Visiting the grave of Saint Nicholas on Christmas Eve



Santa Claus by Thomas Nast (1881)

Today I visited the grave of Santa Claus.

The first thing to say, of course, is that Santa Claus does not – and cannot – have a grave, because Santa Claus cannot die and Santa Claus never will die. Santa is – as every child knows – a magical being, given life and strength by the power of belief.

Santa lives in the North Pole and once a year, at Christmas time, he sails the night sky in an enchanted sleigh towed by his flying reindeer. The most famous of those, of course, is Rudolf, whose shiny red nose has saved the day more than once. This Christmas night, and every Christmas night, Santa will visit every child in the world and he will do so as long as children believe in him.

I always wonder, though, if Santa gets a little tingle when he stops to deliver presents to the children of Thomastown in County Kilkenny. Maybe he takes a wistful look over toward Jerpoint Park, to the ruined Church of Saint Nicholas. After all, that’s where he’s buried.

Before Santa became Santa, he was a human being named Nicholas, a very long time ago. He was born, more than one thousand and seven hundred years ago, on the 15th of March in the year 270 in what is now southern Turkey.

Nicholas was the son of wealthy Christian parents and he was a very religious child. When he was very young, his parents died in an epidemic and his uncle, who was the local bishop and also called Nicholas, took him in and raised him. In time, Nicholas was ordained a priest and years later he too became a bishop. He became renowned for his generosity and his secret gift-giving.

Interestingly, he attended the First Council of Nicaea in 325, which was convened by the Roman Emperor Constantine, and which would set in stone what would become universally accepted as the details of the story of Jesus Christ.

Legend has it that Nicholas – who believed that Jesus was co-eternal with God the Father (meaning Jesus existed with God and as God since the beginning of time) and was thus as divine as God – became so angry at the heretic Arius – who contended that Jesus was created by God and thus less divine – that Nicholas punched him in the face. Later years obviously mellowed Santa…

(Other details were added to the story of Jesus at Constantine’s insistence.

According to the English writer Alan Moore, Rome was “a city divided by different theological factions, the largest and noisiest probably being the early Christian zealots. Then there was the cult of Mithras, which was smaller but which included the bulk of the Roman Military. Finally there was the cult of Sol Invictus, the Undefeated Sun, which was relatively small but very popular amongst the merchant class.

“Constantine’s posse came up with a composite religion to unite Rome: Christianity would incorporate large chunks of Mithraism, including the stuff about being born in a cave surrounded by shepherds and animals on the 25th of December, and would make concessions to the cult of Sol Invictus, the Undefeated Sun, by sticking a big Sun-symbol behind the messiah’s head in all the publicity hand-outs. This is politics.”)

During his lifetime, tales of Nicholas’ great kindness spread and with them rumours and tall tales of miracles he had performed. It was said he saved three young women from shame by giving their impoverished father dowries, which Nicholas may have thrown down the chimney.

He was said to have saved Myra from a famine in 311 by performing a loaves-and-fishes miracle with a ship cargo of wheat.

He was even rumoured to have resurrected three murdered children.

Being human, Nicholas eventually got old and – at what would have been at the time the incredibly old age of 73 – he died on the 6th of December in the year 343.

But that was only the beginning.

His tomb became a popular place of pilgrimage but – and this gets gruesome, so adults look away – in 1087 Italian sailors seized half of St Nicholas’ skeleton and brought it to Bari where those remains lay today in two churches, one Catholic and one Orthodox Christian. Venetian sailors later claimed the remaining fragments of the skeleton and brought them to Venice, where the church of St Nicholas was built.



The Tombstone of Saint Nicholas, Newtown Jerpoint, Co Kilkenny

However, there is another legend about Saint Nicholas.

It is said that two 12th century crusaders brought the remains of Saint Nicholas as far away from danger as they could, to Ireland, effectively taking him to what was then the ends of the Earth.

It is believed that the remains of Saint Nicholas were buried at the Church of Saint Nicholas in what is now the lost town of Newtown Jerpoint, two miles from Thomastown in Co Kilkenny. The grave’s stone slab is carved with the image of a cleric with the head of a knight behind either shoulder, said to be the two crusaders.

It is a historical fact that Norman knights took part in the Crusades and the Normans in Kilkenny were well-known as collectors of religious relics.

Who really knows?

What’s important is that in death, Nicholas became bigger than a man, bigger even than a saint.

Nicholas became a story.

And everyone knows that stories get stronger every time they’re told. And if it’s a really simple story, a really powerful story, like a story about a man who secretly gives gifts and wants nothing in return, well, a story like that can become magical.

The story of Nicholas grew as it spread, gaining power as it went. In Europe, it bumped into Martin Luther’s legend of the Christkind – a magical version of the Baby Jesus who gives gifts to children – and absorbed it.  In Britain, it met the story of Father Christmas (think Charles Dickens’ Ghost of Christmas Present) and absorbed that too. In the Netherlands and Belgium, Saint Nicholas became Sinterklaas, where he’s celebrated still.

