Christmas, Tradition, and the Quiet Drift from Truth

By Andre Eksteen

Christmas is one of the few times of the year when even people who rarely think about God sense that something more than routine is taking place. Life slows down, families gather, and there is a shared feeling that this season matters. That instinct is not wrong. Human beings were created to pause, to remember, and to mark meaning. The problem does not lie in the desire for something sacred. The problem lies in how easily meaning is assumed rather than examined, and how tradition slowly replaces truth when questions are no longer asked.

Over time, Christmas has become one of the most emotionally protected traditions in Western culture. To question it is often treated as a personal attack, not because most people have carefully weighed its foundations, but because it has become woven into memory, childhood, family, and identity. That emotional attachment makes honest examination uncomfortable, yet necessary. Truth does not lose its authority because it is inconvenient, and sincerity does not transform error into righteousness. If something claims the name of Christ, it must be willing to stand under the light of truth.

To look at Christmas honestly requires separating sentiment from substance, tradition from Scripture, and culture from Christ. That separation is difficult precisely because the lines have been blurred for so long.

The first issue is also the simplest, yet it is rarely confronted: Scripture never gives a date for the birth of Jesus. Not once. The Gospels record the event with theological depth and historical care, but they remain completely silent on the calendar. That silence matters. When God considers something essential, He states it clearly. When He omits something, it is usually because it was never meant to become central.

This silence is not limited to the Gospels alone. No Second Temple–period Jewish writings record a birth date for Jesus. Texts such as the Book of Jubilees, the Book of Enoch, and the Dead Sea Scrolls are either concerned with covenantal structure, prophetic timelines, or apocalyptic expectation, but none place any importance on the date of His birth. Even later rabbinic writings that mention Jesus polemically avoid chronology altogether. They argue theology and authority, not calendars.

Early Christian writers offer no clarity either. By the late second century, different Christian groups were already speculating about possible dates, ranging from spring to autumn, with no agreement and no confidence. Clement of Alexandria records these differing opinions almost casually, which in itself is telling. There was no received tradition from the apostles, no preserved memory, no authoritative date passed down. If such a date had been known, it would not have fragmented so quickly into guesswork.

Even the apocryphal infancy gospels, which are far more willing to invent details, embellish events, and fill narrative gaps, still avoid giving a calendar date. They expand conversations, settings, and miracles, yet stop short of anchoring the birth of Jesus to a specific day. That restraint is striking. If a date were known or considered important, these texts would almost certainly have preserved it.

The first appearance of a fixed birth date comes only in the fourth century, after Christianity had moved from persecution to imperial favour. The date of 25 December appears suddenly, fully formed, and unargued — not derived from Scripture, not traced to eyewitness memory, but assumed. Its emergence coincides precisely with the Roman church’s effort to integrate Christianity into an existing pagan calendar already dominated by winter solstice celebrations. That timing is not accidental.

All of this points to one unavoidable conclusion: the absence of a birth date is intentional, not accidental. In the ancient world, birth dates were recorded for kings, emperors, and gods whose authority was tied to astrology, omens, and cosmic cycles. The Gospel writers deliberately avoid that framework. Jesus is not introduced as a ruler whose power begins at a moment in time, but as the eternal Word who has always existed and always will. His birth marks not the beginning of His existence, but His entry into human form — the moment the eternal stepped into time, not the moment the eternal came into being. The Word did not start in Bethlehem; Bethlehem is simply where the Word became flesh. The silence surrounding His birth date is therefore not a gap waiting to be filled, but a boundary that protects this truth. Christ is not defined by a calendar. He stands outside of it.

What Scripture does provide are contextual details, and those details strongly contradict a mid-winter birth. The Gospel accounts state that shepherds were living out in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks at night. In Judea, this simply does not happen in late December. Winter rains, cold nights, and seasonal agricultural practices made open-field grazing impractical and unsafe. Sheep were sheltered at night during that period. This is not theological speculation; it is basic historical and environmental reality.

