Maybe some of you have lost your way, and feel like you are far from the real meaning of Christmas. Maybe the story needs to be freshened up. I’ll take a shot:
God saw the world was lost, and sent his son, Jesus, to his mother, Mary, a virgin, and Earthly father, Joseph.
These were regular people who probably would have come from Levittown or Lindenhurst. Joseph, a carpenter, might have worked for a company like Alure Home Improvements. Mary worked for some small not-for-profit. Clearly neither of them were members of a labor union, because they would have had better health care coverage and wouldn’t have been forced to have a baby in a manger, surrounded by animals. No union worth its salt would allow that to happen to a dues-paying member. Plus, there are plenty of rooms available in local hotels and motels. The economy has beat up the industry.
The road to Bethlehem was tough for the couple, with Mary riding on a donkey. The last few miles were painful, like rush hour on the Southern State, all stop and go as Mary felt the impending birth of Jesus. Maybe that time was spent coming up with a name for the baby they knew would be the savior, the Messiah. Had they been around these parts, we might be celebrating Jake Christ or Dylan Christ. Luckily, Mary was a traditionalist. Joseph might have been Italian, because he wanted a junior. But God stepped in and reminded him that, well, he was really the father and God, Jr. is a tough name to try to get through school with. The playground would have been pretty brutal.
Although the innkeeper was a kindly sort, he had no rooms. Joseph could have grabbed him and pulled him aside and told him, “You know this baby? Well, this is an important baby. You find me a room, and I’ll make sure the Association of Nazarene Contractors has its convention here. Trust me, I have connections.” But he didn’t. Being a simple man, Joseph did not throw his weight around or drop the name “God.” Instead, he took his wife to a stable and tried to make her comfortable amidst the hay and large barn animals. Maybe under Obama’s health care plan Mary would have a bed.
Around then, several shepherds hanging out in the dunes of Jones Beach were doing shots of home-brewed moonshine when a host of angels—not sure how a host translates mathematically, but according to Luke’s Gospel it was more than one—showed up and told them to find the baby Jesus, that he was the son of God and the savior. The shepherds thought it sounded incredible, plus they wanted to hit the diner for a late-night bite, as the booze had obviously taken its toll. They went to find the babe and a plate of french fries with turkey gravy.
And the magi, or Wise Men, were looking for something to do when they saw the Star of Bethlehem, and they headed toward the light, which shone like one of those cool lights that roams the skies for movie openings or free Jägermeister night at a nightclub. But once they found the manger, and met the infant Jesus, they bestowed upon him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, the latter two being re-gifted from a corporate event they had attended earlier in the month.
And they all kneeled before Jesus, the infant, and felt the light of God shine upon them. But the silence was awkward, until strained conversation filled the room:
“How can she be a virgin?”
“The son of God? Like, God-God, or the guy who works at the market who says he’s God?”
“Don’t you guys have health coverage? This is a dangerous place to have a baby.”
Despite the bewildering answers, they all bowed in reverence. The angels sang “Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good will toward men,” a line that they thought was written by Linus Van Pelt for A Charlie Brown Christmas. It sounded different coming from angels.
And from that night, from that manger, Christmas was born. The spirit of love, sacrifice and faith that personify the holiday, but should carry through to everyday life. Sometimes a story is tough to believe on the surface.
But look underneath, and you’ll find it. That’s where Christmas really lives.
Follow DryMartino on Twitter at twitter.com/drymartino.