Hands-On Jesus
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Christmas decorations are up: the tree is trimmed with red bows and twinkling lights, our Dickens village has been sprinkled with snow, and the Fontanini creche is sitting in our bay window. The creche is my favorite part of Christmas preparations. A mom-friend who understands my affinity for accessibility gave it to me as a gift--4" resin figures, perfect for sticky-fingered kids that like to play.
This year, while Sean napped, Ryker helped set up the creche. As he pulled the rustic-looking stable from its off-season nest, Ryker exclaimed (as if truly seeing for the first time) "Why would God put Jesus in here?"
It was the perfect opportunity to retell the story of Joseph and Mary's journey to Bethelehem. And to explain how they searched for hopsitality when labor pains urged, "It's time, it's time!"
Within seconds of finishing the story, Sean woke up and came prancing towards the moss-lined stable, saying, "Is this mine, mommy?"
"Yes, it's yours!" I said, picking up the small resin figures for some fresh introductions. "Do you know who this is?" Sean had played with the nativity set as a 2-year old, but I wondered if he'd remember the baby Jesus. He shook his head no.
"This is baby Jesus. And this is Jesus' mommy--Mary, and Jesus' daddy--Joseph."
Instantly, he was at play, shuffling the figures around, repeating what he'd heard. "This is baby-Jesus. This is Mommy-Jesus, and this is Daddy-Jesus." My heart swelled and tingled when he said, "Mommy-Jesus."
I love it when my children unpack and play with the Christmas story. Not only do Mary, Joseph and Jesus do cartwheels and somersaults, but I love the way my kids turn things over and over in their mind, shaking Truth up like a snowglobe and watching what happens.
It's pure magic.
Or maybe it's pure risk. Of course leaving the creche within easy reach of a three-year old (or even a cynical thirty-year old) is always a risk. But losing the tiny 2" Jesus from week to week--finding him inside sippy cups, and dangling from Christmas tree branches, or nestled between blankets in the children's beds--is what it's all about. I'd have it no other way.
Because Jesus is supposed to be "hands-on."
It's the whole point of the Christmas story: Jesus risked everything, subjecting himself to human hands with the chance of getting lost, mistreated, rejected, abused. But in the end, accessiblity is what mattered most.
The idea of accessibility makes me wonder about the church. Are we too protective of Jesus--worried about sticky fingers, or fearful about where he'll end up if we let people "play" with their theology, prayers, and growing perspectives in life? If so, what magic might we be missing?
Maybe Jesus is a snow globe, and along with him we must get turned on our heads to discover truth that glitters like gold. If we're willing to shake things up a bit, or be shaken, maybe this Christmas we'll discover Jesus not only in a stinky stable, but in new places, too--in loveless living rooms, sterile hospitals, flourescent-lit shopping malls, empty bank accounts, over-indulgent parties, dark alleyways, and beneath the covers of our own quiet beds--close, close, close to the places where we need him most.
This year, while Sean napped, Ryker helped set up the creche. As he pulled the rustic-looking stable from its off-season nest, Ryker exclaimed (as if truly seeing for the first time) "Why would God put Jesus in here?"
It was the perfect opportunity to retell the story of Joseph and Mary's journey to Bethelehem. And to explain how they searched for hopsitality when labor pains urged, "It's time, it's time!"
Within seconds of finishing the story, Sean woke up and came prancing towards the moss-lined stable, saying, "Is this mine, mommy?"
"Yes, it's yours!" I said, picking up the small resin figures for some fresh introductions. "Do you know who this is?" Sean had played with the nativity set as a 2-year old, but I wondered if he'd remember the baby Jesus. He shook his head no.
"This is baby Jesus. And this is Jesus' mommy--Mary, and Jesus' daddy--Joseph."
Instantly, he was at play, shuffling the figures around, repeating what he'd heard. "This is baby-Jesus. This is Mommy-Jesus, and this is Daddy-Jesus." My heart swelled and tingled when he said, "Mommy-Jesus."
I love it when my children unpack and play with the Christmas story. Not only do Mary, Joseph and Jesus do cartwheels and somersaults, but I love the way my kids turn things over and over in their mind, shaking Truth up like a snowglobe and watching what happens.
It's pure magic.
Or maybe it's pure risk. Of course leaving the creche within easy reach of a three-year old (or even a cynical thirty-year old) is always a risk. But losing the tiny 2" Jesus from week to week--finding him inside sippy cups, and dangling from Christmas tree branches, or nestled between blankets in the children's beds--is what it's all about. I'd have it no other way.
Because Jesus is supposed to be "hands-on."
It's the whole point of the Christmas story: Jesus risked everything, subjecting himself to human hands with the chance of getting lost, mistreated, rejected, abused. But in the end, accessiblity is what mattered most.
The idea of accessibility makes me wonder about the church. Are we too protective of Jesus--worried about sticky fingers, or fearful about where he'll end up if we let people "play" with their theology, prayers, and growing perspectives in life? If so, what magic might we be missing?
Maybe Jesus is a snow globe, and along with him we must get turned on our heads to discover truth that glitters like gold. If we're willing to shake things up a bit, or be shaken, maybe this Christmas we'll discover Jesus not only in a stinky stable, but in new places, too--in loveless living rooms, sterile hospitals, flourescent-lit shopping malls, empty bank accounts, over-indulgent parties, dark alleyways, and beneath the covers of our own quiet beds--close, close, close to the places where we need him most.
