by Jeff Guinn
I must admit that sometimes my responsibilities as bishop interfered with my gift-giving. There were endless conferences to attend, where bishops from all over argued about points I personally found insignificant. When my turn came to speak, I’d always say I thought we could better spend our time helping the poor instead of debating issues that couldn’t really be resolved anyway. As a result, I was not especially popular among my fellow bishops.
Please don’t get the idea that I had no respect for the church, or that I always put gift-giving ahead of Christianity. Once I was even put in prison for more than a year; the Roman Emperor Diocletian had ordered all Christians to worship gods other than their own. I chose to go to prison rather than obey. I sat in a cell until that emperor died. Another took his place and allowed Christians to again worship as they pleased.
When I got out of prison, I was amazed to hear that, according to gossip, the gift-giver hadn’t interrupted his services while Bishop Nicholas of Myra was otherwise detained. At first I thought these stories were all made up. In fact, many were. But upon further investigation I was pleased to find that, in a few cases, others had decided to imitate me and give presents to children in need. Instead of taking credit, they let everyone think it was the work of the original gift-giver. Being kind is its own reward.
The new century, called the fourth but including all the years numbered in the three hundreds, began badly for Christians in 303 A.D., when the emperor made new, harsh rules for us. But the Roman Empire was dividing under its own sheer size and population. For a while it was split into two empires, West and East, with each half ruled by a co-emperor. Eventually Constantine I, often called Constantine the Great in history books, took complete control. Constantine became a Christian himself, and gradually our church became the recognized religion of the empire, although this took some time. At first it was sufficient to know we could openly practice Christianity without fear of being thrown in jail or even put to death.
I took advantage of this new freedom to travel even more widely. Wherever I went, I tried to present religion as a cause for joy and not a source of fear. “Help each other the way you would want God to help you,” I said over and over. To borrow a phrase, I practiced what I preached. The church had wealth, if not in coins then in rich farm-lands, and I ordered the food grown on these lands to be given to the poor. Sick people were often shunned by those who were healthy. To set a good example, I would go to the sick in each town I visited, bringing them nourishing soup and bathing their heads with cool water. Many times, in those days, sick people simply died because they were ignored. After a few I visited regained their health, they began to tell others that I saved them through miracles, though I’d really done nothing of the sort. Others, fed when I ordered church farmland used for their benefit, began claiming I had called the food up out of thin air. Most people then weren’t well educated, of course, and it was a time when most reported miracles were accepted as fact. That was certainly true of the stories involving me.
My new fame became a terrible burden. Wherever I went, people came up to me asking to be healed or fed. I did what I could, but there were limits to my abilities. Yet more and more often, people seemed to believe I could do anything if I really wanted. They began camping outside my door at night, ready to beg me to do impossible things the moment I stepped outside. Of course, this prevented me from doing any nighttime gift-giving. I hoped the myths about me would go away after a while, but they didn’t. Instead, they spread farther and attracted more hopeful sufferers to my door. I had never felt so frustrated, by both the expectations of others and my own inability to do what they wanted.
For months, I tried to think of what I should do. The more people expected of me, the less I could actually do to help them. It was terribly frustrating. Then one night I had a dream. Phillip was in it, seeming as real as though he were right there with me. He said, “Nicholas, be brave just a little while longer. Get your church in order and wait for another dream, because there’s a solution to your problems.”
So I kept trying to do the best I could to cope with the demands on me. Every day started with requests for help and ended the same way. Days turned into weeks, weeks into years. I noticed everyone else around me growing old; I was doing the same. My hair began to turn white, and so did my beard. I neared my sixty-third birthday and assumed most of my life was over. Then the second dream came.
I see my mirror image
Phillip was in it again, of course. He told me to get up and look in the mirror. Whether I really did this or only dreamed I did, I can’t say. But there was the mirror, and there was my reflection in it, and Phillip said, “Remember every line and wrinkle, because you will not grow any older.”
“Then I’m going to die now,” I answered, not really afraid of the idea at all.
Phillip laughed, the same dry chuckle I’d heard so often when I was a child and had just asked him a foolish question. “No, Nicholas. Your life so far is just a single grain of sand in an hourglass. It is only beginning.”
“That can’t be,” I protested. “I’m nearly sixty-three years old. No one lives much longer than that.”
“Remember this, Nicholas,” Phillip said. “Time is different for each of us; a year to one man is one hundred years to another. Stop worrying about the end of life. Now it’s time for you to start your gift-giving again.”
“The people won’t let me,” I argued. “They stay outside my door. They follow me wherever I go.”
“You haven’t changed since you were a boy,” Phillip said, not sounding especially pleased at the thought. “The simple solutions are always best. Just go.”
Then the dream was over, if it really was a dream. I was sitting up in bed, with the words “Just go” echoing in my mind. I didn’t go that night, though. I spent the next few days visiting with various bankers in Myra and Patara, bringing my financial affairs up to date and gathering the remaining money from my parents’ estate. This was not an unusual thing for an old man to do. Word spread that Bishop Nicholas was settling accounts; obviously he felt he was about to die. Some of the supplicants surrounding my house respected this and went away, often calling back over their shoulders that they’d pray for my soul if I’d only work a few last miracles for them.
