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Monday, December 20, 2004 Volume VI Number 51
by Ken Kemp
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here’s a manger under the tree. It’s the center of attention. There is a mother and what appears to be a father. There are wise men bearing gifts. Shepherds, too. Even the animals seem aware. There’s a baby lying in the straw. A single star shines bright from above and illumines the scene. There’s a hint of light coming from the feeding trough, too. The child is no ordinary baby. |
It’s the centerpiece of Christmas.
How is it that this manger is now called by some a religious symbol? “Controversial,” some would say. It’s right in there with the Ten Commandments and In God We Trust and the Cross and even the name Christmas. Communities argue over the presence of such loaded symbols and phrases in secular places. The debates get high profile coverage. Religion is personal, so the argument goes, and any public affirmation of a particular religion would be deemed as the promotion of that religion, a violation of the Constitution. In an open and pluralistic society, we can’t have that. The press is there with point-counterpoint, talking heads from both extremes and the cherished ratings are secured.
So what is it? How did the manger get controversial?
If there is a human experience that binds us together in a moment in time that trumpets all the mysteries of life in a single, miraculous, deeply spiritual event… it is the birth of a child. You’ve been there.
For some, the moment comes far too soon. For others, it’s a long, agonizing wait. Occasionally, it’s well timed. For some, it never comes. It’s a mystery of mysteries.
When it happens, it makes all the other miraculous events in the course of a lifetime pale in comparison. Close calls, near misses, healings, protective care, survival, chance encounters, huge successes, all of them, you name it, fall short of the miracle of child-birth.
Scientists know more today than ever. They’ve given us images of the process that give us a glimpse of those microscopic cells. We’ve watched replication happen in real time before our very eyes. We’ve seen the progress of the tiny fetus as it develops in the womb from one stage to the next. We know the dangers, toils and snares of that nine month process. We are aware of the myriad of complications, potential disorders that can have life-long impact. So when the baby appears, healthy and whole, there is a burst of joy that permeates the place. The imprint of that moment in time never leaves you. The baby gets a name. A person is born. A mother is connected. A father nearly bursts with pride. Everyone in the room is filled with holy awe.
We can thank science for the details, and for the ever increasing capacity for correction and cure. But even with the expanding knowledge base and ever more detailed analysis all the way down to the level of DNA, the explanations of science will never eliminate the mystery and wonder and awe of that moment in time, shared by us all, when a baby is born. Never.
So somehow, when we look at that manger under the tree this blessed time of year, all that wonder, all that miracle, all that mystery, that universal enchantment we share in common, it all illumines the glow emanating from the straw in that humble feeding trough that captures the rapt attention of the other characters in the scene. And we join them and look in amazement, too, because this is a child. A very special child.
How is it that such a simple, humble story, captured in the briefest narrative in the ancient texts, became a religious symbol?
We humans do this. We take those magic moments; we tell and retell the story. In the telling, the story gains momentum and scope. Our poets make rhyme. Our artists take to the canvass. Our sculptors chip away at the stone. Our painters choose the colors. Writers fill in the gaps with narrative and dialog. Playwrights and choreographers recreate the moment on the stage and under the lights. Musicians fill the sanctuary with harmony and sound and passion. Our commemorations and parades mark the event with pomp and circumstance. And soon we have symbols.
For the most part, these symbols are good. They help us remember. They assist in our ability to conceptualize and comprehend the significance of events.
But they are only representations.
(And in that sense, they are probably more meaningful for the one who created them than the one who observes.)
The reality though, is the event that inspired them in the first place.
I look at that manger under the tree, and all the mystery and wonder and miracle of the birth of our three children get wrapped up in my view of it. The glow of the star shines on every one of those arrivals. And now, wonder of wonders, our children are having their own.
But in that humble manger, there is tragedy, too. This child, this special, unique child, born as no other was, is destined to be a sacrifice. There is joy mixed with sadness. Celebration with pain.
This child, Jesus, this ordinary baby born in obscurity, cherished as a child then rejected and despised, became our Redeemer. Our Liberator. Our Friend.
* * * * * * *
It’s Monday morning. You are a leader.
You are caught today between the sacred and the secular. You know the difference. We are surrounded by symbols, some of them magical, others annoying. We are the targets of that grand annual conspiracy of consumerism. Our abundance sometimes feels like excess. Probably because it is.
Take some time today to look into that manger. Let the wonder and mystery penetrate your soul. Let it melt away some of the cynicism. Let it take the edge off the stress. Let it remind you of the life that animates your spirit as you read. Let God’s gift be yours.
You and I know that Jesus wasn’t born on December 25. We know that much of what we see around us is a troubling mixture of the sacred and the profane – that history mixed in the paganism of the Winter Solstice and that it never snows in Bethlehem. We also know that it’s a stretch to connect the gift of God’s only Son with the gift of a Nintendo or an iPod or even a new dress shirt for that matter.
But what is it that will center us at this disorienting time of year?
You’ll find the answer there under the tree.
In that humble manger.
Posted in Valley Center, California
© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2004
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