By Scott Sullivan
Editor
St. Nick’s Bones
Santa Claus is dead but not buried in Bari. That’s the latest from archeologists who believe they’ve discovered the tomb of St. Nicholas under his namesake church in south Turkey.
St. Nicholas — known for anonymous gift-giving and generosity that made him the prototype for Santa, St. Nick, Kris Kringle and that shopping mall guy who terrifies toddlers plunked on his lap — died in A.D. 343. His bones were supposedly stolen by merchants in 1087 from under his church and smuggled to Bari, Italy. Good tourism move, as Bari remains a holy site visited by Christians paying the dead saint homage.
Archaeologists now say pilgrims to Bari are praying to the wrong guy buried there; the bones belong to a local priest, not St. Nicholas. Scholars conducting surveys at Nick’s Turkey church found gaps beneath it, The Washington Post reports.
Although his shrine there remains untouched, it will be hard to reach, as there are mosaics on the church floor. But Cemil Karabyram, head of Antlaya’s Monument Authority, is confident archeologists can access the tomb eventually. When they do, he believes St. Nicholas, nearly 1,700 years after dying, will give another gift to his real home: tourist dollars.
This begs several questions. First, how did Nick get famous for making anonymous gifts? Did he share a publicist with world-renowned secret agent James Bond?
Second, would you walk a mile for a Cemil quote? The Post did.
We all know Jesus, not Santa, is the reason for the season and we should not take Christ out of Christmas. Look no further than stores the first day after Halloween and seasonal Coca Cola cans to confirm this.
Turns out the real St. Nick, a monk who gave away his inheritance to the poor — who revered him for doing so, imagine that — was a crook in the eyes of the Roman emperor Diocletian. The Big D tossed Nicholas and so many other bishops, deacons and priests in jail there was no room for murderers, thieves, even Saugatuck street performers.
It is said while Nick’s relics remained in Turkey, they exuded a clear fluid which smelled like rose water, called manna or myrrh, thought by the faithful to have miraculous powers. I could use that the next time I ask the boss for a raise. Bari still peddles these holy waters, although their gig may dry up should pilgrims hear and adhere, by some miracle, to the new scientific findings.
While living, Nick purportedly resurrected three children killed and turned into meat pies by a demon butcher. “Sweeney Todd” anyone?
In his best-known anonymous exploit, Nick helped a poor man who couldn’t afford dowries for his three daughters, which would have forced them to live as prostitutes, by throwing gold-filled purses through each of their windows. Hmmm …
In the East Nick is venerated as a miracle worker or wonder. In the West he is viewed as the patron saint of children, mariners, bankers, pawnbrokers, scholars, orphans, laborers, travelers, merchants, judges, paupers, marriageable maidens, perfumers, captives, thieves and anyone else Jonesing for Dec. 25 largesse.
“Saint I ain’t,” I told my wife. “How can I get canonized?”
“Give me a cannon,” she said.
“Not my camera!”
“The weapon,” she said. “Spelled with three n’s, not two.”
“That rules out Nikon too. Do I have to be shot — martyred, preferably — before I’m considered for immortality?”
“The Apostolic See looks at more than that,” she said. “It needs proof you lived and died in such an exemplary way you deserve to be made a saint.”
“Like football players in New Orleans?”
“Keep saying things like that, you won’t have a prayer.”
“What would the original St. Nick make of what our culture has turned him into?”
“That’s the value of not being here to see it.”
I may be late to this blameless life game, but that doesn’t mean I can’t start tomorrow.
“I have bones to pick with you while you’re living,” my wife said.
“Wait till I’m gone,” I said.
