Santa Claus (courtesy of Coca-Cola ®)
Since this is Christmas Eve, it might do well to try following a Christmas tradition. Or perhaps its intriguing antithesis in this brief speculation. Giordano Bruno said, “To think is to speculate with images.” Of course Bruno was burned at the stake for heresy in 1600 in Rome, and one might as well roast for something so speculative about ‘sacred’ images than for more trivial reasons. This briefest of musings is not meant to be Grinch-like or tread precariously into faith or belief but merely to think (à la Bruno?) about visual representation. The question here is where did Santa Claus acquire his visual persona? Big stout man, full white beard, red cap? Judging by Orthodox imagery (see below), this probably isn’t the way images started for Nicholas, the 4th century Bishop of Myra known for his anonymous charity and as a champion of Christianity.

St. Nicholas, 1294 (St. Nicholas “Lipensky”, (from Lipnya Church of St. Nicholas in Novgorod, Aleksa Petrov, public domain)
Since this spoof of a speculation has to start somewhere, might it be from the same place in the sequence of changing authority when tracking one synchronous Christian image of ‘God the Father’? The mutable sequence of iconography might go something like the following.
In the decaying Roman Empire, the image of authority had to change. As so-called barbarians waxed stronger on all sides, Roman imperium waned. Where an emperor like Justinian was among the last the last to invoke Christ in visual self-representation in the 6th century at Ravenna’s San Vitale, an emperor-as-Christ, conversely a British 4th century mosaic from Hinton-St. Mary shows the earlier ‘mirror’ image, a Christ-as-emperor with the Chi-Rho behind and framed by pomegranates, possibly one of the earliest Christ proto-images anywhere.

Mosaic of Christ at Hinton-St-Mary, 4th c. (courtesy of British Museum and BBC)
But the new identity symbol of power as Rome declined could have possibly been a so-called barbarian chieftain, more likely a mature and stout, full-bearded German or Goth. Note (below) the late Roman c. 251 ‘Ludovisi’ sarcophagus with bearded, bare-chested Germanic warriors at the bottom center and right of the frieze being mostly crushed by the troops of the emperor (possibly Hostilian). This was soon wishful thinking. Too quickly in the centuries thereafter, especially the fifth century, the invading hordes became too much for a collapsing Rome.

‘Ludovisi’ Sarcophagus, c. 251 CE, 1.5 m height, Palazzo Altemps, Rome (public domain)

Detail of Ludovisi Sarcophagus. German in battle with Romans (courtesy of Fred Kleiner,http://faculty.cua.edu/pennington/Religion402/Topic%20One%20Early%20Church/
LectureOne/RomansBarbarians/LudovisiSarcophagusDet4.jpg)
Why now continue visually representing divine authority with a weak, obsolete Roman power? In parallel, the imaging of God as the ‘Ancient of Days’ (eternal?) may be traced to the Hebrew prophets in the book of Daniel 7:13 and, when borrowed into Christianity, may refer to either ‘God the Father’ as in Western Christianity or Christ in Eastern Orthodoxy. Blake’s 1794 painting of the ‘Ancient of Days’ is as visionary as any other image, maybe more so, although Michelangelo’s face of God from the Sistine Chapel may be more of a authority figure.

William Bake, ‘Ancient of Days’, 1794 (courtesy of British Museum)

one of Michelangelo’s faces of God, Sistine Chapel, 1511 (public domain)
The early anti-iconic tradition inferred from Exodus 20:4 (an injunction against the futility of trying to depict a spiritual God in a physical form; sorry, a Golden Calf just wouldn’t do) placed alongside a paucity of Paleo-Christian art, due to its illicit nature and poverty of the early Church, would suddenly change when Constantine began supporting state-funded art in the 4th century. Since the kenotic Christ has long been perceived as human as well as divine, it was more acceptable to use visual imagery for him than for the more mysterious ‘God the Father’.

The Magi Mosaic at Sant’Apollinare, Classe-Ravenna, 6th c. (public domain)
The red Phrygian cap is earlier associated with Mithraism, an Eastern religious mystery cult later strongly dispersed with observant Roman legions judging by excavated mithraea and their artifacts. Something similar to this cap is also seen on the Magi in the 6th century mosaic at Sant’Apollinare, Classe-Ravenna, which makes perfect sense if they were star-gazers: these star-following Magi (μαγοι, magoi in Greek) from Matthew 2 in earliest legends seem to have been astrologer Mithraists or depicted to reference them. Isaac Newton wasn’t the only one to notice the late Roman Christian appropriation of the Dies Natalis Solis Invicti, re-birthday of the sun three days after the winter solstice – bruma to the old Romans, when it could be shown to the ancient mind the sun was again growing stronger. This conflating act shows syncretic logic (sort of a “if you can’t beat them, join them” conflation). Since St. Nicholas (4th century) was from Myra (modern Demre) in Lycia, Southern Turkey, it would only be natural and appropriate to thus portray an Eastern saint in a red cap from Turkey (often called Phrygian from a northwestern Turkish region, and the Phrygian cap is one likely precursor of the Santa Claus cap judging by the Ravenna magi mosaic. Early on looking from archetype to archetype, from Phrygian caps at Ravenna to Northern European traditions, distinguishing Magi and Odin Longbeard to Sinterklaas and St. Nikolaus may be visually and philosophically challenging.

Sinterklaas (courtesy of ABC Australia)
But can we ultimately have both a ‘God the Father’ and Santa Claus looking like stout, full-bearded, very mature and venerable Germanic chieftains, the latter the more jovial of the two? Some Spinozan might even say – for good or ill – in an increasingly secular milieu that for many Santa Claus has superseded ‘God the Father’ as uber-benevolent being. Ultimately this [a]musing bit of spoof is just a Christmas teaser, nothing to be burned up about if all this is perhaps ambiguous like a provocatively thoughtful Philip Pullman thesis. Although if this speculator only receives a chunk of coal in his stocking, that’s still better than being one. Of course, Giordano Bruno’s fateful speculations aside, this may also just be pure holiday humbug. If all this speculation is tiresome, sit by the fire – not too close – and have a think while warming yourself with Giordano Bruno!