Every credible indicator points instead to early autumn, most likely September or October. This timing aligns closely with the Feast of Tabernacles, a feast centred on God dwelling among His people. In the Hebrew worldview, this feast was not merely agricultural or commemorative; it was deeply theological. Ancient Jewish writings consistently associate Tabernacles with divine presence, God “pitching His tent” among men, and heaven intersecting with the earthly realm. The Feast of Tabernacles was understood as the time when God’s nearness was most clearly expressed, when His dwelling among His people was celebrated not in abstraction, but in lived reality.

This understanding is reflected across Second Temple–period literature. Texts such as the Book of Jubilees and writings preserved among the Dead Sea Scrolls consistently link appointed times with specific acts of God in history. Feasts were not random memorials; they were rehearsals of divine action. They marked moments when God intervened, revealed Himself, or drew near. Within that framework, the idea that the incarnation — God entering human history in visible form — would coincide with a feast explicitly focused on God dwelling among His people is not imaginative theology, but coherent Jewish thinking.

John’s statement that “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” must be read in that context. The language he uses is deliberate and loaded with meaning. In the original Greek, the phrase translated as “dwelt among us” literally means “tabernacled among us.” John is not using poetic flourish; he is making a theological declaration rooted in Jewish expectation. He is saying, in unmistakable terms, that what Israel celebrated symbolically at Tabernacles had now occurred in reality. God had pitched His tent, not in a structure, but in flesh.

That declaration carries weight not only backward into Israel’s history, but forward into its prophetic future. In the Hebrew Scriptures, the Feast of Tabernacles is uniquely positioned among the feasts. It does not merely look back to wilderness wandering; it looks forward to restoration, dwelling, and reign. The prophets consistently associate it with the time when God will again dwell openly among humanity. In particular, Book of Zechariah speaks of a future age in which the nations themselves will go up year by year to worship the King and keep the Feast of Tabernacles. Within Jewish understanding, this feast becomes central during the Messianic reign — the period later described as the thousand-year kingdom.

This matters because it shows that Tabernacles frames both ends of the story. At the incarnation, God tabernacled among His people in humility, veiled in flesh. During the Messianic kingdom, He will tabernacle openly as King, dwelling among the nations in authority and peace. The feast marks not a single moment, but a pattern: God with man. Presence, not ritual. Dwelling, not distance.

John’s wording therefore does far more than describe a historical event. It links the incarnation to Israel’s past expectation and its future hope. What was celebrated in tents in the wilderness, what was fulfilled in flesh at Bethlehem, and what will be manifested in glory during the thousand-year reign all converge around the same truth: God chooses to dwell with humanity. Seen in this light, the incarnation does not sit comfortably inside a Roman winter festival. It belongs within a theological framework that stretches from creation, through redemption, and into restoration.

Ancient Jewish thought did not separate time, theology, and divine action. God acted within appointed moments, not arbitrarily. Feasts marked those moments. That is why the alignment matters. It is not an attempt to fix a birthday on a calendar, but an acknowledgement that the incarnation fits a specific theological season far more naturally than a Roman winter festival ever could. The language John uses makes sense within Israel’s calendar and worldview, but it becomes strained and symbolic when detached from it.

Seen this way, the early-autumn timing is not presented as dogma, but as coherence. It respects Scripture, honours ancient Jewish understanding, and avoids importing later traditions back into the text. It allows the incarnation to remain what it was meant to be: not a date to be celebrated, but a divine act to be understood.

If Jesus was not born on 25 December, then the obvious question follows: where did that date come from? The answer is neither obscure nor controversial among historians. Long before Christianity spread through the Roman world, 25 December was already a major religious festival. It marked the celebration of Sol Invictus, the “Unconquered Sun,” closely associated with the cult of Mithras. The date coincided with the winter solstice, symbolising the rebirth of light after the darkest days of the year. It was deeply embedded in Roman religious life and cosmic symbolism.

