My earliest memories involve the church and people who professed belief in God. I don’t want to be melodramatic, but as the son of a Baptist minister, I was practically born into the church—nurtured on the breast of faith and clothed in the garments of a cultural religion. My cradle was often a church pew; my lullaby a zestful congregational hymn of praise or thanksgiving. I learned prayers from the time I could talk and memorized Scripture along with Mother Goose.

For the most part I loved my church-house upbringing. I was spoiled by the attention I received because I was the “preacher’s kid.” And I enjoyed the impish childish rebellion I unleashed in Sunday school. I liked having a father who could address an audience and speak with authority. I looked forward to visiting the huge building in which God lived and where my daddy went to work every day.

As a child, I questioned the existence of God no more than a fish questions the water in which it is immersed. For, like the fish surrounded by water, I was surrounded by a community that believed in God. And in this fluid faith, I “lived and breathed and had my being.”

Yet, even through the thickly woven fibers of this silken religious cocoon, an almost innate, but healthy skepticism soon began to creep into my awareness. Within me there began to emerge a child-sized version of the ability to think critically. I began to ponder what had previously been the unquestionable.

Strangely, and yet understandably, my first critical religious thoughts had nothing to do with God, although they were profoundly theological. I will never forget that day when those fledgling thoughts pried themselves out of my pursed lips and flew into the outside world and into the presence of my father’s hearing. These thoughts could no longer be kept a dark secret.

The day began with a practical joke. I climbed down out of my chair and scampered away from the breakfast table. My five-year-old mind had devised a plan that already had me laughing with glee as I ran through the living room to the front door. The Christmas bells that my mother had hung jangled as I slammed the door and ran outside. My father’s big, black 1949 Hudson was parked in the driveway. Every day, he would get inside this monstrosity of a car and drive one mile to his church office.

On this particular day, I had decided that I was going to hide as a stowaway in the backseat of the car and surprise my father when we arrived at the church. So I carefully opened the heavy car door and lay flat on the rear floorboard while I waited for my father to come. After about five chilly minutes, I heard him whistling and crunching across the gravel. He got in the car, started the motor, and slowly backed down the driveway. When he shifted into drive and accelerated down the road, I knew my scheme had worked. I was so excited that I altered my plan to remain silent. At the next stoplight, I jumped up screaming like an Indian. We narrowly missed plowing into the car in front of us!

To say the least, this was quite a conversation starter. Chuckling to himself, my father decided not to take me back home but to let me spend the morning with him. I remember that as we drew closer to the church our conversation turned to the main topic of the season—Christmas—and I began to talk about my major preoccupation—Santa Claus.

“Dad, how do reindeer fly?” I asked as we pulled into the parking lot.

Turning off the ignition and slowly engaging the emergency brake, Dad fell silent. Then he began to explain. “Well, son, Santa has special reindeer. They’re found only at the North Pole and no other place. Regular reindeer can’t fly,” he said, leaning back and looking at me, “but Santa’s can.”

For a moment I was quiet, and then the real issue stammered forth: “Tommy says there ain’t no Santa Claus. And he says reindeer can’t fly.”

Swallowing, Dad asked, “Well, what do you think? You know your buddy Tommy’s not always right.”
“I think he’s right, Dad. Tommy’s right. And Greg thinks so, too. Reindeer can’t fly.”

There was a deep silence. My father looked at me as never before—as if I were a different child, an older child. Slowly, he smiled and reached over and ruffled my red hair. “Don’t you worry too much about Santa Claus,” he said. “He’ll get here, reindeer or no reindeer.” But in his eyes I had seen his true reply. There was no Santa Claus and I knew it. Dad knew it. Tommy was right.

Strangely, I do not remember feeling any sadness at the realization of the death of poor Santa Claus. That grief was to come later on countless Christmas Eves when, even as an adult, I wanted to believe again in the mystical and fantastic magic of Santa Claus. But at that moment in the church parking lot, there was no sadness. For in the mirror of my father’s long gaze, I had seen something new. Somehow I knew a secret had been disclosed that only older children and adults could share. This was confirmed when my father later told me not to share our conversation with my little sister! I knew that I was maturing, growing up. With a smile and a nod, I had just been granted membership into the fraternal order of those who do not believe in Santa Claus.

As we walked together into the church, Santa Claus lay dying. But God was still in his heaven, and all was well on earth. Little did I know the depth of that day’s discovery. Nor did I recognize that the seeds of skepticism had been planted. For with a smile, I had been set afloat on the awesome and powerful sea that rolls and surges between those two great shorelines—myth and reality. It is a sea I would spend a lifetime learning to navigate, to find my own course. For it was true—reindeer can’t fly!

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