If you believe in God, should you believe in Santa Claus too?

Well I must say, I had a great time reading the comments, critiques and insults that came in after my last post with its modest attempt to define "atheism". In particular, many self-described atheists took umbrage to my claim that atheism is denial of the proposition that God exists. (Apparently my smarmy attitude was also ripe for verbal assault.)

One of my most spirited opponents drew comparisons between belief in God and unicorns as he/she asked: "do you believe in unicorns? Can you disprove the existence of unicorns?" The idea, presumably, is that belief in unicorns and God are equivalent. Thus, if belief in unicorns is irrational then so is belief in God (bad news for the theist). And if disbelief in unicorns is the rational position for the average person on the street then so is disbelief in God (good news for the atheist).

This is an important comparison to consider, but in doing so I am going to switch from unicorns to Santa Claus since the latter (being a concrete individual rather than a type of thing) is a closer parallel to God. So the question: is belief in Santa Claus like belief in God?

First, let's begin to address the question in the manner of Thomas Aquinas, by giving our opponent as fair a shake as possible:

So here we go. Picture yourself a manager at Walmart interviewing a potential employee to work in the warehouse. "Alfred" seems to be a well-adjusted intelligent twenty-five year old who has solid work experience and references, Thus you are inclined to hire him. Then you notice his Rolex watch and you offer a compliment. "Nice watch Alfred."

"Thanks," he replies, "Santa gave it to me." You pause, wait for the punchline, and then slowly, with growing trepidation, you realize that he is deathly serious.

You swallow nervously as Alfred watches you intently. "Santa?" you ask in a futile attempt to sound nonchalant. A bead of sweat rolls down your brow.

"Yes," Alfred replies. "I was very good last year. Santa loves me, and he watches everything we do. So you can trust me Mr. Manager."

Okay, would you hire Alfred even after he confessed belief in Santa Claus? At the very least wouldn't you be at least be less inclined to hire him in light of that belief? You might concede Alfred's point that believing Santa is watching over him will make him more likely to be honest and hard working. But would that potential positive byproduct of his belief be sufficient to allay your concerns?

Many people would view the invocation of God as much less threatening or epistemologically questionable than invocation of Santa Claus. Indeed, many would be positively encouraged to hear the invocation of God. But if it appears irrational to ascribe the acquisition of the watch to Santa Claus, why is it not equally irrational to ascribe it to God? In short, what makes the Christian any more rational than Alfred?

Perhaps a Serling-type moment:

STRANGE TEA

[A stranger went hiking in an unfamiliar wood one day where he came upon a tiny trail, no more than three hands wide that seemed to disappear in a tangle of brush and bramble; he stepped with a tepid foot and went forward as the path went round a sharp bend and before him he saw a tiny bower.

Trepidation and temptation tugged at his sleeve, pulling this way and that until at last, curiosity took over , pushing him down on his haunches where he crept, slouching and shuffling forward to see where it would lead. After several long minutes and through a few aches of aging muscles grown soft with disuse and much musing, he spied a bright light.

Leaning as far as he dared he clawed at the musty earth underneath and straightened at last to his full height; squinting at first to get used to the light he slowly swung his head both left and then right whereupon he saw a small cabin carved entirely from the materials at hand.

Rubbing his eyes, he fought with his mind, “I’m growing quite mad,” he thought.

His fear now forgotten and his curiosity controlling, he strolled purposely forward and boldly tapped at the small front door carved delicately from the slab of a lightning struck tree that still stood proudly as it served as the front porch canopy of this nature’s cabin lair.

His knock was answered with a swing and a creak and there in the archway was a pair of fat-tummied cheeks surrounding a small nose and red little lips and from deep somewhere inside this opening, came a greeting sincere.

“What took you so long, we thought you’d never get here.”

His host motioned him over to a too-tiny chair that supported his forearms as he eased back to sit and swelled just enough to swaddle his overstuffed seat.

He looked all around from his station where gravity and too much gravy had him nearly glued tight inside, his thighs being made corduroy by the wicker-like reeds woven throughout the furniture he shared with the three cherubs.

A settee at one wall, his own perch across and two smaller chairs; a chopped trunk of an oak shaved slivery-smooth, set up with a buffet of snacks and cups of what must have been tea.

Before he could answer, his host darted quickly to the fruit-laden table and returned with a cup and a saucer made of dried gourd and big leaves and drank deeply from his own nearby.

“You’ve been expecting me?”

“Oh, yes, we knew you’d come, they always come, we’d be ever so lonely otherwise, you see.”

“Why me?”

“You’re one of them.”

“Them? What’s “them?”

“Why, you, of course.”

“I see.”

Beginning to regret his curiosity earlier, the stranger began to take in his surrounding in more detail, the doorway stood open, a small window ajar; another larger door in the farthest wall, and a curtained opening to a darker area that seemed oddly empty as far as the deep shadows could tell.

“Is it what you hoped for?”

“It’s a bit small, I’m afraid, but tidy, quiet and comforting, indeed.”

“You may not be ready; perhaps you should follow me back.”

With that, he arose and the chair slid noiselessly to the bare earthen floor and now the back door was open and the light beckoned beyond. He turned to say goodbye to his host and found that the cabin had slipped all away, leaving him standing at the edge of the wood once more.

“How was your walk, dear?”

“I’m strangely thirsty”, he mumbled.

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