This is the sixth of my pieces on religion.

Christmas, 1995, promises to be much like the thirty-two previous ones, most of which I remember. It is Saturday 23 December and the weather is cold. The first snow of the season clung with uncharacteristic tenacity to the seaward rocks, only to give way within twenty-four hours to mild, clear weather. Now we are into a sharp frost, and.... Who knows?

But I didn't sit down with the intention of writing a discourse on the weather. No doubt those caring enough to take an interest will pity us out here in the midst of our severe weather warnings, gales and floods while they shelter safely inland. (Point of information: Croydon, six inches of snow in first week of December; Skinburness no snow until 21 December and then only a transitory covering, but I'm getting back onto the weather and I said I wouldn't.)

The seasonal moaning is well under way. The newspapers are full of it. Should we lie to children about Santa Claus? Should we allow Christmas to become commercialised? Ought we not to remember more clearly the real meaning of Christmas? Ought we to bother with Christmas at all? Is it simply an excuse for over-indulgence in damaging, decadent, disgusting consumerism?

Among the queries absent from the yearly round is this one. Why the hell do we continue with this pointless drivel? Aside from the fact that Christmas seems to be here to stay, few of us appear to profit from the endless winter debate over the merits and/or evils of festive celebration.

Essentially Christmas is a time for volunteers. It is a festival which we can ignore if we choose, but most of us don't. Before you start arguing and educating me with tales of in-laws' expectations, traditions to which you are bound etc., understand this. There are many traditions which have been recently and thankfully dispensed with, such as women automatically putting family before career; Irish couples not being allowed to divorce; and juries awarding silly sums over petulant libel claims. If Christmas really bothers you, opt out. There are plenty of ways of doing it, and if it means enough to you, you will find one. Those closest to you will surely appreciate the strength of your feelings although they may quite reasonably expect you to accommodate their standpoint as they accommodate yours. You will need to exclude yourself from the giving and receiving of gifts; decoration of 'your' parts of your dwelling; seasonal indulgence in certain foods; exchanging of Christmas cards; exchanging of verbally delivered Christmas greetings; and plenty of other things besides.

I know it can't be done. It can't be done because to attempt it would cause more trouble than not attempting it, and so we all play along. But what I am saying is that this state of affairs could never conceivably have been reached but for the inescapable fact that we are all volunteers. Christmas, like every other aspect of civilisation, has been designed, crafted, modified and utilised by us. Nothing like Christmas can hope to arise unless people make it happen. It is a complex edifice of thoughts and actions leading to a predictable, annually repeated pattern of events. Without people, there would be no Christmas. Civilisation would not be stuck with Christmas unless it wanted to be, so logically we have Christmas every year because we want it.

So what about the other pointless questions? Lying to children about Santa Claus is something we will continue to do, despite the pathetic protestations of those who cannot distinguish true, constructive conscience from a dangerous alliance of utter selfishness with blind, unthinking stupidity. "I have never lied to my children," sniff the moronic minority, "apart from to tell them about Santa Claus. I don't feel comfortable about that." A few days ago a vicar made the national headlines after denying the existence of Father Christmas to a family congregation, inviting subsequent (well-deserved) criticism directly proportional to the flow of his younger parishioners' tears. Leaving aside the fact that the parson's revelation calls into question his own weekly promulgation of lies and falsehoods concerning issues such as the origin and purpose of human life, his outpourings were as petrol to the fire of Santa-related doubt among parents.

The answer is almost alarmingly simple. If you feel that your children have more to gain from the exposure of Santa as a charlatan than from a temporary belief in him, then go ahead and explode the myth (but have a box of tissues ready). Assure your charge that you have his/her best interests at heart; that a selfish preoccupation with your own immediate peace of mind has played no part whatever in motivating your action; and that they will be better off in the long run for knowing the truth.

But if you take the sensible course, and allow your child the scope to experience the magic accessible within the incomparable wonderland of their own imagination (albeit with the help of a harmless old tale, the verisimilitude of which will pale automatically as the youngster adds daily to his/her store of worldly experience) then at least have the grace to do so openly and honestly. Do not waste your time and that of those who have to listen to you by wrestling publicly with fashionably imaginary doubts. It is likely that you had your own views on Santa Claus when you were very young. Examine the context in which you developed these views and ask yourself whether your own child's experience will be the better for being different, in whatever way, from your own. Keep in mind that the image of Santa is created by the child, not by the parent. The parent's responsibility is to respond appropriately to their child, not to delude themselves into thinking (as so many parents appear to do) that they have total editorial control over everything that enters their child's mind. Their child, not they, retains control. And when the time comes, the child will decide for him/herself to stop believing in Santa Claus. It is nothing less than arrogance on the part of adults to assume otherwise.

I have considerable experience of children and of playing Santa in his grotto. This year I was visited by Bethany, who is five and whose wide-eyed, trusting awe was the best indication of her unquestioning belief. With her was Holly who is twelve and whose knowing smile from behind her sister communicated, along with the fact that she no longer believed in Santa and knew perfectly well who I was, that she wanted nothing to spoil Bethany's delight in the magic of Christmas. Outside the grotto stood Carol, aged thirty-something, and blessed with the good sense to let her children get on, capably and competently as nearly all children do, with managing and running this vital aspect of their childhood.