Until 1870, the Papal States were a conglomeration of territories on the Italian peninsula under the direct sovereign rule of the Pope. Since the Middle Ages, the Papal States had expanded and contracted, playing a significant role in Italian politics and serving as the temporal domain of the papacy. In 1870, the Papal States were annexed by the Kingdom of Italy, marking the end of the Pope’s political power. From 1870 to 1929, the Pope lived without a state, becoming known as the “Prisoner in the Vatican.” This situation changed on February 11, 1929, when the Lateran Treaty was signed between Italy and the Vatican. This treaty, negotiated by fascist dictator Benito Mussolini and Pope Pius XI, established Vatican City as a sovereign state. Ever since, the papacy has governed the Vatican City State, a tiny territory of 44 hectares within Rome.

But the Vatican certainly punches above its weight. While it may have lost its vast territorial holdings after 1870, the modern Vatican has cultivated a different kind of power through its financial operations and diplomatic reach. The Holy See maintains formal diplomatic relations with 179 nations, demonstrating its international clout. Financially, the Vatican Bank manages billions in assets for the Church and affiliated institutions. This financial leverage, combined with the Pope’s religious authority and the Vatican’s extensive global network, allows the tiny city-state to exert significant influence on world affairs, arguably surpassing its former territorial power.

Consequently, when it comes to electing Popes – via the mechanism of a secret assembly of cardinals, known as a ‘conclave’ – the stakes are high. And for that very reason, there have been quite a few nasty affairs in the history of conclaves. For example, the papal election of 1268 lasted nearly three years and ended only when the townspeople of Viterbo took drastic measures: they locked up the cardinals, removed the roof from their palace, and fed them nothing but bread and water until a decision was made. Another contentious conclave took place in 1378, where angry mobs threatened violence if a Roman Pope was not elected. The cardinals, under duress, chose Urban VI, who turned out to be so unstable that they later declared the election invalid and selected a different Pope, leading to a schism in the Church.

We may live in a more civilised age, but the recently released film Conclave — directed by Edward Berger and based on Robert Harris’ novel— gives reason to think that within the walls of the Vatican, the Medieval dog-eat-dog world may be alive and kicking. The film unveils the raw human dynamics within the conclave, exposing a world where ambition, secrets, and competing ideologies collide, ultimately culminating in an unexpected papal selection that challenges the Church’s traditional foundations.

While secular political gatherings in many countries might mirror the procedural mechanics of a papal conclave, the catholic tradition distinguishes itself through a unique supernatural claim: that the Holy Spirit actively guides and influences the election, transcending mere human political machinations. This divine intervention, catholics believe, elevates the conclave from a simple organisational process to a mystical event where human choice is mysteriously intertwined with celestial guidance.

The notion of divine guidance in papal elections is difficult to reconcile with the historical record of questionable outcomes, such as those I previously mentioned. The tightrope walk between free will and divine guidance creates a logical conundrum: if the cardinals truly have free will, then the Holy Spirit’s influence becomes negligible at best; conversely, if the Holy Spirit genuinely guides the process, it would render the cardinals’ choices predetermined, negating the concept of free will.

Be that as it may, while catholics believe in the Holy Spirit’s guidance during papal elections, they do not claim that everything the Pope does or says is infallible. The doctrine of papal infallibility only emerged in 1870 during the First Vatican Council and was highly controversial at the time. Some cardinals argued that this doctrine lacked a solid foundation in scripture or Church tradition. For instance, they pointed to historical cases of Popes who had erred in matters of faith, such as Pope Honorius I, who was posthumously condemned for heresy in the 7th century.

In truth, this doctrine is far more limited than many assume. It stipulates that the Pope is only infallible when speaking ex-cathedra on matters of faith and morals, binding the whole Church to his declaration. This specific condition has been invoked extremely rarely since the doctrine’s establishment. In fact, there are only two universally recognised instances of infallible papal pronouncements: Pope Pius IX’s declaration of the Immaculate Conception in 1854 and Pope Pius XII’s declaration of the Assumption of Mary in 1950.

