Christmas Day had fully come, and gone, but the church was still celebrating the wondrous birth, and singing beloved hymns. Some folks believe that Christmas lasts for twelve days, and ends on January 6. Christmas songs creep into the services in early December, and sentimental folks may hope for a white Christmas. It snowed last Christmas. People sometimes feared to go out into the storm, and nurtured their sweet visions at the home hearth.
On the Sunday after Christmas, in the church where Bridget and I find ourselves, one of the leaders, a woman with considerable skill in sharing the gospel with children, invited any kids in the congregation up to the place where the nativity scene was placed, so that she could share the message of Christmas with younger saints. Somewhat tentatively, and then more eagerly, children gathered around the manger scene — with Mary and Joseph and a baby, and various animals — to hear a story. The Story.
I was so taken with the scene that I really don’t remember the details of the story, but I do remember the storyteller and her welcoming attitude, and the quiet attention of the small children. I really wanted to leave my seat and join the children at the crèche, but resisted that temptation. Things were a bit crowded up there anyway. I recalled that as a child, I never saw manger scenes. Presbyterians did not have them, thinking that this invention of St. Francis belonged up the way, in a fancier church.
As a middle school child, we got a manger scene for our home, and I loved it. I knew where all the figures were supposed to go, and it was my job to arrange them. In time, I saw the value of such a scene, while knowing that it is not representative of what the Birth was really like. As an adult, I gave much thought to the notion that the Birth was attended by a stunned husband, and that like all births it was not as well organized as my scene. “No room in the inn” became more important to me, with my youthful heart experiencing the sorrow attending the birth of Jesus.
Let’s go back to the storyteller and the manger scene of another Christmas. As the story continued, a traveler appeared. Getting ready to descend the steps into the place where the young child lay was an elderly woman. She was hoping to get to her regular place in the church so as to hear the adult sermon that would be preached soon. At first, she looked a bit confused as she encountered the assembled children and the storyteller with her smiling face. Slowly, ever so slowly, she took a step on the stairs and made her way, gingerly, through the assembled huddle of little kids. She hoped, I am sure, to avoid disturbing the scene, but she rightly wanted space to make her way to the right pew.
I was tempted again to rise from my seat and my reverie and walk towards this dear lady. Perhaps I wanted her to rest a bit beside the manger scene, as she and I looked at the Holy Family and its strange companions. We could have prayed, silently, “O come to us, abide with us, our Lord, Emmanuel.”
Perhaps I was thinking that being disturbed by a manger scene, surrounded by children is a good thing. Yes! There is always a disturbing element when we observe what the manger scene tries to teach without words. Who is this child? Why are there seedy shepherds? Why, in the distance are there king-like figures wobbling in on camels? What is this story all about?
Now, perhaps, unless we are very holy and pious people, we may give the manger scene just a glance. Or, sophisticated as we are, we may see it as a legend in plaster and wood. Or, we may not want to ask ourselves the questions that Christmas raises. These questions may concern poverty, homelessness, uncertain journeys, or suffering. The Babe grows to adulthood, teaches, heals, and then suffers death on another creation of humankind, a wooden Cross.
This Christmas, I invite myself to hear the Christmas story as it is supposed to be heard, either standing in reverence, or kneeling on my arthritic knees. And, if I dare, I may invite others to listen, to see through the polychrome figures, another Reality, One full of Grace and Truth.
LAWTON POSEY is honorably retired and living in Charleston, W. Va.
