Something on my Mind: I Believe in the Spirit of Santa

You've just read the title of this column and you assume the worst: Has Funston, you say to yourself, gone batty? Have his students  driven him around the bend, finally? (Well, “I don't think” and “maybe.”)

Before you rush out to buy me something for my mental breakdown, hold on. Let me start with what I don't mean, as some things are best explained by what they're not.

When I speak of Santa Claus, I am not—I repeat, Not—speaking of some fat guy in a red suit and white beard that defies the laws of gravity, environment, time zones, and AirMiles. Nor am I commenting on his ability to zip around the world on a sleigh, being pulled by a herd of reindeer with goofy names and red noses.

No, Santa is a figment of some ad agencies imagination, no matter what historical roots he has. I understand that there may be a Saint Nicholas from western Europe (Holland) a century or two ago, but that guy bore little resemblance to this guy.

So, no, Virginia, there isn't a Santa Claus.

You will notice that I said something about the “spirit” of Santa, not Santa himself. In fact, I suggest to you that one reason that the myth of Santa is so prevalent these past few decades is because of the lack of the spirit of Santa.

This spirit includes the following (and you may want to add more later):

1. The spirit of Santa is about being there--that mature, well-weathered friend who come around just to be present. He looks like the embodiment of happy wisdom and seasoned life skills. Today, he may be represented by those persons we call grandparents, favourite uncles or aunts, or just long-time friends. There is something inherently special about people who come into our lives simply to be there, even if it's only once a year. They stay around but not for too long, are upbeat but not too goofy. They are a safe and soothing presence in our lives.

2. The spirit of Santa is about giving—giving time, money, presents, even a listening ear. It is so much easier to face the day or the problem when surrounded by giving people. I know for myself that I enjoy being around people who are like that. And I like to think I do that for others.

3. The spirit of Santa is about meeting felt needs. Once the baubles are in the wastebasket, the tinsel is on the floor, and the presents are returned to Walmart, there is still an emptiness at Christmas that presents and turkey can't fill. The spirit of Santa is a person, not a thing; it's relationships, not things.

4. The spirit of Santa is about everything that is real and genuine; thus, it can be copied, counterfeited, and captured by those who want to use it to their own advantage. We see that today, and it's one of my motivations to write about it now. Even if there was a historical figure, it's unfortunate that forces at odds with that fact have hijacked the meaning of that person and have turned him into something quite different.

One of the challenges of loving history, theology, and accuracy, is that it often produces a counter-perspective on life's customs today. Many of you may have an idea where I am going with this, and I welcome your measured (dis)agreement with me. Just make sure you follow the same rules that I do, namely, base your opposition on history, theology, and accuracy.

You see, Santa is a counterfeit of something (better stated, someone) very real. Or better, the myth is the counterfeit, but the spirit is not counterfeit. As stated a few paragraphs before, Santa's presence—no, Maurice, not Santa's presents—reveals that there are some heart-felt humanity issues at stake here, often revealed at (but not limited to) the Christmas season. Part of this is because of the excessive emphasis on fun, family, and friends.

Yes, I believe there was a something resembling today's Santa, but I don't go to Holland to find him. I go to Israel. In terms of disciplines, I use history, geography, astronomy, theology, and economics to confirm everything. I see some daring similarities of what the spirit of Santa is with the one I'm referring to, and I find it a little unnerving. Or maybe that would be exciting.

Do what you want to do with the myth of Santa; just don't forget to embrace the spirit of Santa. If so, your world will be a better place for it, all year-round.

Something on my Mind: Hugs-R-Us

You will not believe one of the latest ventures I just read about. While it may be a new venture, it's not a new practice. It's an old habit that has been turned into a business. Lovers do it, grandmas do it, old friends do it. Even forest-anarchists do it.

It's a word that starts with an “h” and ends with a “g,” and it involves “you” (a terrific play on words, Maurice).

If you said h-u-g, you get to snuggle with a stranger-- that entrepreneurial young woman in Portland, Oregon, who—get this—cuddles with other people for a living. Most of us hug for free—she hugs for a fee.

Based on her rates and her projected customers, she could make thousands of dollars a month Not a bad haul at all. That's almost as much as a hockey player, only they hug just when they score a goal.

That is a bizarre amount, and while probably won't get it on a regular basis, it just goes to show you what a little ingenuity and initiative can get you. The figure was based on the phone calls, texts, and emails that she got. Her rate is a dollar a minute dollars per hour, multiplied by the number of enquiries.

I am responding to this news at different levels, fodder for the rest of this column.

First, I am thrilled to see something different, in terms of a new business. Not frozen sweets, not another fast food outlet, not yet another clothing store. Not part of a chain, not a joint-venture, not a re-making of an old venture.

In other words, no booze, no chews, no hues.

The closest vocation would be a massage therapist, chiropractor, or reflexologist...sort of. However, I think each of these professionals would be up in arms with me lumping their skills in with this practice.

“Up in arms” is a tempting bait for a quip, but I refrain.

Hugs are a commodity that do not involve inventory, shelf life, or back orders—though I'm tempted to (once again) get quippy about the words “back order.”

