By Marshall Chapman | Dec 08/Jan 09 | Columns

Whole Lotta Christmas

Making sense of Jesus, Santa, and Jerry Lee Lewis

My attitude toward Christmas seems to vacillate between bah humbug and Hallmark-card sentimentality. My husband and I are not churchgoers. But I was a churchgoer growing up in South Carolina, and I clearly remember Christmas Eve services at the First Presbyterian Church in Spartanburg. Choir voices softly singing “Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem,” white-gloved hands ringing out “Joy to the World,” belfry bells sounding twelve chimes at midnight, pictures of Baby Jesus with that halo glowing around His head, wise men from the East bearing gifts with exotic names. It was magical and mysterious stuff. Then there was Santa Claus to contend with. A fat man with a jolly face and a white beard who wore a red jacket trimmed in white fur and lived at the North Pole, calling out “Ho, ho, ho!” to a bunch of elves making toys? Right. And every Christmas Eve, the toys are loaded into a big sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer, none of whom have wings, and off they go flying through the winter night with enough toys for every boy and girl in the world, toys personally delivered by Santa, who slides his fat self down your chimney, for chrissakes. All this before sunup. And by the way, you better be good, or you get no presents?

As an eight-year-old, I didn’t quite know what to make of all this. I mean, a part of me believed, but then another part wasn’t so sure. It would have helped if I could have seen the real Santa Claus in action. I knew it wasn’t the one that stood outside the Community Cash grocery store ringing that little bell nonstop.

This was 1957, the year rock and roll began shaking its way into our collective consciousness. The year I saw Jerry Lee Lewis on TV singing “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.” I remember this performance quite vividly. The television audience was going berserk. People were throwing their chairs onto the stage while Jerry Lee was up there flailing away on a grand piano, his wavy blond hair looking like a halo on fire.

That Christmas Eve, after everyone in my family had gone to bed, my sister Mary and I decided we wanted to see Santa Claus. So we went into my closet, which had a little window in it, and there we waited, huddled together like refugees, peering out the little window at the stars, hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa and his reindeer streaking across the night sky. Every now and then, one of us would swear she heard something. Shhhh! What is it? I think it’s sleigh bells! We were all hopped-up, full of excitement, when suddenly, out of nowhere, we started singing Jerry Lee Lewis in unison: “Come on over, baby / Whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on…” We were gyrating around in that closet like you wouldn’t believe. We even started making up our own lyrics. Instead of “Shake it, baby, shake it…” we sang, “Shake those bosoms, baby! Shake those bosoms, baby!...” At that point, we were giggling and totally out of control.

Then, like somebody had just turned off a switch, we suddenly got real quiet. It was like we instinctively knew we had crossed some sort of line. We had gotten too wild, too fast. Gone too far. Mary offered up a prayer to the Baby Jesus, asking Him to forgive us for being so bad on the eve of His birthday. It was all so confusing. Here I was, eight years old, with Jesus, Santa Claus, flying reindeer, and Jerry Lee Lewis swirling around in my head. Who wouldn’t be confused?

That was over fifty years ago.

Now, in this holiday season, I often wake up in the middle of the night and tiptoe down the stairs, where I stand transfixed, staring at our Christmas tree with its lights all aglow like a thousand golden halos. And in that moment, the only thing I know for sure is that I am happy and at peace. And it makes no more sense, considering the broken world we live in, than flying reindeer, a virgin birth, and Jerry Lee Lewis. But I love it all. I have to. It’s the only thing that makes sense.