Finding Magic

At the age of eight or maybe nine, I’d already decided I didn’t really believe in God. Then, one of the boys in my school religious education class asked Pastor John the question everyone wanted to know:

“If God is true, why can’t we see him?”

Pastor John pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Just because you can’t see something, doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“Like Santa Claus?”

“Well, Santa Claus is a bit different. I’ll tell you about Santa Claus…”

***

After school, Dad picked me up. I got into the car, and flushed with urgency and accusation, my words came out in a rush:

“Dad, Pastor John says Santa Claus isn’t true.”

I don’t remember his exact response. I just remember the magic ended that day. 

The tears came then. Snotty and sobbing, I was devastated, infuriated. Dad, my brother, everyone in the whole wide world, had been lying to me all my life.

Some might say I was old enough to know the truth. Surely I must have had an inkling?

Sure, I knew by then that all the Santas in the shopping centres were only ‘helping’ Santas. The idea of an old man, a stranger, coming into my room as I slept — even if he was leaving a stocking full of goodies — also made me a little uncomfortable. But up until that school day, I’d very happily accepted that Santa Claus was true. 

I had the evidence: Santa stuffed the red homemade stockings at the end of our beds with chocolate coins, glittery bouncy balls, and stickers; he filled our oversized Santa Sacks with packs of undies and socks and colouring books; and bigger items, like inflatable pool toys and roller skates, were nicely wrapped and placed under the Christmas tree. We did quite well out of Mr Claus, but we gave gifts as well. Santa always gobbled up the mince pies we put out for him and Rudolph usually nibbled at his carrot.

You see, Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, were all part of the plan. I’d had to grow up quickly — as often happens when a child loses their mother at a young age. In spite of this, or perhaps because of this, the adults who loved me had done their best to encourage my imagination and prolong the magic of childhood in any way they could. This included promoting people and animals and whatever fairies are — things with magic powers.

And so, while I was angry and hurt to learn the truth from Pastor John, Dad was quietly fuming. That night when both of us had calmed down, and we’d agreed to pretend at least for another year that Santa was still true, Dad told me I didn’t have to go to any more RE classes if I didn’t want to. 

The next day, a little smugly, I went to school with a note for my teachers to say that I would not be attending religious education classes in the future. From then on, instead of attending RE class, I would walk down to the Grade 1 classroom to help the younger kids with their reading. I liked helping. As it turned out, it was probably the very beginning of my teaching career.

***

I wonder now why I found it so difficult to believe in God when I easily believed in a man who could apparently fly around to every child in the world in just one night. After all, in many ways, God and Santa Claus are similar. Both are things we cannot see, at least not in their human-looking forms, and I grew up being told by films and ads and school lessons that both are all-knowing and powerful. Both would look over me and if I was good, one way or other they would bring me good things. I don’t remember praying very often as a child, but I suspect that when I asked Santa or God for something, Santa delivered more often than God.

For many years I thought the reason I didn’t believe in God, and the bible and everything that went with it, was because I was raised by a man of science. As a veterinarian, Dad knew all the facts. He never told me God wasn’t true but religion wasn’t really a thing in our household, even though other members of our family believed in God and went to church.

As a child I’d seen science work. I’d put plants in soil and seen that with water and sun they would grow. I’d watched chickens hatch from eggs and blue tongue lizards die and waste away. I’d watched David Attenborough — I’d seen how baby lions were made. And I knew, even then, that Mum died because the medicine couldn’t make her better. These were facts. And I thought that if all these things were real, God couldn’t be.

I realise now that we can believe in science and a God and even fairies if we want. For me, as a child, it all came down to believing and trusting in what those closest to me said was true. I am forever thankful that I was raised to experience joy and wonder through creativity, imagination, nature, and life around us.

As an adult, I haven’t yet found a religion or a God I believe in, but part of me wishes I still believed in something up in the sky. A flying fat man in a red suit with a clean white beard and a sleigh led by industrious reindeer would do. Let’s see what happens after I’ve had a few champagnes. 

Cheers to a magical Christmas. Hopefully we can all find something to make us merry.