CHRISTMAS. Who Are We? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 12.25.22

There are too many wonderful images from many traditions of faith for this Holy Days season. I am sharing some of my own—ones that have personal, and perhaps universal, meaning. They are not literal representations as photographs of God or Christ, or Buddha, or any saint, or Mary Virgin, but they all do sparkle with Joy and Love and Wonder— icons that reflect the Holy. 

Here is a young boy who has discovered the sheer exhilaration of summer sand and sun in Cancun—in the midst of the bleak mid-winter.  

Here are two female pugs, Jaelee and Olive, all duded up in their pink finery ready for something special. They know something’s up, because there is a large egregious tree in their house decorated, including one of their familiar piddle pads around its base. They won’t lift a small leg to pee on this special tree. 

Here is a creation of grandeur. A great and grand Sycamore with a man dwarfed at the base of its massive trunk. 

Here is a traditionally comedic scene that takes place in many Christian parishes all over the world. This one shows some children doing a nativity play, “He Comes From The Glory” at their primary school in England. One little angel could be ruining it with her shouting her lines, or she could be making it real.  (I remember a pageant in which the child who was to be Joseph looked out, noticed there was a whole congregation and fled the scene as fast as he could run! Mary of course stayed calm to tend the wee newborn.)  

 Here is a highly symbolic, traditional and new, seasonal scenario: Creche scene full of oddballs. 

This scene was created from scraps and bits gathered from around the house, costing not a cent. Oddly of one mind all at once, this motley crew of onlookers have assembled from near and far to pay attention to something new in their midst. 

A single scraggly poor shepherd on solo duty for five sheep made of hardened clay and clothed against inclement weather with mink cut from the late, haughty and unpopular Auntie’s stole. 

A crib made of discarded matchsticks

A cloth Mama Mary already smitten with this kid who looks female to me, Papa Joseph in green burlap and looking masterfully terrified, feathery angels, singing from songbooks resting on Q-tipped arms. And a baby with a head of long dark hair, a silly grin, no halo. Hovering latecomers x 3, just in from the East offering expensive gifts, and risking what could be a very UNwise investment without consulting their brokers. This kid’ll make good for sure.   

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All we have to do is love one another—no matter who or when or why.  Do you have any idea how hard love is? It is the hardest thing in the world to grasp, feel, follow, embody, sustain and repeat. It is also exquisitely delicate, and ultimately valuable. MERRY, TOO.    

2014.12.21 Nativity Pageant: Getting Christ Born Again—and Again, and Again

I jumped into something for the wrong reason, or so it seemed. The Nativity Pageant, a drama I have witnessed many times over in various Christian parishes, is a tradition I’ve loved and still do. Taking on the organization of a parish pageant is, however, quite another thing from being an adoring parent watching—and not the usual comfort zone for an introvert like myself. Angels, help!

I can remember when our 4 children were young and used to put on their own home pageants. They would dress up in bathrobes, crowns, aka old hats, a broom for a shepherd’s crook, wire hangers with tissue paper (or ripped pajamas) for angels wings, and a makeshift cradle. I don’t remember what they used for straw. The two older sisters would produce, direct, and have the most important roles, i.e.Mary and the Narrator. The younger brothers would follow orders, very happy to wear crowns and hold crooks, or be Joseph. The reluctant Siamese cat, Coco, was always cast in the role of the baby Jesus, a star role in which she was most uncooperative, scratching anyone who tried to restrain or swaddle her. Mostly there was an audience of one, me. I applauded and adored, as one should for any effort done with such earnest care and cool.

I said I offered to help with this parish pageant for the wrong reasons. What I meant was: I was tempted by my own idea that I could give this great Christian story some extra gravitas within its essential simplicity. Such arrogance!— however, there was a natural break in the adult director roles, so I jumped in, running a phrase from Psalm 107 (translation by Pamela Greenberg) through my mind: They cried out to you about all that made quiver their minds. From all constraints, you lifted them safely away.

I had two agendas. First, that a pageant is a procession with a tableau, not a play. And second, that the story be narrated as it is in the scriptural texts. Oh, one more item: I wanted a swaddled baby doll, not a real baby, to play Jesus. (I was thinking of Coco the cat and the real possibility of a screeching infant. I’m sure Jesus squawked, as all babies do, but just not for this pageant, please.) Others agreed, and off we went. I put together a new script, added a verse of appropriate carols for traveling music to get shepherds, angels, Magi, and the pregnant espoused Mary up the aisle, her faithful, beloved Joseph at her side.

Besides the Narrator, there was only one speaking part for a child. The Angel Gabriel announces to Mary her key role: helping God do a new thing in the world. Our Gabriel, a beautiful young girl of about 10 delivered her one line with angelic flourish and we got a tall redheaded boy to be the Star of wonder. Gabriel's offer was one the young Mary could not refuse. Well, she protested a little. Scripture, tactfully, doesn’t tell us much about Joseph’s feelings, but we can only imagine. My bet is that he helped deliver his son.

Two wonderful Church School teachers and several parents helped, really directed, because I don’t know the children well yet, and I'm terrible at diving into such things, scrambling through mounds of varied costuming variations to locate just the right outfit amongst years of accumulated gear. (I am a good mother, but I'm not as good a mother for young children. I'd rather watch and listen to their amazing antics and verbal precocity, then later listen to their wisdom and their trials as they grow up.) 

The night before the pageant I had a small nightmare: what if we don't have enough wings for all the angels?

But I needn't have worried. The marvelous sea of childhood chaos, earnestness, and innocent wisdom prevailed to offer this gift to parents, to the church, and most of all to Christ. We all helped God get Jesus Christ born again this year.  Thumbs up and high fives....... we did it: Christ is born again in Bethlehem or Massachusetts or Anywhere.  

 

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. 

And sure enough, my mind stopped quivering and I felt born again myself!