"Welcome to the Church of St. Nick" The greeter said, extending a hand and donning a warm smile.
It had been five years since I'd entered a church. After moving to Toronto my faith had largely taken a back seat. I had become somewhat of a weekend warrior and only so much as I'd read my bible before bed on Saturdays. Sundays too if the mood struck. There just never seemed to be time for church.
I firmly grasped the young mans hand and shook. "Thanks, been awhile. Anything I should expect during the sermon? I'm not actually Catholic; I hear there's a few things to observe. I'd rather not stand out too much."
The greeter shook his head. "Oh, we're not a catholic organization. Quite laid back really, feel free to just sit back and listen. We like to sing, but no one is going to expect you to join in, especially your first time."
The Church of St. Nick was a little ways away from my basement suite, but with such a peculiar name I felt it was worth the extra distance. There was another church at the end of the block, but it didn't seem quite as interesting. I couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of entering the church and finding it permanently decorated with Christmas lights and plush reindeer.
It was a silly thought of course. That's why I was so taken aback when I entered the church to find ornate carvings of reindeer, tiny elves and, sure enough, Santa Clause. Not St. Nicholas, the patron saint of gift giving or whatever; Santa Clause, the chubby guy with a bag of gifts popularized by the Coke corporation to cash in on the holiday season. I figured the greeter wasn't kidding when he said it was a laid back church.
I looked around at the people sitting in the pews and found a very diverse set of faces. People of many different skin tones and clear differences in walks of life. One gruff looking man in leather looked like he could be part of the Hell's Angels. Another looked to be a standard business man in a suit. A picture perfect nuclear family sat towards the front of the room while some average looking college kids sat in the back. I sat down next to a woman and what I presumed to be her husband, both likely in their late 60s or early 70s.
"Frank Petera." The man said upfront, reaching his hand over his wife to find mine.
I gave it a quick shake. A nod and a smile to his wife who just silently smiled at me. "Karl McCline." I replied. "Interesting decorative choices here. I'm not sure I've ever seen such intricate Christmas carvings."
"They're really a thing of beauty" Frank mused. "It's a shame more churches don't give honor to the greatest saint alive today." He panned a reverent gaze from a carving of a smiling Santa to a more traditional cross set at the front of the room.
I had no idea how to respond to that. I wasn't even sure I understood him correctly. "Who did the carving?" I asked. It seemed the most unassuming thing to ask.
Frank chuckled. "Ahh, that would be old Phil Crover. Passed away a couple years back unfortunately. Believe it or not he this was just his hobby. Did All of this for free back in the seventies. Brilliant carver, but decided to keep his job as a plumber to pay the bills."
"I told him so many times he should sell his work and become famous." Frank's wife chimed in. Her voice sounded strangely reminiscent of my own grandmother; may she be comforted in the presence of the good lord. "Insisted that he just wasn't good enough to sell anything."
"Most brilliant fool that ever was." Frank added. He motioned his head towards the podium as the preacher walked to the front. The sermon was about to begin.
It was a very standard service. A few verses from Numbers, an explanation of the moral meaning behind the stories. Everything I expected to experience up until the first song. By this point I wasn't exactly surprised when the congregation broke out into "Here Comes Santa Clause". I sang along because I knew the lyrics. It's hard to explain how surreal of an experience it is to be standing in church in the middle of April singing a Christmas jingle with perhaps as many as eighty other people. It was fun for sure, I've always enjoyed caroling, but bizarre none the less.
Everything finished with a solemn rendition of "Silent Night". To be fair that one probably could be sung in church all year round if Christmas hadn't already claimed a monopoly on it.
The preacher motioned towards a table of refreshments for people to enjoy. Tea, coffee and home made biscuits. I couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed there was no ginger bread. I said my goodbyes to Frank and his wife; I never did get her name, and went to mingle by the table.
A young girl was tugging at her mother's dress. "Mommy, is Jesus or Santa Clause more important? Tommy says it's Jesus, but Santa has more statues so he's more important right?"
The kid was adorable and her mother seemed to think so too. She smiled sweetly at her child's innocent question. "They are both very important Mindy, and they each play important roles in god's plan." was not the answer I was expecting.
"Jesus gave his life on the cross for the sins of our past," the mother continued, "and when Saint Nicholas was reborn as Santa Clause he was given the task of judgement for the sins and good deeds to come. Humans, being prone to sin and overwhelmed by the need to resist it, are judged once a year by god's messenger for their actions the year prior." She knelt down and held her child's face in her palm. "We must be good all year for while you get presents or coal when you are young more severe punishments await as sinners as adults."
