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Christmas is a winter festival. Centuries before Jesus, the winter solstice was a time to celebrate that the worst of winter was behind us. Whilst Pope Julius the First chose December the 25th for the celebration (possibly to adopt Saturnalia traditions), no one was intending us to believe that was the true date. Why on earth, for instance, would shepherds be herding in winter?
Anyway, that was my justification for attending the kitschiest of Australian inventions, Yulefest – better known as Christmas in July.
We went up to Katoomba, where they apparently invented the idea of enjoying winter feasting during actual winter. At least, that is, according to the hotel brochure. The kids enjoyed the atmosphere, the fact that every Christmas cliche had been rolled out – from gingerbread house to yule log, all gloriously out of season and yet somehow appropriate. The crisp mountain air was inviting, and they certainly spared no expense with the decorations. There were crackers, snowflake projections, and a somewhat suspicious Christmas elf (who appeared to be absent for half the night and perhaps under the influence of some yuletide intoxicant). Yet I spent much of the time in a state of marked ambivalence. I was simultaneously marveling at the impressive attention to detail, and also trying to work out if I was being a bad Christian.
The Christmas ham was perfectly done – my youngest had three servings – but I was wondering whether this was doing the right thing, even with the cloves. Was it appropriate to indulge in seasonal festivities that were, strictly speaking, out of season? Was it appropriate for me to do all this without the customary church service? Was this uncertainty inappropriate in itself, with how I was apparently conflating the frills of Christmas with the eternal gift of joy?
It was then, in that existentialist crisis borne out of an intellectual justification for needless extravagance, beset with internal conflict, that I met Santa Claus.
A gentleman arrived, with the appropriate musical cue, ringing a well-worn bell. The children gathered near him, and photos were taken. I smiled uncomfortably at the view, and noted that he did have a remarkably good outfit. The moustache was particularly ornate. I carried on with my meal, expecting him to disappear as quickly as the elf did (who had returned, although she seemed somewhat slower).
What I didn’t expect, was for Mr Claus to stay the entire night. I watched as he went from table to table, conversing with the patrons. He had a measured gait, a precision to his movements, with a singular intent to engage with every individual that was present. I suspected he was paid by time. I awkwardly said hello and watched as he engaged with my children. I waited for the act to drop, for the sarcasm to rear, for the deprecatory jokes. It never happened. Instead, Mr Claus exuded a genuineness in listening to every word that was said, and hardly spoke, but rather observed. I now had the opportunity to see the effect that he had had on the entire room and realised that every person that he met came away happier. I was now seeing it up close.
Now it was my turn. Still somewhat uncertain as to how I was supposed to engage in what was very elaborate unseasonal cosplay, he came up to me, after having spoken with my whole family.
He then simply said, “What else is there to say? It is so clear to me, that there is so much joy in you.” He patted me on the shoulder and moved on.
All the doubt simply evaporated. I had arrived at the night, as every adult does, with my own baggage, my own fears, my own misgivings, my own attempts to forget the challenges of life and permit a weekend of overeating, as a poor substitute for resolution. But I’d simply forgotten what life had given me. I’d forgotten the joy. Simple, incredible joy, that comes from everything and nothing. From achievement and letting go. From pleasant memories, and lessons learned. From love and being loved.
I’m about 90% sure that was the real Santa Claus. And that’s because Christmas, done right, exemplifies the best of us. The opportunity to celebrate togetherness, and to reflect on who we are, and who we can be. Santa Claus is not a hackneyed form of iconography. It is the spirit of generosity, a phenomenon that underlies the ultimate universal gift, and inspires us to be our best, to ourselves and to others.
Even in July.
Merry Christmas.
Neil Jeyasingam is a Clinical Associate Professor of Psychiatry and is an Associate at the Centre for Public Christianity.