This pattern of absorption rather than removal was characteristic of how the Roman church dealt with pagan culture. Instead of dismantling existing religious symbols, they were often rebranded and baptised with Christian language. A clear physical example still stands today at the very centre of St Peter’s Square Obelisk, positioned directly on the central axis of the square, aligned with the basilica itself. It is not tucked away as a historical curiosity; it is placed deliberately at the focal point toward which the entire square draws the eye and the body.

That obelisk originated as a pagan solar monument, transported from Egypt and erected in Rome as a symbol of imperial and solar authority. It functioned as a sundial and was inseparably linked to sun worship and cosmic order. Rather than being removed when Christianity rose to power, it was retained. A cross was placed on its summit, and it was declared redeemed. Yet the structure itself remained unchanged. The form, the symbolism, and the spatial dominance were all preserved. Only the label was altered.

I have stood there myself as I described in an earlier article. I have watched as vast crowds move through the square, instinctively orienting themselves around it. I have seen people bow, kneel, and pray in its direction, often without realising what it originally represented. The physical language of reverence is still present, even if the historical awareness is not. The object continues to command attention and posture, just as it was designed to do centuries before a cross was placed upon it.

This illustrates the method perfectly. The Roman church did not always replace pagan structures; it often repurposed them. It assumed that placing a Christian symbol on top was enough to sanctify what lay beneath. But a cross affixed to an object does not automatically transform its meaning or erase its origin. Renaming is not the same as redeeming. What was once designed to draw reverence toward the sun still occupies a place of visual and symbolic dominance, now simply framed in Christian language.

This is precisely how 25 December was treated. The pagan framework was left intact, the symbolism remained familiar, but Christ’s name was placed over it. The sun’s rebirth became the Son’s birth. The calendar did not change; the narrative did. This was not accidental theology, but deliberate strategy. It made conversion easier, continuity smoother, and resistance weaker. Yet placing a cross on something does not alter its origin or meaning by default. Renaming does not equal sanctifying.

Understanding this method is crucial, because it explains why Christmas did not emerge from Scripture or apostolic tradition, but from cultural accommodation. The date was not discovered through revelation; it was selected through convenience. And once the pattern is recognised, it becomes clear that Christmas as a fixed celebration owes far more to Roman religious politics than to biblical history.

When Christianity moved from being a persecuted faith to an instrument of state power in the fourth century, the nature of the church changed fundamentally. What had once been a movement shaped by conviction and suffering became entangled with governance, unity, and control. The problem facing the empire was no longer theological truth, but social stability. Rome was saturated with pagan customs, calendars, and public rituals that structured everyday life. Erasing them outright would have fractured the empire and provoked political resistance.

The solution was political, not spiritual. Instead of dismantling existing festivals, they were absorbed. Dates were retained, rituals were familiar, and the population was allowed continuity. Only the names and official narratives were altered. Pagan feasts were not abolished because they were false; they were preserved because they were useful. By relabelling them as Christian, the state achieved compliance without confrontation, and cohesion without repentance.

This was not the result of revelation or biblical mandate. It was administrative strategy. Christianity was reshaped to fit the machinery of empire, and in the process, political necessity quietly redefined religious practice.

This process was driven by pragmatism rather than malice. It was intended to unify populations and stabilise society. Yet intention does not erase consequence. A compromise made for convenience does not remain neutral simply because generations pass. Over time, adapted practices harden into assumed truth, especially when questioning them becomes socially unacceptable. Christmas, fixed to 25 December, is one of the clearest examples of this historical process.

Once the date is accepted without question, the symbols that surround it are rarely examined. The Christmas tree is often defended as harmless decoration, stripped of any original meaning. History tells a different story. Evergreen trees featured prominently in pre-Christian European rituals as symbols of life, fertility, and solar renewal. They were cut down, brought indoors, adorned, and displayed to honour nature’s endurance through winter and the anticipated return of the sun.