Nevertheless, the doctrine of infallibility essentially provides a blank check that any future Pope could cash at will. Provided he speaks ex-cathedra, a Pope could theoretically declare that the vision narrated by the book of Ezekiel 1:4-28 actually refers to UFOs — a claim long favoured by conspiracy theorists — and Jesus is actually a being from another planet. catholics would be obligated to accept this radical reinterpretation as infallible truth.

There is no formal mechanism to impeach a Pope or even to declare one mentally unfit for the role. This lack of oversight and balances means that even in extreme scenarios—such as a Pope exhibiting clear signs of mental instability or making wildly unorthodox proclamations—there is no established process to remove him from office or nullify his declarations.

Catholics generally trust that, since the Holy Spirit guides the papal election process, they would never end up with such a Pope. This line of reasoning bears a resemblance to the prelogical thinking behind medieval ordeals. Just as surviving a trial by fire was seen as divine proof of innocence, the mere fact that a Pope remains in office is taken as evidence that his ex-cathedra statements are divinely inspired. If one reasons that the Holy Spirit would never allow a Pope to make wild claims ex-cathedra, then that means that if a Pope ever did make them — such as Jesus’ extraterrestrial origins —, the Holy Spirit approves it.

In Conclave, the selected candidate is not mentally unstable or does not make wild proclamations — in fact, he is the most lucid of the lot. But he does have a secret that in previous epochs might have barred him from priesthood altogether (I will not spoil the plot). However, an intriguing thought experiment arises: How would the global catholic community react if a completely unfit Pope were elected? This scenario presents a dilemma. Would the faithful view it as a testament to the Holy Spirit’s inscrutable wisdom, embracing the Pope’s condition as part of a divine plan? Or would it spark a crisis of faith, prompting believers to question long-held dogmas about the Holy Spirit’s role in papal elections and the infallibility of ex-cathedra pronouncements? We skeptics can only hope for the latter. Contrary to catholic dogma, the Vatican operates as a terrestrial institution—an anachronism rooted in monarchical systems that no longer hold relevance in the modern world. The idea of divine right, once wielded to justify absolute rule, was emphatically dismissed during the French Revolution. Today, the prevailing understanding is that legitimate authority arises from human dynamics and social contracts, not from supernatural dictates. Yet, in a particular State wielding significant influence—disproportionate to its size—, over a billion people maintain that its leader’s power is divinely sanctioned. Only time will reveal whether these beliefs will be critically examined and questioned.

As an atheist, skeptic, and researcher working broadly in the cognitive sciences of religion, Christmas brings up a lot of questions. Can I celebrate this holiday? Am I a hypocrite if I put some fairy lights up? How long can I get away with not checking my emails? How many mince pies is too many? Is a plate of cheese really a meal? Prosecco counts as a mixer, right?

But a more intriguing question, to people in my field at least, is this: why isn’t Santa Claus seen as a god? 

At first glance, it’s a silly question. He just isn’t! No one thinks of Santa as a god! Only kids believe in Santa! But viewed from the perspective of the cognitive science of religion, this is actually very interesting. Before I can convince you that this is genuinely an interesting question and not just a silly rhetorical quip, I need to introduce you to minimally counterintuitive concepts or ideas and what they have to do with theories seeking to explain religion.

When looking at religions across the world – even disparate religions with different roots, rules, gods, rituals, and traditions – we can see that they often have interesting things in common. It seems that religions the world over contain minimally counterintuitive concepts. These are objects or beings that behave in ways that fit within our expectations of what that thing or object is or can do, but violate our expectations in some way. Examples of this would be a tree that can talk, a chair that can walk, perhaps a statue that can cry, a rock that can sing, or a human that can walk through walls – you get the idea.

We remember these ideas very easily – even more than we remember something completely unsurprising, like a tree that is just a tree, a chair that is just a chair, or a statue that is just a statue, and so on. Interestingly, we also remember minimally counterintuitive ideas better than we remember maximally counterintuitive ideas, such as a rock that sings but only on Tuesdays if it’s raining, because if it’s sunny it grows legs and dances the tango, but only in January, and only if there’s been no snow since New Year’s Eve. That’s far too complicated and weird, there are just too many details. No one, or very few, will remember that.

