Williams at a Nashville songwriting conference allowed The Civil Wars to become one of the biggest overnight successes of 2011. Download: “Poison and Wine,” “Barton Hollow” and “Falling.” 

John Mark Mcmillan, Economy:  Bruce Springsteen’s legacy is carrying on through bands such as The Hold Steady, The Gaslight Anthem, and now through Charlotte singer/songwriter, John Mark McMillan. McMillan takes the musical energy of Springsteen and the achingly honest lyrics of Jeff Tweedy to produce a memorable sound with universally spiritual themes. Download: “Daylight,” “Economy” and “Chemicals.” 

Ryan Adams, Ashes and Fire: Ryan Adams returns with an album that harkens back to the sound of his debut, Heartbreaker. The subdued instrumentation creates the perfect soundtrack for a rainy day or a drive through town late at night. Download: “Dirty Rain” and “Lucky Now.” 

(What were some of your favorite albums from 2011?) 

THE PROVERBIAL NEW YEAR’S BLOG

I’m going to try with all my effort to avoid any of the cliched New Year’s encouragements and challenges, because I know that cliches, although many are honest and true and good, have the ability to kill a person’s attention span like seventh grade biology class. 

I wondered, How best to avoid the cliches? Then it hit me. Talk about someone else. Don’t talk about yourself. Don’t talk about the anonymous souls who find themselves reading this post. Don’t talk about the inflated gym memberships or the skyrocketing sales of diet literature this time of year. Talk about someone else. But who? After watching the above video, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind, Ben was the answer to that question.

Ben died at the age of eighteen on Christmas night. (Stay with me. This isn’t some gloom and doom, Debbie Downer post. I promise.) Less than a week before his death Ben posted a video on Youtube sharing his story. Ben battled with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy (HCM), a dangerous heart condition, his entire life, and according to his video he cheated death on three occasions. During his third near-death experience he passed out in the hallway of his school. It was December 6th, 2011. As the medics tried resuscitating him, Ben found himself in a white room. Here’s how he described the experience: 

“I was wearing a really nice suit, and so was my favorite rapper, Kid Cudi. Why he was the only one there with me, I’m still trying to figure out. But I was looking at myself in this mirror that was in front of me. The first thing I thought was, ‘Damn we look good!’ I had that same feeling of peace, I couldn’t stop smiling. I then looked at myself in the mirror, I was proud of myself, of my entire life, everything I have done. It was the best feeling. Kid Cudi brought me to a glass desk and put his hand on my shoulder. Right then my favorite song of his came on, ‘Mr. Rager.’ The part where it said, ‘When will the fantasy end… When will the heaven begin?’ I didn’t want to leave that place. I wish I never woke up. Do you believe in Angels or God? I do.” 

Resolve to read more books, to watch less TV, to lose a few pounds, to learn a new skill. That’s all well and good, but after watching Ben’s video and reading his story, I can’t help but ask myself a question: will I, like Ben, be proud at the end of my life? We all make mistakes and collect regrets over the years, but will we have peace, will we smile, will we be proud at the end of it all? Jonathan Edwards wrote out a list of resolutions around the age of twenty, and read them allowed to himself every week for the rest of his life. One of his resolutions seems especially appropriate: “Resolved, that I will live so as I shall wish I had done when I come to die.”

As the new year approaches, maybe try and look at life with a deathbed perspective. In order to determine what’s really important, what really matters, imagine what you will value and treasure during your final days on this planet. Whatever that is, make that a resolution of your life, not simply a goal of 2012. 

I didn’t know Ben, but I’d like to think that heaven has begun and he still can’t stop smiling. 

Last Sunday I visited a church to see my friends, Cam and Chris, perform an advent song they had written. The song was wonderful, as was the overall atmosphere in the room. As Cam and Chris stood at the microphone singing words of remembrance and anticipation, a little girl in a black and crimson holiday dress sprinted up and down the center aisle. She laughed and squealed as she ran from the stage at the front of the room to the snack table at the back wall. The great thing about it: no one rolled their eyes. People listened as my friends strummed their guitars behind some words about Jesus, and everyone smiled as this little girl ran back and forth.

As the girl was breathlessly making one of her trips toward the back of the room, an older gentleman sitting in front of me reached out his hand and offered her a high-five. The little girl stopped and stared silently at the big, old, calloused hand hanging in the air. Her eyes danced back and forth from his grinning face to his outreached palm. She grabbed at her dress. She shuffled back and forth in her shiny black shoes. She stuck her finger in her nose and she ran away.

“Silent Night” is one of my favorite Christmas songs, but someone once told me that it’s pretty unrealistic. “It shouldn’t be called ‘Silent Night,’” he said. “It should be called be called ‘Loud, Screaming, Crying Night.’ Jesus was a baby. A real baby. And real babies cry and scream.” He made a good point. 

