'Twas the Sunday pre-Christmas: a cautionary tale

I do not often sympathise with Anglican vicars, but I did feel a mite of solidarity with the Reverend Simon Tatton-Brown of St Andrew's Church, Chippenham, Wilts., when I heard his unfortunate story. Caught short by the demands of a nativity address, he decided to regale his infant congregation with fables of Nicholas of Myra restoring to life three children who had been pickled by a wicked butcher to be sold as ham. Had I been there, quite apart from the obvious, I could have told him that you mess with any iteration of this gentleman at your peril. You see, I once made the unforeseen error of mishandling the modern take on the bearded one. Apparently, even in some Dissenting congregations, to fail to revere Santa Claus is a fearful mistake to make. Here is my tale of woe. May it serve as a warning for fellow ministers.

UPDATE: To clarify: yes, it really did happen; no, the violence is embellished for comic effect but everything else is true to life; yes, we do call Santa the Christmas Clown in my house; yes, I have no particular appetite for Christmas as a whole; yes, I may have overstated the case about telling your children the truth, but I think that there's a good-sized kernel of truth there; no, it's more a bit of fun, and I hope that you enjoy it.

'Twas the Sunday pre-Christmas ~ a cautionary tale

'Twas the Sunday pre-Christmas, and all through the church,
On the laps of their parents the children did perch.
All sitting agog in great anticipation
Of the visiting preacher's pre-sermon oration.

(For this was a place where the children receive
Their own little talk and then promptly they leave,
And the preacher is left with a half-congregation -
But that's not my point in today's proclamation.)

And so I began to compare and contrast
With an image I hoped would be sure to stick fast,
Between God and his goodness in giving his Son
And the myth of the Chubby and Red-Suited One.

I spoke of a gift that is given, not earned,
Made other connections I hoped could be turned
To some gospel advantage; to bring to a close
To a climactic contrast I gradually rose.

"Here is the great issue," I cheerfully said,
"There's a man on a cross and a myth dressed in red:
And I hope that by now you all know and you feel
That the difference between them is - Jesus is real."

The youngsters then left, and I (not a bit nervous)
Proceeded to get through the rest of the service,
Descended the steps and, without a thought more,
I walked down the aisle and I stood at the door.

The first lady out was a grandma in rage,
Who I think would have been better off in a cage,
On a mission, it seems, to accuse me of sin:
She swung with her bag but I blocked with my chin.

As I slumped to the floor - though I listened intently -
She spoke straight and clear, crisp and sharp, and not gently,
That I was a preacher perverted and sick
For telling her darlings there is no Saint Nick.

The next lady out seemed a little more gracious,
But was, to be frank, still a tad disputatious;
As they ranted, the details began to emerge -
A story explaining their violent urge.

For it seems that the classes of children that day
Were awash with salt tears and with waves of dismay.
Why was it their sweet little hearts did all break?
Well, the preacher had told them that Santa was fake.

So I strapped myself in. It was well that I did
For time after time the poor preacher was chid:
It was my presumption to pull off the veil -
That's parental business, a pastoral fail.

Here and there I received a brief word of respite,
But these were scant stars in a very black night;
But to see the full horror, you must understand
That the evening service already was planned.

When I got there that night I was taken to pray,
But before we began they had something to say.
That the poor chap was harried was clear in his eyes:
"Your effort this morning seemed rather unwise."

It seems that a battle quite royal had begun;
Yours truly, unknowing, had started the fun.
While some were quite happy with what had been said,
A number of others had called for my head.

As I walked to the pulpit I should have been bolder;
To be honest, I kept looking over my shoulder
In case the fierce lady who clobbered me one
Had returned for the service equipped with a gun.

I tried to make peace, made a plea for goodwill,
But in spite of the season, there lingered a chill
As I, without wishing to retract a bit,
Confessed no intention to cause a church split.

I had no idea, I explained with heart humble,
That my little message would cause such a rumble.
(I had never imagined a Christian would spew
The nonsense that old Father Christmas was true.)

Then I mopped off my brow and I took up my theme,
Making clear I'd been told I was part of a team
Working section by section through deeds apostolic,
And was tasked with explaining some things diabolic.

The pattern there was to progress through a book,
Each preacher in sequence the next section took;
Now, brothers and sisters, I give you facts:
My part was assigned from the Book of the Acts.

"Which chapter?" you ask? It was chapter nineteen.
With the quickest of looks it will quickly be seen
That my problems were mounting, my troubles were legion:
I had to expose superstitions Ephesian.

We began with Paul casting out spirits of evil,
And how this had caused a great social upheaval;
Then the saints in the place, when they saw what occurred,
Began to confess, being thoroughly stirred.

When they saw deeds of darkness exposed by the light,
They abandoned those things which belonged to the night,
Took what they'd indulged in while wandering lost
And burned it all up without thought of the cost.

I made it quite clear: when the heart is made new
We hold to those things which are clean and are true;
Abandon the false and all crass superstition
And serve the Lord Christ of our own free volition.

I governed my tongue and I took no cheap shot
(And not just because one shook out a garrotte).
I went Puritanic: "You're wise, you apply it,"
But I don't think too many were ready to buy it.

But how can you offer both truth and a lie,
Then hope that your children will learn to rely
On your words about Christ, while they just filter out
All the fabulous nonsense you readily spout?

When I finished, I strolled down the aisle to shake hands,
While keeping an eye out for bag-wielding grans;
The first chap came out, and he said, "That was needed;
You might want to leave, you're about to be bleeded."

And there, down the aisle, rolled a gaggle of nans,
A choice set of weaponry clutched in their hands,
And with them a cluster of parents all fuming;
It seemed that the poor preacher's doom might be looming.

And what was the crime? How had suffered their youth?
The dastardly fellow had spoken the truth.
The reason the visitor had to be fried
Was the kids had discovered these people had lied.

Their eyes were aflame and their flesh a chill pallor,
And sometimes discretion's the best part of valour,
So I picked up my bag, swiftly shrugged on my coat,
And with that I dashed out before I could be smote.

I sprang to my car, turned the key, to the floor
Pressed the pedal before I had quite closed the door;
And they heard me exclaim, 'ere I drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night."