That was disturbing to hear. I darker, if not a bit vague, take on the Santa Clause myth. I swear I'd seen a campy horror movie based roughly on that premise a few years back.
I approached a heavy set fellow roughly my age sipping some coffee from a white mug. "Do you believe in Santa Clause?" I asked bluntly. There didn't seem to be a point in beating around the bush and I made sure there weren't any children left in earshot.
He responded with a raised eyebrow as he took another sip of his coffee. "Nice to meet you too. The names Mick. And yes, of course I believe in Santa. Do you?"
"Karl." I responded. "Sorry, probably should have started with that. No, I haven't believed in Santa in probably 20 years now. I was pretty sure only children believed in Santa, and even then only if their parents bothered to mention him."
"Bit rude." Mick replied before taking another slow sip of coffee. "An abundance of coal as a kid put Santa on your personal naughty list? Can't really help the repercussions of your own actions you know." The look he gave me was unashamedly judgmental.
"I don't believe I've ever heard a real story of a parent giving their kid coal for being bad." I replied, not entirely sure if I should be offended or amused by the direction of this conversation.
"Yeah, bit of an old tradition." A woman beside us added. She was quite pretty; brown hair, grey eyes. She was probably in her mid 20s. "Still, I'd rather get coal when I was young than the punishments one receives as an adult." She took a bite of a scone in her hand and nodded approvingly at her own statement.
I had apparently stumbled into a cult.
"What kind of punishments exactly?" I asked. I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer, but if I didn't the question might well burn a hole through my skull.
"No idea," she replied. "I'm not dumb enough to let my actions get that far. I pray I never do." There was a hint of fear in her eyes. If I had just seen her across the room I'd assume it was the fear of god, not Santa Clause. "How did you lose your faith anyway? If there's anything I can do to help you in your journey please let me know."
"So you can stay on the good list?" She nodded earnestly. I sighed in response. "My parents told me they were the ones leaving presents when I was 10. I had figured it out before then, but their confirmation really solidified it I think."
Both Mick and the girl paused for a moment. "So they told you they were the one leaving presents and you assumed that the whole idea of Santa Clause was a lie?" Mick asked. His tone was condescending to say the least. "If they told you people created miracles would you stop believing in god?"
The question gave me pause. It sounded like a good argument until I realized that god's miracles aren't as tangible as presents. My parents can leave presents overnight; they can't perform miracles without god's help. Not that my parents have performed any miracles period.
I replied with a drawn out "No." I didn't feel this was an argument worth having and Mick seemed all too eager to have one drawn out late into the night. An awkward silence fell into place instead.
The young woman whom I really wish I had gotten the name of broke the silence. "So what prevents you from killing someone?" she asked me without a hint of sarcasm.
"Killing is a sin with or without Santa Clause." I replied, now a little offended.
"Sure, but what prevents you from sinning if there is no punishment?" She pressed.
"Eternal damnation is really enough for me without a yearly check-in." I explained. "Besides, I don't exactly have the urge to kill anyone. I would hope the same stands for the two of you." I wasn't entirely convinced that was actually enough for Mick.
"I wish I had the confidence in my own humanity as you do." she admitted. "I'm not out to kill anyone, but I worry where my anger would take me if I didn't have the trinity to hold it at bay."
It took me only a handful of seconds to determine what this non-Catholic girl meant by "the trinity". Her look of guilt certainly seemed to rival a Catholic though.
"I should get going. Need to study." She walked off towards the exit. It was at that point I realized I had failed to get her name and was doomed to remembering her as "Santa Babe". I wish I'd have thought of a less sexist way of remembering her, but the bad pun made it the first thing to pop into my mind whenever she came up in conversation.
"I should get going too." Mick explained. He put a hand on my shoulder and looked me directly in the eye. "Seriously dude, if I can do anything to get you back on the right path just let me know." I would later wash that shoulder vigorously. Mick wasn't exactly dirty, but contact with him, even on the shoulder, felt violating.
"Thanks." I muttered, avoiding his gaze to stare awkwardly at his hand.
He nodded and turned to leave. I watched him leave the church, grabbed the last biscuit from the table and headed out myself before anyone had the opportunity to stop me for more out-of-season merrymaking.
I never went back. I wish I could say I had the courage to investigate if the place had any serious issues that needed to be reported to the police, but I honestly wasn't confident in my own ability to stay on the outside. Most people seemed very friendly, Mick being the main exception and another key reason I had no interest in visiting again.
I still don't visit church often, but now I stick with the boring church down the street. I'm a firm believer that churches should be mostly boring.