By the time the story reached the New World, Sinterklaas was Americanized to Santa Claus and in 1823, the publication of “A Visit From St Nicholas” (“‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse”) gave new impetus to the legend.

In 1863, the cartoonist Thomas Nast drew Santa as a portly, white-bearded gentleman giving toys to children and the picture was almost complete. The North Pole, the elves, Rudolf, Mrs Claus and all the other details grew from there.

Contrary to persistent urban myths, Santa wore red and white long before Coca-Cola portrayed him in those colours. In fact, Santa as we know him, in his white-trimmed red suit and cap, appeared on the cover of “Puck” magazine in the first years of the 20th century.


Given life by the power of belief, Santa Claus has come to be the embodiment of Christmas for millions of children around the world, a magical being of great joy and kindness.

Even as he races around the world to reach every child this Christmas night, when Santa comes to KiIkenny, perhaps he will find the time to stop at the ruined Church of Saint Nicholas to pay his respects to the man he was before he became Santa.

Happy Christmas.

Donal O’Keeffe

Martyn Turner, the Irish Times and #CharlieHebdo




“Charia” Hebdo: 100 lashes if you’re not dying of laughter!

“Charlie Hebdo would not survive too long in a Dublin newsagent without being hauled before the beak for blasphemy, indecency and anything else they could think of.”

So writes Martyn Turner in the Irish Times, offering his reaction to the atrocity in Paris, as yet again religious fanatics commit the ultimate blasphemy, murdering out of fear that their all-powerful god might not actually be able to defend his or her self.

That attack saw Islamist gunmen storm the offices of the satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo and murder twelve people for the crime of offending them. Or their god. Whichever was the more touchy.

Martyn Turner is my favourite Irish cartoonist by a country mile and he has been for as long as I can remember. Although it’s more than two decades ago now since the X Case, I can recall in vivid detail sitting in a restaurant in Cork, feeling sickened to my stomach, looking again and again at this cartoon on the front of the Irish Times and realising how perfectly Turner had encapsulated what I knew even then would be a defining moment in Irish history.

x case

Turner has an unerring ability to see to the heart of a story and to capture its essence in gorgeous lines of pen and ink. He has nailed successive Taoisigh to the drawing board and skewered politicians of every stripe without fear or favour.

Haughey Turner

Turner's Taoisigh


Turner Irish Water

Jarry Bear

To my eye, Martyn Turner’s work shows a clear influence from the great Irish-American cartoonist Walt Kelly.

Ah Pogo

In 1941, Kelly created the comic strip “Pogo” and, using beautiful illustrations of funny animals, spent the rest of his life delivering sharp and biting social and political commentary in an America that was a cold climate for his liberal and humanist opinions. “Calling a man a pig is just plain rude,” Kelly said of cartooning. “Draw him as a pig. That’s how you really hurt the sonuvabitch.”


Kelly was among the very first to take on another Irish-American figure, Senator Joseph McCarthy – lampooning him as “Simple J Malarkey” – at a time when to do so was to risk more than just career.

Martyn Turner is spot-on to highlight Ireland’s ludicrous blasphemy laws – which date back not to Victorian times but to Dermot Ahern’s head-rush of 1999. Actually, whatever happened to all that lovely Sharia banking Dermot said he’d get us in return for introducing the EU’s most regressive blasphemy laws?

The Minister of State for Justice, the Labour Party’s Aodhán Ó Ríordán, has promised a referendum on blasphemy “in the second half of the year”. Which strikes me as a tad optimistic, given that we might not even have a Labour Party in the second half of the year.

I could be wrong, but I thought I detected something left unsaid in Turner’s comments about cartooning and freedom of speech.

Last April, the Irish Times carried a cartoon by Turner. (The context of the cartoon was a resurgence of Ireland’s seemingly-unkillable love of singing priests.) I liked the cartoon and I tried to find it on the Irish Times website but it was not there. Not to worry. I’m one of that dying breed of weirdo who buys a newspaper or two every day. So I took a bad photo and tweeted it. To my surprise, my tweet soon became (it seemed) the only available online copy of the cartoon.


.A day later, the Irish Times issued what could only be called a grovelling apology, saying  Turner’s cartoon “took an unfortunate and unjustified side-swipe at all priests, suggesting that none of them can be trusted with children”.

That weekend, the Iona Institute’s Breda O’Brien wrote a car-crash of an Irish Times column defending singing priests. (She didn’t mention that most famous of singing priests, the Elvis impersonator Fr Tony Walsh. As I write this, Fr Tony is serving 123 years’ worth of concurrent sentences for child abuse. Read more here but be warned that you don’t want Fr Tony in your head for too long.)