Beyond getting my finances together, I made no real plans. On the night of December 6, 343 A.D.—in my sixty-third year, if you’re counting—I gathered a few things together in a pack, including my red bishop’s robe, picked up a staff, saddled a mule, and rode quietly off to the north. I chose to go north because it seemed the right direction at the time. I had no idea what would happen to me next, but I believed I was part of some higher power’s plan. This belief seemed to light my way as I ventured into the darkness and whatever future it might hold for me.
The Romans were people who enjoyed parties. During Saturnalia all stores were closed down, except the ones selling food and wine. It became the Roman custom to give gifts to family members and friends at this time, not big things, but items such as candy, cake, and fruit.
FOUR
Why the Calendar Changed
Let’s leave me heading north into the night for a bit. Even as I started my journey into the unknown, there were other things happening in the world, things that greatly affected my future.
The most important were changes involving the way Christians celebrated Jesus’ birthday. Despite Origen doing his best to prevent it, many people chose to honor Jesus’, birth with special meals, songs, or other ways to show how happy they were that he had been born on this Earth. But not everyone celebrated on the same date. Many chose January 6, but others preferred December 25. No one knew the exact date Jesus was born, so one guess was as good as another.
The first recorded December 25 celebration was in Antioch, in the middle of the second century. Some priests and members of the church there had a feast in honor of the occasion. They tried not to be too noticeable when they did it—Christians were being persecuted at the time.
There were few of these celebrations for another hundred years or so. It was a real risk to have one. After Roman Emperor Constantine became a Christian, though, a lot of people in the church could openly express their joy by making their celebrations of Jesus’ birth into elaborate festivities. Some of these celebrations lasted several days; all included lots of good food and drink.
(By the way, have you noticed I’m using phrases such as “celebration of Jesus’ birth,” but never “Christmas,” the name you probably expect? That’s because the word “Christmas” wasn’t being used yet. It wouldn’t be for quite some time. The same thing is true for “Santa Claus.” For many centuries to come, I would still be known as Nicholas.)
Although Constantine had embraced Christianity, there wasn’t an official holiday honoring Jesus’ birthday at the time of my departure from Myra. That official recognition came seven years later, in 350 A.D., when Pope Julius I—who was head of the church in Rome—formally declared that December 25 would be celebrated each year as Jesus’ birthday. Julius was late in making this announcement. Roman records already had noted a “nativity feast” on December 25 as an annual event going back as far as 336 A.D.
It’s interesting how the Romans chose December 25 as the correct date. For hundreds of years, Rome was the greatest military power on Earth, and its armies were constantly fighting to extend the boundaries of the Roman Empire farther in every direction, especially into what would become northern and western Europe and the islands beyond (which were eventually named Britain).
Rome almost always imposed its own laws on nations it conquered, but sometimes Romans also absorbed some of the customs of the countries they defeated, especially in matters of religion. Religion was important to the Romans, but they changed faiths like modern-day people change clothes. When Rome conquered Greece, for instance, they adopted the Greek gods, giving them new names, but essentially keeping the same ideas about them. Like lots of other pre-Christians, the Greeks celebrated something we now call winter solstice, or the time of year when the daylight hours are shortest and the weather turns cold. In ancient times, winter meant crops couldn’t be grown and people had to live on whatever food they’d stored up during the harvest. To please the gods, and to convince them to bring back warmer weather, people in many different civilizations, both before and after the Roman Empire existed, would have feasts during the solstice, offering gifts to the gods as bribes to make the crop-growing seasons return.
One of the Greek gods was renamed “Saturn” by the Romans, who called their new solstice celebration “Saturnalia” in his honor. It was a long celebration, lasting from December 17 to December 24. The Romans were people who enjoyed parties. During Saturnalia all stores were closed down, except the ones selling food and wine. It became the Roman custom to give gifts to family members and friends at this time, not big things, but items such as candy, cake, and fruit.
Then along came Emperor Aurelian, whom we’ve talked about before. Aurelian wanted to worship Persian sun gods, and made his people do the same. They didn’t really argue much; it certainly wasn’t the first time Rome’s official religion was changed, though it would only happen once more with Constantine. Aurelian proclaimed “Dies Invicta Solis,” or “Day of the Invincible Sun,” on December 25. He did this because Mithra, the Persian god of light, was supposed to have been born on that day. His religion was known as Mithraism. Constantine believed in that faith until he became a Christian. When he did, he changed December 25 from a day of celebrating Mithra’s birth to a day of celebrating Jesus’ birth instead. As long as the Roman people got their day of feasting, I don’t suppose most of them really cared whose birthday they celebrated.
