The Child

There’s an old Doonesbury cartoon that I recall every once in a while: Michael J. sits ensconced in his easy chair watching TV. After loud shouts and sounds of gun fighting, the announcer says, “This concludes our regular broadcast day. Stay tuned for film clips of the Marines, a story from the life of Jesus and our National Anthem.” Doonesbury gets to his feet and joins in the singing of the anthem.

 

There you have it—the good, old American way: Equal time for everything. Even at Christmas. Nothing is special, not even Jesus, who, if we acknowledge at all, we place in a cluster of yuletide traditions. 

 

We keep the Christ child around to grace an occasional manger, but he’s only one symbol among many: Rudolph, Scrooge, St. Nicholas and his elves, toy soldiers, little drummer boys, shepherds, angels, Christmas trees, Yule logs and the little Lord Jesus, all vie for our attention; everything alongside everything else. But the Son of God gets lost in the clutter.

 

Melissa, our granddaughter knows better

 

It was twenty-five years ago or more. Carolyn and I took Melissa to the Festival of the Trees, an event in Boise in which businesses and other organizations decorate Christmas trees, competing with one another in various categories. The display is magnificent. 

 

We were enchanted by the grandeur of the hall as we moved from one tree to the next, pointing and exclaiming. But Melissa soon lost interest, surfeited by splendor, until she came to a small manger scene, the only one in the room, and there she paused transfixed. 

 

Nothing else mattered—not the magnificently decorated trees, not Santa Claus who was nearby and beckoning and not even an incredible talking tree.  She was captivated by the Child. 

 

We tried our best to urge her on—we wanted to see the trees—but she lingered behind, wanting to hold the baby, pressing closer despite the ribbon stretched around the cradle, keeping her away. 

 

Finally, she agreed to leave, albeit reluctantly, looking back over her shoulder to get a glimpse of the crèche through the trees. As we were going out of the building she asked me, “Papa can we go back and see the baby?” We returned, of course, to the manger and waited while she gazed at the Child. 

 

As Melissa adored Him, I marveled at her simplicity. Unlike her, I often fail to see Jesus for the trees. 

 

“There are some things worth being a child to get hold of again,” George MacDonald said. “Make me a child again,” I prayed, “at least for tonight.” 

 

David Roper