The Ossuarial Odium of
Nicholas of Myra by Sir Frederick Chook
Penned upon the 30th of December, 2010
First appeared in FrillyShirt (
www.frillyshirt.org)
Like a (SIMILE EXPUNGED), Christmas has come and gone, and
I’m left slightly stunned by the usual madness, though not entirely without
goodwill to all. One thing I have been wondering – and will probably wonder
forever more – is why there’s so little attention to the legendry behind the
holiday. There’s the standard children’s nativity story, certainly, which any disgustingly
precocious schoolchild could tell you has been simplified to the point of
historical impossibility – not to mention the neglect it gives to the Biblical
role of the Zoroastrian aristocracy.
Now, anyone who knows me will tell you twice that I’m no
po-faced evangelist, here to instruct you to get back to Christmas’s
Christ-Mass-y roots. I proselytise for no Earthly church, and even if I did, I
value historical uncertainty too highly not to admit that the whole thing’s a
hodgepodge, an amalgam of too many winterfests, gods’ anniversaries and
Classical-era retail scams too count. As far as I’m concerned, Christmas is
defined by municipal councils putting giant tinsel decorations on the
streetlights, and dreadful Rat Pack-style crooners competing to disgrace jazz’s
good name.
No, what interests me here is not the founding of the
holiday – be it the commemoration of the incarnation of the martyred creator
deity, or anything elsewise – but its, shall we say, active participant. Its
chief mythical being – its fairy, goblin, or imp. Yea, it’s Santa himself that
I’m pondering – that mysterious fellow who defines Christmas until around
puberty and reappears in a more malign aspect with childbirth. Everyone knows
he lives at magnetic north, keeps a staff of magical toymakers, is allergic to
eggs, and so forth – but dashed if I knew any more than that. I was dimly aware
he was once a real man who was noted for his generosity, but I had no idea
where he lived, what he did, whether he received remuneration for the use of
his image and/or donated the proceeds to charity… twenty-five Christmasses and
I hadn’t the foggiest.
Well, I’m not one to take blinding ignorance sitting down,
so I did a little superficial research, and discovered a few interesting facts!
Saint Nikolaos was a bishop in the early centuries of the Church, who was
indeed known for his generosity – distributing gifts to the faithful of his
diocese, and so forth. In death and canonisation, he is the patron of sailors,
students and thieves (and so, I’d assume, of cussing, informally competitive
drinking and regrettable tattoos.) It’s his death in particular which sparked
my imagination: for all the years which have passed, his original tomb remains
extant, and though his skeletal remains have since been removed, they too are
still in Church hands, in a dedicated site in Bari, Italy.
The history of his life and his role in worship is
fascinating enough, of course, but what really struck me is the potential for
the cruellest act ever committed against child-kind. Simply possessing the
knowledge that Santa is dead and his bones are in a box in Italy… the horrors
you could inflict! “If you little curmudgeons don’t behave, I’ll take you to
Bari, Italy, and show you Santa’s bones!” Heck, there’s a continuing repatriation
debate concerning the return of his remains to the original tomb in Turkey – if
you timed it right, you could get there while the casket itself was open. Or,
or – don’t tell the kids what you’re doing until the last minute! Imagine:
“I’ve got a surprise for you all! Inside this box is Santa
Claus! He’s sleeping now, but if you’ve all been good boys and girls, he’ll
wake up and have presents for everyone!”
open sepulchre – reveal grisly horror
“OHHHH NOOOOO WHAT DID YOU DOOOOO NAUGHTY NAUGHTY CHILDRENNNN”
I suppose, technically, this trick would work with any box
of dead bishop, but I think the genuine article lends it that crucial element
of blasphemous verisimilitude. The expense is a problem, certainly – air fares
and so on. I can imagine an atheistic primary school writing it off as a study
trip… but I prefer to keep politics out of my childhood-destroying pranks, you
know. And, yes, the whole business may be cruel, low and mean, but it’s still
truer to the known facts of the holiday than a quarter-century and billions of
dollars of talking reindeer, chimneys and mutually-contradictory True Meanings
of Christmas.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sir
Frederick Chook is a foppish, transcendentalistic historian who lives variously
by his wits, hand to mouth, la vie bohème, and in Melbourne with his wife, Lady
Tanah Merah.
When not reading
Milton and eating Stilton, he writes, ponders, models, delves into dusty
archives, and gads about town. He has dabbled in student radio and in national
politics, and is presently studying the ways of the shirt-sleeved archivist. He
is a longhair, aspiring to one day be a greybeard. He has, once or twice, been
described as “as mad as a bicycle.”
FrillyShirt is a
compilation of articles, essays, reviews, photographs, artworks,
question-and-answers, promotions, travelogues, diatribes, spirit journeys,
cartoons, ululations and celebrations by Sir Frederick, his friends and
contributing readers. Irregularly regular features include Teacup in a Storm,
an etiquette column, and How to be Lovely, advanced speculations on the
aesthetics of the self.
Other topics that pop
up include fun things in and around Melbourne, art, nature, history, politics
and schnauzers. Sir Frederick’s favorite color is all of them. Enjoy his
writing? Drop him a telegram at fredchook@frillyshirt.org.
