I found Jesus, I hope

One morning at an ungodly hour, we and a mob of other crazy people traipsed through the streets of Asbury Park to watch a demolition company blow down a building. Demolition party!! Never been to one? Ought to try it. 3-2-1 CRACK-CRACK- CRACK- RUMBLE-BOOM! Yeah! Whoopie! “Let’s go home for breakfast.” Kind of reminded me of Christmas. Anticipation, ungodly hour, BOOM! ‘Let’s eat.’
As we traipsed back to the food I spied a bumper sticker. “I found Jesus! He was behind the sofa all the time.” It was another thing to giggle about on that brisk morning. But lately this bit of a giggle has come back to me in a more ominous fashion, a ghost of Christmas past.
My way of putting together manger scenes for the season is really geeky. It’s a process that unfolds throughout Advent, four weeks before Christmas. Mary and Joseph are on the road with the donkey. Angels flock around them. The shepherds are out in the hills with the sheep. A few of the angels are over there, keeping track of developments. The Magi are somewhere to the East. They don’t arrive until Epiphany, that is January 6th. By that time the shepherds are back in the hills. The baby Jesus is nowhere to be found until Christmas morning. Then He shows up in the manger. I know. Who’s got the time or energy to go through all of that? Hey, I’m a Christmas freak. You got a problem with that?
This year I’m taking care of four manger scenes, two in the church and two here at home. The same rules apply. So I set up Mary’s and Joseph’s on the road with the donkey’s, gathered the angels, etc. The babyies got hidden. Everything’s honkey-dorey. Then this week, Christmas week, I went to find the babies I’d stashed three weeks ago. I found one where I’d left it and then drew a blank. Somewhere in the singed and melted corners of my mind there is a memory of the other three hiding places. Uhhhh….
Now you see why the bumper sticker came back to me? It stopped being so funny. My father did that one year with a few Easter eggs. He forgot where he hid them. We found one in June. Whew! The smell led us to it. But the poor kid wouldn’t even offer that clue. By the time I tripped over the baby, he’d be a teenager. This would be a cute antic dote, adding to the Christmas lore of our family, ‘Somewhere in the house there rests a baby Jesus, waiting to be found.’ But the church manger scenes were going to look kind of weird without their focal point.
So I started the search. And in the process realized this is a very appropriate thing for us all to be doing. The shepherds did it. How many garage doors did they pound on looking for the kid in the manger? The Magi did it. It took them a while. Pretty poor intelligence work for the Persian NSA, if you ask me. So, now there was another player in the mix, the Shrewsberian Pastor, searching for the babe.
So far I found three of them. I’ve still got two days. Yes, I’ve already looked behind the sofa. But there’s no way I’m getting a camel.

Mitzvah

On the third Sunday in Advent my wife and I have the congregation over to our home for coffee hour. The Deacons do the cookies and the serving. We just do the house. Now, you need to understand that I’ve been collecting angels for years, decades. Somehow Santa’s got thrown into the mix, so the process of decorating for Christmas at the McKirachan house is a little over the top. Hundreds of God’s emissaries in every attitude and function adorn every nook and most crannies in our home. The Santa’s from all over the world take up any space left over and lately nutcrackers of all sizes and genres are infesting the den. Christmas is a tsunami around here. We always get a live tree, nine feet tall, not including the golden angel atop. This year I put 1200 lights on it before the ornaments. Yup, I’m nuts. But that’s Christmas.
We usually get a jump on the whole thing from Thanksgiving on. It’s part of my Advent meditation. This year, no such luck. The church is very busy, for all the best reasons. All of a sudden it was deadline city. We had to get it done, now. So we did.
By morning of the Joy Sunday, I was patrolling to make sure none of the Magi had left the radiator to the east of the cresh. Wise guys have a way of getting ahead of themselves. I went out on the front porch to make sure the lights were on and there lay a Styrofoam coffin, about five feet long and two and a half wide. There was a simple note on the lid. “For David.”
“Chris!” She came to see if I’d broken something. “Look.” Her response was less than illuminating, “What is it?” Mine was equally insightful, “I don’t have a clue.” “Looks like somebody sent us steaks.” With that she retreated into the house, leaving me to figure out what to do. I carry a pocket knife for such moments. I split the packing tape sealing the box. The lid creaked as I opened it.
There lay, face down in the packing an angel, a very large angel. I lifted it out. No light weight this one. Plaster by the heft. I staggered through the house carrying it, again yelling for my poor wife. Her eyes mirrored mine. “Who? What? How?” My sentiments exactly.
I doubt we’ll ever know how this winged messenger made it to our porch or who lugged it there. It’s a mitzvah, a gift given without letting the recipient know who the giver is. It’s a grace. “For David,” is all they left of their sentiment. The gift stands for itself, right inside our front door. The angel’s hands are extended palms up. Giving? Receiving? Welcoming? It is now part of our Christmas story.
“And the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shown around them… And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.’” God bless us every one.