Given that the Catholic Church in Ireland has had a very obvious and deadly-dangerous problem with mandatory reporting of allegations of sex abuse up to at least as recently as the events covered in the Cloyne Report of 2011, I honestly see nothing controversial at all in Turner’s cartoon. But, despite claiming that the work of columnists and contributors is “largely sacrosanct”, the Irish Times apologised for the “considerable offence… (and) the hurt caused by the cartoon whose use in that form, we acknowledge, reflected a regretable [sic] editorial lapse.”

God forbid that the easily-offended might get offended.

You’d wonder though, wouldn’t you? If the Irish Times can cave so easily to prissy Flanderses like the Iona Institute, what might happen if the likes of ISIS ever came a-calling?

Speaking of the easily-offended, one of Ireland’s leading Muslim clerics was straight out of the traps a day after the Charlie Hebdo murders to threaten legal action should anyone in the Irish media publish a cartoon depicting the Prophet Mohammed. Dr Ali Selim, of the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland, later appeared on RTÉ’s Prime Time, doing a credible impression of a racist taxi-driver. “Blasphemy is not Irish,” he said. “Why do we import problems that are not Irish?”

Likening freedom of speech to water, Dr Selim made the bizarre point: “If you drink too much, you will end up in hospital.” With such tone-deafness, he may as well just apply for Iona membership altogether.

In Paris we saw champions of free speech pay the ultimate price. They died because they offended the easily-offended. The cowards who slaughtered twelve people are violent and damaged men willing to place their own deranged imaginings of the divine above the lives of others.

In their rage, they reject the most basic principles of civilisation. Civilisation’s only response can be more civilisation.

If a society believes in freedom of speech then that freedom applies to all, most especially to those we find offensive. Freedom’s only weapon can be more freedom.

“Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand,” said Mark Twain. But if you believe in an all-powerful god, then for God’s sake have a little faith. He or she should be big enough to take a joke.

“I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.” – Stephane “Charb” Charbonnier (1967 – 2015), publisher, Charlie Hebdo.

Donal O’Keeffe

Alan Moore on organised relgion


“(To) me, organised religion seems to be the accumulation of dead ritual, lifeless dogma, and largely fear-driven belief that has built up around some original kernel of genuine spiritual experience.

“From what I understand of the original Essenes, for example, they were Gnostics. That is to say, their spirituality was based not upon faith or belief but upon personal apprehension and knowledge, or gnosis, of the powers at work in the Universe. They didn’t believe. They knew. If there was ever such a historical personage as Jesus Christ, and if this person did have a group of Apostles around him, they were not acting from belief either. Saul/Paul had the heavenly searchlight turned upon him during his day-trip to Damascus. Pentecostal fire danced on their tongues. Thomas… a pure-bred I’m-From-Missouri Gnostic if ever I heard of one… even put his hand in the wound of the resurrected messiah. Gnosis… personal knowledge and experience of the spiritual… I have no problem with.

“What I do have a problem with is the middle management who have manoeuvred themselves between the wellspring and those who thirst in the field of spirituality, just as efficiently as they’ve done it in every other field of human endeavour.

“It seems to me that when the blueprint for the modern Christian faith was first sketched out by the Emperor Constantine and his marketing department, it was constructed largely to solve a couple of immediately Earthly problems that Rome faced at the time. They had a city divided by different theological factions, the largest and noisiest probably being the early Christian zealots. Then there was the cult of Mithras, which was smaller but which included the bulk of the Roman Military. Finally there was the cult of Sol Invictus, the Undefeated Sun, which was relatively small but very popular amongst the merchant class.

“Constantine’s posse came up with a composite religion to unite Rome: Christianity would incorporate large chunks of Mithraism, including the stuff about being born in a cave surrounded by shepherds and animals on the 25th of December, and would make concessions to the cult of Sol Invictus, the Undefeated Sun, by sticking a big Sun-symbol behind the messiah’s head in all the publicity hand-outs. This is politics.

“The effect in spiritual terms is to move the emphasis away from any genuine personal spiritual experience. Whereas for the original Gnostics such a personal knowledge of and direct communication with the Godhead was the cornerstone of their spiritual life, after the priesthood moved in, the basic proposition was vastly different: ‘You don’t need to have had a transforming experience yourselves, and in fact neither do the priesthood need to have had a transforming experience. The important thing is that we have this book, about people who lived a long time ago, and they had transforming experiences, and if you come along on Sunday we’ll read to you about them and that will be your transforming experience.’ This sounds to me like a co-opting of the divine impulse – a channelling of the individual’s spiritual aspirations into a mechanism for social regulation.

“So, no, I’m not a big fan of organised religion of any kind.”

Alan Moore

in conversation with Dave Sim

Alan Moore: Portrait of an Extraordinary Gentleman

Copyright abiogenesis press 2003