Why are religions full of minimally counterintuitive ideas? The argument goes that the slight surprise or intrigue of minimally counterintuitive ideas makes them memorable, and so they work brilliantly as memes – units of information that stick in our brains and transmit easily with high fidelity to other brains, and that is key to religion. The problem with this argument is that there is a big difference between remembering information, and believing that information. This is what often gets referred to as the Mickey Mouse problem.

The Mickey Mouse problem 

If all we need in order to kickstart a religion is a minimally counterintuitive concept that a lot of people are able to imagine, remember, and tell other people about with relative ease, then why isn’t Mickey Mouse, the mouse that wears trousers and talks, not a god? The answer to this is that while minimally counterintuitive concepts may well be an important aspect of what makes a god a god, that’s not all that is needed. 

In the paper “Why Santa Clause is not a God” (the question I have shamelessly ripped off here), Justin Barrett lays out five key attributes of culturally successful god concepts. Let’s see how well Mickey Mouse measures against Barrett’s criteria.

Firstly, gods are counterintuitive. With his job, house, trousers, shoes, girlfriend, pet dog and impressive command of spoken language for a mouse, I’m pretty happy to say Mickey Mouse meets this criterion. Secondly, gods are intentional agents, that is they have minds therefore they have opinions, desires and goals and so can act with intent. Again Mickey Mouse does appear to have this. Gods also tend to have privileged access to useful information – I am not sure this is something that can be said of Mickey. He seems like a nice enough mouse fellow and perfectly happy, but I’m not sure he can really give me much in the way of life advice, never mind offer profound insight into the mysterious workings of the universe. So on this third key feature Mickey is, in my opinion, lacking. 

The fourth key feature Barrett outlines is that gods tend to be able to interact with our world. This is a tricky one. Mickey does interact with our world, within Disney theme parks at least, and, if he were a god, Mickey wouldn’t be the only geographically constrained god. That said, even within the confines of the magic kingdom, Mickey’s interaction with our world seems to be limited to dancing, waving and occasionally hugging people. These things are lovely, and can indeed feel magical, but they are not acts that can’t be performed by regular folk. Barrett argues that Mickey doesn’t meet this criterion, but hey, it’s nearly Christmas after all, so let’s be generous and give the Mouse the benefit of the doubt. 

Finally, gods tend to inspire rituals. This is a tricky one, because it really depends on how one defines ritual. Perhaps for some, visiting one of the Disney theme parks may take on ritualistic aspects, such as the donning of mouse ears, maybe even engaging in specific activities or going on the rides in a specific order. We’re getting into the realms of “you know it when you see it” as one often does when looking at religion, but I’d argue that on the whole, Mickey doesn’t seem to inspire ritual behaviour, certainly not large-scale, coordinated rituals occurring on key days or dates.

Back to Santa

So, Mickey Mouse doesn’t quite have all the key ingredients of a god, but what about Santa? He has even more hallmarks of a god than Mickey, doesn’t he? Santa is pretty magical. He somehow visits every (predominantly Christian) child in the whole world in the space of one night, using only a sleigh and some flying reindeer. That seems counterintuitive to me. He is apparently omniscient, as he knows when you are sleeping and knows when you’re awake – and not just you, but everyone in the world. That certainly seems like privileged knowledge no normal human would possess. He even knows if you’ve been bad or good, and indeed cares about your moral behaviour. It sounds to me like Santa is an intentional agent, with a human-like mind. 

Santa then deals out punishment or reward as he sees fit: coal or reindeer poop for the bad kids and this year’s must-have gifts for the good children (if their parents can afford them). So here is Santa interacting with our world! These are excellent ingredients for a god!

