(Un)conditional: What does Father Christmas show us about the gospel?

I made up my mind to forget everything except Jesus Christ and especially his death on the cross.
(1 Corinthians 2.2, GNB)

The gospel reveals God’s unconditional love

When the Apostle Paul took the gospel across the ancient Roman Empire, he proclaimed a single message wherever he went: salvation through the death and resurrection of Jesus. Paul told his largely non-Jewish audience that, to follow Christ, there was no need to convert to Judaism and observe its hundreds of religious laws. All people had to do was to put their trust in the crucified and risen Son of God. 

On numerous occasions, Paul did go on to say that being a Christian involved total devotion to Jesus and a complete turnaround from unhelpful attitudes and damaging habits. But that was meant to be a consequence of, not a condition for, God’s acceptance. 

Whether you had been good or bad, didn’t matter. God was offering his Son as a gift which could not, and did not have to, be earned. 

The gospel, according to Paul, was a message of God’s unconditional love. Jesus himself had not only taught but demonstrated it, even praying, as he hung on the cross, that his tormentors and murderers might be spared from divine vengeance: ‘Forgive them, Father! They don't know what they are doing.’ (Luke 23.34, GNB) 

The father who welcomes home the prodigal son is one of Christianity’s most iconic images: God loves you, whether you’ve been good or bad. It’s not the way the world works though, is it? Acceptance must be earned. Keep failing, and people will eventually reject you. 

Father Christmas reveals the world’s conditional love

In central Europe, where I grew up, Father Christmas, who came to visit children on 5 December, used to be accompanied not by reindeer but a dark, scary figure. Depending on whether you were in Germany, Austria or Switzerland, this enigmatic folklore character was known as Knecht Ruprecht, Krampus, or the ‘dirty chap’. 

Father Christmas would bring gifts to the children who had behaved well all year. His sombre companion, however, would carry a rod for naughty boys and girls. The message was loud and clear. Reward was reserved for the virtuous. 

It’s always struck me as odd that, just days before Christmas, people would turn the story of the saviour’s birth into a tale of salvation by works. 

When I was five, two blokes appeared on our doorstep on the eve of St Nicholas Day: one dressed up as Father Christmas, the other in a dark cloak, carrying a rucksack from which a kind of ragdoll was dangling. I was old enough to grasp that this wasn’t a real child, but I knew what this meant: if I am naughty, I’ll be dragged off by St Nicholas’ sidekick. Grace came with terms and conditions; punishment and separation always loomed close by. 

Nothing could be further from the gospel truth. Which is why the apostle Paul kept insisting that God’s favour depends not on how we’ve behaved but on the child in the manger. ‘This very day in David's town your Saviour was born – Christ the Lord!’ (Luke 2.11, GNB)