However unrealistic it may be, “Silent Night” remains a favorite Christmas song of mine, but I’m also grateful for the realities of Jesus’ birth. God became a baby. The words look funny on a computer screen. They sound funny rolling out of my mouth. Some people don’t like that so much, the bit about God becoming a baby. Why would a god reduce himself to nursing from a human’s breast, relying on a person to clean up after him and feed him and rock him to sleep? Why would a god reduce himself to the red-faced, desperate, choking-like cries of a baby, a mask of hot tears and snot?

But I think it’s for this very reason that the life of Jesus resonates with so many. God came down as a baby. How much more humble and unassuming can you get? After the little girl shoved her finger up her nose and darted away, it dawned on me that Jesus was probably pretty keen on nose-picking. If, like I was told, Jesus was a “real baby,” then he certainly wasn’t above sticking his finger up his nose.

He arrived in such an unexpected and unlikely fashion that the most religious of the day didn’t even like him all that much. God became a person to share the human experience, to fix the human experience, to merge the human experience with the divine. Jesus fused the story of humanity with the story of divinity like never before, and as long as people are people, and as long as God is God, the life of Jesus Christ will remain as poignant as ever.

I was recently catching up on my Justin Bieber trivia and learned that the Biebs didn’t believe in Santa growing up. He explained in an interview that his mom didn’t want him believing in Santa because she feared that upon revealing that the jolly, chubby, apple-cheeked man didn’t exist her son may begin distrusting the things she had told him about God. To Bieber’s credit, he didn’t spoil it for the rest of his friends who did believe in Santa. 

This logic is pretty common: if I tell my kids that there is a Santa Claus and a God, and then a few years down the road reveal that Santa doesn’t actually exist, it follows that my children will begin doubting the existence of God. Let me say straight away that I don’t have anything against those who subscribe to this way of thinking. I have some friends whose parents raised them without the Santa mythology, and I respect it. However, I grew up believing in Mr. Claus and I think I turned out just shy of average, which I consider a win. 

(What follows is a case for the Santa mythology, not a case against those who forgo it.)

“I don’t want to lie to my kids.” This is an argument I hear from time to time, to which I say, “Fair enough.” But it seems to me that this argument paints other parents who share Santa with their children in a negative light.

Kids are going to use their imaginations. It’s inevitable, there’s no getting around it, and I think most would agree it’s a beautiful thing. Even children in concentration camps played games and enjoyed make-believe. I don’t imagine any of us would have dared approach a Jewish child and told him that his makeshift toy was a fraud, a forgery, a work of fiction, which begs a few questions.

Is a parent under some kind moral obligation to preface every cartoon and game by explaining that the entertainment is make-believe? Personally, I don’t think so.

If parents don’t begin every bedtime story and fairytale with a warning, “What I’m about to share with you is a work of fiction,” does that make them liars? I think most people would agree the answer is no. 

Now, what about if we play along? My little cousin thinks that she is a panda, and I treat her like a panda. And I plan on drinking from empty teacups with my daughter the princess and playing ball with my boy the professional athlete. Are we doing any damage to a child if we play along and encourage them to get lost in fantasies? 

Certain Christians say yes. Ironically, so do certain atheists. The former often asserts that it’s damaging to the development of the child’s faith, while the latter claims it’s damaging to the child’s mind. Some Christians feel that believing in Santa makes trusting God all the more difficult as a child ages, while some atheists feel that believing in Santa actually paves the way for religious faith. 

I first learned of a 2008 “Santa study” after reading an article written for The Wall Street Journal by Tony Woodlief. The Université de Montréal and the University of Ottawa researched the affects of kids believing in Santa, and what they discovered was that children aren’t particularly bothered after learning that Santa isn’t real. Serge Larivée, a psycho-education professor at the Université de Montréal, said that not only is believing in Santa not damaging to a child, learning that Santa isn’t real actually becomes a kind of “right of passage” for children; like another notch in the doorway to show a child he or she is getting taller, learning that Santa isn’t real “becomes a rite of passage in that [children] know they are no longer babies.” 

The researchers also noted that although kids eventually leave Santa behind with other artifacts from their childhood, they persist in believing in God. In other words, although children eventually grow out of Santa, they seem to grow into God. I would say, in the words of Solomon, that this is because “God has put eternity in the human heart.”

To hold to Christian beliefs is to believe in the amazing and extraordinary, and it’s for that very reason that Christians the likes of G.K. Chesterton and C.S. Lewis found fairy tales so indispensable. Like Chesterton and Lewis, I see no harm in protecting the imaginative spirit of a child. In fact, I see only good in it. As Lewis wrote in one of his essays, “For me, reason is the natural organ of truth; but imagination is the organ of meaning.” G.K. Chesterton adds to the defense of imagination: “mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom. I am not in any sense attacking logic: I only say that this danger does lie in logic, not in imagination.” 

The Christian faith is extraordinary, and I would argue along with Lewis, Chesterton, and others that extraordinary tales of our making help prepare our hearts for the most extraordinary story ever told, a story not of our making.  As Chesterton put it when describing his journey to God, “I had always believed that the world involved magic: now I thought that perhaps it involved a magician.”