Second, I am worried that something so innocuous could turn into something vile. Two bodies, tightly wound together, one bed—do the math. Will it happen? I can't judge, but humans tend to gravitate towards depravity, not towards piety, you know.

Everything appears public and under those ubiquitous surveillance cameras, so let's cross our fingers. I am thinking of the type of customer that continuous cuddling may may attract on occasion. I am not thinking of the proprietor herself.

Third, and this is the kicker, why do we have to put hugs in a box, so to speak, and commercialize them? Is there actually a price tag for hugging? Hugging at what cost (pun intended)? I think the very fact that turning hugs into a business venture is clearly an indication of a greater, bigger, and deeper problem in our culture.

I certainly don't hug like I should—but I do send a lot of emails. But that's absurd, thinking that something cold and electronic can take the place of something warm and personal. No matter how many exclamation marks one uses in one's text, emails are not the same as a hug.

We may think that homeless kids, widowed mothers, and disaffected teenagers all need hugs. Very true, but so does that successful businessman, that competent female teacher, that macho rancher. Even a county-famous columnist could do with a hug or two.

Hugs are the cheapest, quickest, and happiest way to express love, affirmation, and connection, all in one simple squeeze. Granted, there are hugs and then there are hugs. The most appropriate in my view between guys and gals are the side-by-side ones. I think being sensitive as to hugging is good; touching in sensitive areas is not good. Today we would call that “inappropriate touching.”

This American hug shop is a clever idea, but it reveals how far we have fallen in terms of appropriate intimacy. Husbands don't hug wives (mea culpa) like they should; parents don't hug kids like they should. Good-byes are often limited to a fairly warm handshake or a simple wave of the hand.

Hugs are close-up and personal; hugs send the message that one person wants to be close to another, without the ghastly inappropriateness that some touching can produce. Like any other form of touching, we need to be careful how, when, where, who, and why.

But there's no question about the what: Arms are made for hugging, not fighting.

Something on my Mind: A Good Death

I don't know if anyone missed me, but I was away in Vancouver this past weekend. I had to drop everything, re-arrange an already-busy schedule, in order to attend a friend's funeral. He wasn't a young man, per se: He was probably sixteen to twenty years my senior, though he never discussed his age with me.

It was a new type of funeral—you know, burial first, then the service. I kind of like it myself. I don't question why people rarely avoid funeral services where the body is present, along with all the accompanying morbidity.

My friend—we'll call him Len—had lived a good, full life. He had raised five children, spent years growing a successful insurance business, and spent many months out of many years helping out in missions work in El Salvador, the birthplace of his wife, Silvia. In fact, he learned the language and the culture well, two things I that never did during my one-year teaching stint there.

Life had a twisted end for Len, at least during his last two years. Despite his years of service, his positive contributions to society, and his pro-active faith, he suffered from all sorts of cancer. In fact, everytime I tried to talk to him over the past year or so, I could literally hear a deterioration in his voice, cognitive skills, and perspective.

One of the greatest blows within those last two years was when he had to bury one of his daughters. He had already buried another daughter years ago, owing to some moral missteps. This most recent death, however, was owing to missteps of another sort, namely, she literally slipped on some steps and suffered some very serious head damage. She succumbed to those injuries just a few days after her fall.

As a friend and a fellow-Christian, I wonder about these circumstances that befell Len. And I know that I am not the first one to ask the big question, “Why?” Why do good people suffer bad things? Why do we suffer so much pain and disappointment, in every sense?

Then there's the question of an apparently impotent Being—I'll call Him God, if you don't mind (and actually, I'll still call Him God, even if you do mind)--Who seems incapable or at least unable to stop the pain.

Not so, of course, but we have erased God from the public arena, with Christmas being the latest event under attack. Not sure how much I can develop this thought in a column without some of the populace getting up in arms. However, I'm sure many of my readers have a spiritual bent.

Back to Len. I was amazed at the upbeat nature of the funeral service. We will all miss him, but we all had fond memories of a life well-lived, of a death well-faced. According to his understanding of the Good Book, he knew where he was going, to a place called heaven, where there is no pain or disappointment, no grief or sorrow.

And no angels strumming harps on fluffy clouds, either.

This funeral was a reality check for me at different levels. I saw many of my friends from the past and noticed how they had aged. Of course, I had too. I saw the sadness yet the joy in those left behind, and most of them shared Len's hope of life beyond life, if you will. And I saw life (and death) in a slightly new perspective: We're not here for a long time--nor a good time, by the way. We are here for a full time, and we need to make the most of it.

I feel fine today, but that may change by tomorrow. Three years ago, Len would have said the same thing. He didn't anticipate a two-year run of cancerous masses, excruciating pain, and constant trips to the hospital. He didn't know that the next significant death on his timetable within those two years would his eldest daughter.

He was here, and now he's gone. We're all better for the gift of his life, and strange to say it, the gift of his death. It was good to reflect on the things that matter, and dying is one of them. We try to avoid it, re-name it, excuse it, and deny it, but it does happen once in a lifetime to all of us, 100% of the time.

It is my earnest desire that when it comes to my turn to pass on, there may be as many people moved to tears and laughter, fond memories, and impact statements as I saw the other day. I would think you want the same.

I also want to make sure that when it comes to dying, I will have no regrets, no remorse, and give no resistance.