The Shadow of St Nicholas

Advent Vespers, Week Two

Lord, we pray for the preacher, for You know his sins are great.

Grace, mercy and peace to you from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

Last week, brothers and sisters, we spoke to the life and witness of St Nicholas of Myra: a remarkable man in his own right, who has become for us a symbol of superabundant generosity and of sacred selfless giving.

As Christians we know that Jesus Christ is the visible Image of the invisible God. And as He makes us into Him—as He gives to us His own Holy Spirit, His own Body and Blood—we then, insofar as we are humble and loving, become little Christs, little images of God, to serve as living icons revealing God’s love to the world. This is what John the Baptist meant when he said, “I must decrease, but He must increase.” And it’s what St Paul meant when he wrote, “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives within me.”

And so it is right that we look to the great saints of our faith not for their own works but for the work of the living Christ within them, who thus reveals Himself to each new generation, not in the dead letters of a book, but in the lives of Christians—in the living Church of sainted sinners saved by grace through faith. And there is no better season in which to speak of saints than Advent, the time when we wait for Christ to be born anew in us.

Last week, as I said, was about giving, the spirit of St Nick. This week, however, is all about light amidst the dark.

It seems the dark side of Christmas has been making a comeback lately. I’m no stranger to this, having grown up within a very German valley in Pennsylvania. Come December, we always heard tell of der Belsnickel, which literally means the Nicholas who beats you. This was a member of the community, male or female, who dressed up in dirty furs and brought birch switches with which to beat the naughty children of the village. It was a highly prestigious, sought-after position. St Nicholas rewarded the good, while der Belsnickel punished the bad. Like I said, very German.

It ends up that we weren’t the only ones with this tradition. There are Belsnickels in Canada, as well as a host of other “Bad Santas” who fulfill the identical function under various regional names: Knecht Ruprecht, Schmutzli, Zwarte Piet. But the most popular of all the Bad Santas of late, the one who’s managed to bring the whole twisted tradition back into the spotlight, is none other than the Krampus.

Krampus is a sort of goat-monster or demon. He’s the Bad Santa of Austria and Bavaria, and certainly the scariest of the bunch. With horns and hooves he doesn’t just bring switches for naughty children but a basket in which to carry them off—some say to the mountains or the fiery pits of hell, while others say to the stewpot. There are now Krampus movies, Krampus books, Krampus greeting cards and stuffed toys, some of which we happen to have at home. He’s made December dangerous again, all the while rekindling my warped childhood memories.

Despite claims that he reflects some sort of pre-Christian deity, Krampus is clearly associated with the goat feasts held in northern Europe for St Nicholas Day. In England, the Boar’s Head at Twelfth Night represented the defeat of Satan; while in the lands of northern Europe, it was roast goat. Recall the Julebukk in Norway or the Finnish Joulupukki. Krampus is thus the shadow of St Nicholas, a reminder of just how dark and cold and cruel the winter nights can be should we lack the spirit of giving: that generous and holy love of God revealed in our love of neighbor.

Think of our favored holiday classics: A Christmas Carol, It’s a Wonderful Life, Home Alone. Note that all of these are cautionary tales, scared-straight stories reminding us to appreciate what we have—friends and family, hearth and home, congregation and community—because life would be unbearable without it. If Santa’s capacious belly and sack of gifts represent a spirit of generosity that nourishes and flourishes the soul, so Krampus’ scrawny gut and long, hooked claws represent the spirit of seizing, of taking, of selfish hunger that can never be sated.

Winter is a scary time. Food and warmth and light are scarce. Even the Christmas story around which we gather is fraught with terror, loss, and foreboding: with a tyrant king who slays a town, a poor family who flees for their lives, and a somber prophecy to a new mother that a sword shall pierce her own soul too. The Christmas tree itself foretells the Cross and Crown to come.

Yet in the midst of darkness, the Light of Christ shines forth, dispelling all our shadows, banishing the frost. And His love seems all the warmer, all the brighter for the cold—for it is not the well who need a physician, but the sick; not the found who need a shepherd, but the lost. We know our need for Jesus Christ. We’ve seen how darkness claims our world without Him. And it’s that very contrast between God’s superabundant grace and the starving, grasping hunger of our world that allows us to rejoice at His Advent all the more, to say yet more boldly, “Amen! Come, Lord Jesus!”

It is not true that there is no light without darkness, for in God there is no darkness at all. But just as hunger drives us to nourishment, as pain drives us to healing, as Law drives us to Gospel—even so does the darkness reveal our need for the Light. And as we seek the Light of Christ, as wise men sought the Star, so may that same Light shine forth reflected in our lives, that we might be little icons, little Christs, little images of God for those who dwell in darkness and in the shadow of death.

So let your light shine before others, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in Heaven.

In the Name of the Father and of the +Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.