It began as a simple conversation—one of those everyday exchanges that unexpectedly reveal what we truly believe.
I was talking with a student who was helping design my Christmas T-shirts. The phrases were bold, unapologetic, and unmistakably Christ-centered:
“Jesus over everything.”
“Saved by the cross.”
And then came the one that shifted the entire conversation:
“Santa isn’t real—but Jesus is.”
Almost immediately, discomfort followed. Not outrage—something subtler.
A gentle protest dressed up as concern:
“Leave the children alone.”
“They’re too young.”
“They don’t even have the cognitive ability to understand who Jesus is.”
“It’s not like they’re worshipping Santa.”
I was told to let children enjoy the magic of Santa for now—that truth could wait, that they would eventually come to Christ.
But Scripture never asks us to postpone truth.
Jesus Himself said:
“Let the little children come to Me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” (Matthew 19:14)
Not later.
Not after imagination has had its run.
Not after fiction has taken up residence in their wonder.
Sometimes hindrance doesn’t look like rejection—it looks like replacement.
And delaying truth isn’t kindness.
It’s a subtle form of withholding.
We tell ourselves fantasy is harmless, that children need a softer entrance into reality. But the Gospel has never required dilution.
The incarnation—God wrapped in flesh—was announced to shepherds and revealed to the poor and the unschooled.
We underestimate children.
Children recognize truth because they are not yet trained to distrust it. They ask without shame, believe without strategy, and worship without pretense.
Jesus didn’t keep children at arm’s length. He drew them close and said plainly:
“Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 18:3)
If children are the model, why do we assume they can’t understand?
I didn’t fully grasp this until I saw it with my own eyes.
A few months ago, while serving as a missionary in Senegal, I was teaching a French class. As we prepared to dismiss, a second-grade student raised her hand—not to ask a question, but to ask if she could close the class in prayer.
And then she prayed.
She thanked God for the lesson.
She asked that the teacher be covered by the blood of Jesus.
She prayed that what we learned would one day glorify God.
She asked for protection—over our minds, our going out, and our coming in.
No prompting.
No performance.
Just reverence.
I was silenced by a six-year-old’s ability to pray.
In that moment, Scripture came alive:
“Out of the mouth of babes and infants You have ordained praise.” (Psalm 8:2)
That child was not confused.
She wasn’t too young.
She was anchored in truth.
Later that day, as I began decorating my home for Christmas, the earlier conversation returned to me. As ornaments found their places, my hands reached for familiar red-and-white figures—and conviction followed.
Quiet. Gentle. Unmistakable.
What story was I enthroning?
What name was I lifting in a season meant to proclaim Emmanuel—God with us?
Quietly, I gathered the decorations and placed them into a bag.
No defensiveness.
No resistance.
Just obedience.
Choosing intention over distraction.
Remembrance over tradition.
Reverence over nostalgia.
Christmas does not collapse without Santa.
But it loses its soul without Christ.
Christ does not need Santa to remain glorious.
The incarnation is already more wondrous than any myth we have created.
But when we replace Christ with caricatures—even with good intentions—we don’t make room for joy. We redirect awe.
When we feed children fiction while withholding truth, we teach something dangerous: that truth doesn’t matter as long as it feels magical.
And Christianity becomes vulnerable to being treated like fiction.
When children eventually learn that Santa is fictional and the tree is symbolic, even Christ’s birth can begin to feel like just another story.
Children don’t need less truth.
They need more of it—spoken with love, clarity, and courage.
They are not too young to know Jesus.
They are not too young to come to Him.
And we should not be the ones standing in the way.
Our Lord does not compete for attention.
He is the Word made flesh—
the Light the darkness could not overcome. (John 1:5)
So why hide that Light from those who see most clearly—before the world trains them to squint?
The Gospel is not heavy; it is glorious.
And children are not too young for glory—or for truth.
So no, this isn’t about ruining childhood.
It’s about redeeming it.
It’s about refusing to stand between young hearts and their Maker.
It’s about taking Jesus at His word when He said they belong with Him—now.
“These words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children.” (Deuteronomy 6:6–7)
Not when they are ready— but when we are faithful.
Christ does not need a myth to make Him magical.
And our children deserve nothing less than the Truth that saves.
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