What about ritual – does Santa inspire ritual? Arguably. Children are encouraged to leave out treats for Santa, such as milk and cookies, sherry and mince pies, or whiskey and sausage rolls. Plus a carrot for the reindeer. Every year and always on the same date. It’s beginning to look a lot like ritual to me. Yet, despite all this, Santa just isn’t considered to be a god – as far as I am aware there are no Santaists knocking about, apart from the occasional dyslexic goth. So, why?

Barrett’s paper outlining the key features described above ultimately concludes that Santa somehow just doesn’t quite possess all the attributes that would transform him from a character in a folk tale and cute seasonal figure into a god of some description, even though he does come pretty close. The devil (or deity) is in the details.

Yes, Santa does apparently care about moral behavior, and is said to be willing to punish behaviour he considers “bad”, but Barrett questions how often Santa (well, parents) reinforce that belief by adjusting the gifts children get in accordance with their behaviour throughout the year. Barrett also argues that although there is some ritualistic behaviour performed and some sacrificial offerings left for Santa the evening before Santa’s expected to arrive and do his reverse burglary, it is only once a year and, perhaps, this is too infrequent to reinforce the belief that he is a god. 

To me, this explanation feels unsatisfying. Maybe to figure out why Santa isn’t a god, we need to look to a concept that does, or rather did, meet all the criteria of a successful god concept, but is no longer seen as a god. 

Ex-gods

Enter Zeus! Or, more specifically, the Zeus problem. In a paper by that name, researchers Joseph Henrich and Will Gervais reply to Barrett’s paper on Santa by pointing out that even agents which meet all the criteria of a god and have been popularly worshipped do not always retain their loyal following. This is pretty compelling evidence that it is not just the content of an idea that takes a being from fictional folk figure to divine deity.

Moreover, if it was the content of a story alone that dictated whether a supernatural entity was seen as an interesting character or an actual god to be worshipped and revered, then presumably every time we hear about a new being that meets all of the god criteria we would suddenly have a new idol in our personal pantheon – that clearly does not happen, so there must be something else at play here. The paper also points out that if the content of ideas alone makes the difference between belief and non-belief, then how do we explain why children who do believe in Santa stop believing as they get older, even though the content of the Santa story doesn’t change. 

In a further paper, Gervais et al argue that it comes down to how humans learn from each other. While the content of a story or idea may be key to what information is conveyed, it’s the cultural context in which the information is transmitted that makes the difference between something we remember and something we believe. Humans are shrewd cultural learners, and have ways to perform a sort of quality control on the information they receive. We pay attention to what the majority of those around us appear to believe and are likely to follow the crowd – this is conformist learning bias.

Santa’s CREDs

We engage in prestige-based learning, paying more attention to individuals who are older, appear to be more skilled, and are looked up to by other individuals in our culture. We are also sensitive to credibility-enhancing displays, or CREDs, which are acts that verify an individual’s stated belief – do they walk the walk after they talk the talk? Is the person who told you the berries are safe to eat actually eating those berries themselves? Is the person who says they believe in a god performing regular acts of devotion or rituals dedicated to their chosen deity? 

It is this last one, the presence or absence of CREDs, that may be the most powerful when it comes to matters of faith. In a study investigating decreases in religious belief, Lanman found that children raised by parents who believe in god are more likely to grow up to be non-believers if they do not witness their parents performing credibility-enhancing displays. We adopt the religion of our culture, if we are regularly exposed to regular credibility-enhancing displays performed by individuals we preferentially learn from.

As children grow up, they are exposed to fewer CREDs validating belief in Santa, as the adults around them start putting in a little less effort into their Santa rituals. In our current culture, we aren’t exposed to peers or prestigious others performing CREDs that would signal a strong and genuinely held belief that Zeus is the almighty god of all. So CREDs – or more accurately, a lack of CREDs – may be key to why Santa (or Zeus) is not considered to be a god; he just doesn’t get the CREDs.

So, Santa isn’t a god, and now you have one current explanation of why. But, if you want to keep the magic alive a little longer, engage in some CREDs, leave out some treats for Santa and his reindeer, and allow yourself to indulge, even for just a few days, in the culturally successful stories we share in midwinter. Merry Christmas.