In the centuries since, some people who don’t like Christmas have criticized the holiday for its date, saying quite truthfully that it’s almost certain Jesus wasn’t born on December 25, during the winter. Scholars studying the Bible think it’s likely he was born sometime during the spring, instead. To me, the specific date of Jesus’ birth is less important than the fact that he was born at all, and that lots of people want to celebrate his birth. As you’ll learn later on, December 25 is just one of the days on which I do my yearly gift-giving. Children in some countries expect me on December 6, my name day, and others on January 6, which is officially called Epiphany. In some countries, January 6 is thought to be the date that the Wise Men finally arrived in Bethlehem and gave their gifts to the baby Jesus.
All this is fine with me. It’s the spirit of the season, being generous to others who don’t have much and being grateful for the things we have, that really matters. Dates are, after all, just names and numbers made up by people long, long ago.
The first Roman calendar is supposed to have been introduced in 738 B.C. It had ten months and lasted 304 days. The names of some of its months ought to sound familiar to you: Martius, Aprilis, Maius, Junius, Quintilis, Sextilis, September, October, November, and December. The last six names are taken from the Roman words for five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten.
That calendar was invented by Romulus, the first ruler of Rome. One of his descendants, Numa Pompilius, added the months of January and February, which made the Roman year 355 days long. If Pompilius had stopped there it would have been best, but then he got the idea of adding an extra month every other year. Within a few years, winter was arriving in September instead of November and December.
Which day was what got so mixed up that 46 B.C. was known as the Year of Confusion. Julius Caesar was emperor then, and he commanded that the calendar somehow be fixed. The solution was to make 46 B.C. 445 days long to get the seasons back to the right months. In his honor, the month of Quintilis was renamed July. Later on, Sextilis became August in honor of Caesar Augustus.
This new order, called the Julian calendar, was used for the next fifteen hundred years. But it still wasn’t quite accurate. By 1580, the calendar and the people who used it were ten days off.
In 1582, Pope Gregory decided it was time for another calendar change. For that year, he ordered the ten extra days taken out of October, and then worked out what eventually became a complicated plan to add one extra day in February every fourth year, just to keep everything exactly in line. Some countries took a long time to agree to these changes. Russia didn’t start using the Gregorian calendar until 1918, and it was 1927 before Turkey did.
I tell this to point out why it’s obvious we can’t ever be certain what date things happened around the time of Jesus’ birth. Picking one day is as good as picking any other. I have enough trouble remembering the names of my friends at the North Pole, or Layla’s and my wedding anniversary. As far as I’m concerned, people who argue that Christmas is all wrong because it’s celebrated on December 25 should use their energy to help needy people instead. That’s the best way to celebrate anything.
Anyway, making December 25 an official feast day was just one important step for the Christian church following Constantine’s conversion. For the first time, it also was possible for many priests to travel about telling the story of Jesus without fear of being thrown in prison, tortured, or even killed. One of the big advantages Rome brought to nations it conquered was the constant building of roads, very good ones, some of which have lasted to this day. You can go to certain places in Europe and Britain and actually walk or drive on roads originally built by the Romans. Although they were fierce fighters, you see, Romans really wanted to control the world through trading. Roman merchants needed roads to move their goods from one market to another. These roads also came in handy for priests and other Christians who wanted to walk or ride long distances. All along the way, the mighty soldiers of Rome would now protect them from harm instead of hurting them. It made a big dif ference!
Of course, Christianity has lasted much longer than the Roman Empire, which began to crumble in the fifth century. Much to my amazement, I lasted longer than the Romans, too.
“It’s obvious you’re a thief who wants to knock me over the head and steal my money, if I
have any money. You’re not even a good thief, either. Look—I can see that stick you’re hiding behind your back. You hope to hit me with it.”
FIVE
The Beginning of Magic
This is the part of my story where the magic begins. There will be more magic times to come, but I’m going to tell you now about the first. Remember what we discussed earlier: Illusion can be explained, magic can’t. So far, my adventures in gift-giving had been colored with illusion. I quietly entered people’s homes and left gifts for their children. Because of this, they created myths about me being able to fly or to turn myself into the wind and blow inside. Yet I got in by using ladders or opening doors, nothing more special than that.
But I expect you’re eager to hear about the magic now, so let’s resume my tale.
After leaving my home behind, I kept traveling north and west from Myra. Sometimes I rode the mule, but not very often. I would have soon become tired of carrying him on my back, and I assumed he felt the same about me. I had left no family behind and had none ahead, so the mule was the closest thing I had to a relative. I named him “Uncle” and amused myself by talking to him along lonely stretches of road.
Since the Romans had built good roads, there were many other travelers along my route. I was going in the general direction of Constantinople, with the idea of getting ship passage from there to Rome. This wasn’t unusual. Lots of tourists wanted to see the sights there—the Coliseum, the Appian Way, the Senate where the government conducted business, and so forth. I knew I wouldn’t mind looking at these places and things if I happened to find myself standing in front of them, but I was going to Rome for a different purpose—because I had a feeling it was the next place I should be.