Scripture itself warns against practices that involve cutting trees, decorating them with silver and gold, and fixing them upright within homes. The warning is not vague or symbolic; it is specific and concrete. In Book of Jeremiah 10:3–4 (KJV) we read of people who cut a tree from the forest, work it with tools, deck it with silver and gold, and fasten it with nails so that it does not move. The passage is presented as a direct critique of religious customs borrowed from surrounding nations, practices God explicitly tells His people not to imitate.

Scripture also provides a clear historical example of how symbolism, even when it begins with divine permission, can later become spiritually dangerous. In the wilderness, God instructed Moses to raise a bronze serpent so that those bitten by snakes could look upon it and live. At that moment, the object served a specific, God-given purpose. Yet centuries later, that same serpent had become an object of reverence. People were burning incense to it. What was once a temporary sign had become a permanent symbol, and the symbol had begun to draw devotion to itself.

When King Hezekiah recognised this, he did not attempt to reinterpret the symbol or preserve it for tradition’s sake. He destroyed it. Scripture records that he broke it in pieces and called it Nehushtan — a mere piece of bronze. The act was decisive and instructive. The problem was not the original command, but what the people had turned it into. A symbol that outlived obedience had become an idol.

The lesson is unmistakable. God does not judge only intention; He judges trajectory. When an object, practice, or tradition begins to carry meaning independent of God’s direct instruction, it becomes a liability. Symbols teach, even when people claim they no longer mean what they once did. What is repeated becomes normal. What is normal becomes unquestioned. And what is unquestioned eventually shapes belief.

This is why Scripture treats borrowed symbolism with such seriousness. It is not superstition; it is spiritual realism. God knows how easily the human heart attaches meaning to visible things. What begins as decoration, remembrance, or accommodation can quietly become reverence without anyone ever intending it.

The most striking shift, however, is not found in dates or decorations, but in focus. No figure illustrates this more clearly than the modern image of Santa Claus. The cheerful, omniscient, gift-giving judge who rewards good behaviour and withholds blessing from the disobedient has no grounding in Scripture. He is not part of the Gospel narrative, nor of the early church’s understanding of Christ.

While loosely inspired by a fourth-century bishop known for acts of charity, the modern Santa figure is not a preserved historical memory, but a layered construction built over time. Saint Nicholas lived in Myra in Asia Minor and was remembered locally for generosity, particularly toward the poor. Beyond that limited association, there is no historical continuity between the man and the character now placed at the centre of Christmas tradition.

The transformation began centuries later, as European folklore absorbed Nicholas into regional winter legends. In the Netherlands, he became Sinterklaas; in Germany and the Nordic regions, he was blended with pre-Christian winter figures associated with judgment, gifts, and seasonal transition. By the time these traditions reached North America in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the figure had already lost any clear historical identity and existed primarily as a cultural symbol.

A decisive shift occurred in 1823 with the publication of the poem A Visit from St Nicholas (commonly known as ’Twas the Night Before Christmas). This poem redefined the character as a small, cheerful, nocturnal gift-giver who travelled by sleigh and entered homes through chimneys. Importantly, this portrayal was not based on church tradition or historical research; it was a piece of imaginative literature that proved enormously influential.

Later in the nineteenth century, political cartoonist and illustrator Thomas Nast further reshaped the figure through a series of widely circulated drawings. Nast gave Santa his familiar physical proportions, domesticated his appearance, and firmly established him as a benevolent, grandfatherly presence rather than a religious figure. By this point, Santa had become fully detached from any ecclesiastical context and was firmly embedded in popular culture.

The final standardisation came in the twentieth century through mass advertising. Beginning in the 1930s, Coca‑Cola commissioned a series of advertisements that fixed Santa’s appearance in the public imagination. The red suit, white beard, black belt, and jovial expression were deliberately refined to evoke warmth, reliability, and happiness, aligning the character with consumption, comfort, and seasonal indulgence. These campaigns were global, repeated annually, and extraordinarily effective.

The result is the figure now universally recognised — not a product of ancient Christian tradition, but of modern branding. The Santa known today is younger than many living institutions, shaped less by theology than by marketing psychology. His visual language, moral role, and cultural authority are the outcome of deliberate design, not inherited faith.

What makes this more than a harmless cultural story is the role Santa plays in shaping moral understanding, particularly in children. He sees all. He knows who is good and bad. He judges behaviour. He rewards obedience with gifts. In this way, he becomes an early model of authority. Behaviour leads to reward. Failure leads to loss. The structure is clear and deeply formative.

This framework mirrors a works-based system of righteousness, where performance earns blessing. That is not the Gospel. The Gospel teaches that grace precedes obedience, not the other way around. When a fictional figure quietly takes on attributes that belong to God alone, confusion follows. Christ becomes background imagery while another figure occupies the centre of attention.

Jesus never promised material reward for good behaviour. He promised truth, transformation, and a cross. He called people to deny themselves, not to accumulate comforts. When children are taught, from an early age, that being “good” results in material reward, the foundation is laid for a distorted understanding of faith. God becomes a dispenser of benefits rather than Lord of one’s life. This distortion does not remain confined to childhood. It grows, matures, and eventually expresses itself in a faith that expects reward without surrender.

This is not an argument against family gatherings, generosity, or rest. Scripture affirms all of these. The issue is confusion, not community. The issue is what quietly takes centre stage while Christ’s demands are softened or ignored.

Much of this confusion arises from a misunderstanding of holiness itself. Holiness does not reside in dates, seasons, or rituals. A day is not holy because it appears on a calendar. It becomes holy when it is consciously set apart for God. The same principle applies to feasts and traditions. They are not inherently righteous or sinful. They are shaped by intention, focus, and truth.

The Sabbath, for example, was given to Israel as part of a specific covenant. The feasts were given to Israel as part of a specific calling. They were signs and shadows pointing forward. When Christ came, He fulfilled them. They were not transferred wholesale to the Gentiles as obligations. Gentiles were brought in by grace, not placed under the law.

In the same way, later Christian feasts developed within cultural contexts. They are neither commanded nor forbidden. They remain secondary matters unless they begin to obscure or replace Christ. When tradition becomes untouchable, truth is usually the first casualty.

The world’s embrace of Christmas reveals this tension clearly. A celebration that claims to centre on Christ is enthusiastically adopted by those who openly reject Him. This should give pause. When something genuinely reflects the message of the cross, it tends to provoke discomfort rather than universal approval. Instead, Christmas has become a festival of consumption. Buy more. Eat more. Drink more. Indulge more. All framed as deserved reward at the end of the year.

Christ’s name is retained, but His call to repentance, humility, and obedience is largely absent. The result is a season filled with noise, activity, and sentiment, yet remarkably little stillness or reflection.

God does not measure devotion by decorations, traditions, or dates. He looks at the heart. He seeks those who worship in spirit and in truth, not in habit or cultural expectation. Even flawed things can be used for good when approached honestly. Platforms built for vanity can carry truth. Traditions rooted in compromise can be reclaimed through clarity. But that requires honesty, not denial.

Holiness does not live in a season. It lives in surrender. When a person quiets themselves, turns their attention toward Christ, and chooses obedience, that moment becomes set apart. It does not matter whether it occurs on a Sunday, a public holiday, or an ordinary weekday.

God does not dwell in days. He dwells in people. When that is understood, debates about dates lose their power. What remains is a simple question that cannot be avoided: is Christ truly central, or is He merely present in name?

Traditions are powerful teachers. Left unexamined, they eventually teach things never consciously chosen. Christmas can remain a comfortable illusion, protected by nostalgia and sentiment, or it can become an opportunity to recover clarity. That choice does not belong to institutions, calendars, or culture. It belongs to individuals.

And it always has.