The Crib as
Spiritual Exercise
Lots
of newspaper. Covered with wet mud. Dried. Crumpled. Spread out. And there you
have it: the cave that forms an important part of the Christmas crib. All you
need now is plenty of dry grass that you go into the fields behind your house
to collect. It is the straw on which you place the cows of the stable. And then
of course, Joseph and Mary, if you happen to have those figures. Last of all
you place your precious Baby Jesus there. Now you are ready for Christmas and
for the Crib Competition.
You
stand back and admire your craft. It has recreated, with paper, straw and mud,
the most shining moment in Bible History, nay, World History. You look in your
mirror and see sculptor, artist and historian, all in one. Very good
And
then, one Christmas, years later, you watch this priest with a scraggly beard
directing the young men who have come together to make the parish crib. They
have got ready a whole ream of crisp, muddied paper that should form the hills
of Bethlehem and the cave for the babe. He tells them to keep all of that
aside. He has no need for them. He has other ideas. He has arranged to have a
portion of a PWD water pipe brought into the church compound. That, he tells
the young men, will be the crib for the year.
On
Christmas Eve, you see it: the water pipe against a painted background of the
city. Inside the pipe you see the Holy Family. Yes, you see it: God incarnated
in the slums. Craft has made way for the Intellect. History has given way to
humanity. The crib is no longer a re-creation. It is a creation, you say. The
crib has a message.
And
so, the next year your crib is a 3-D chalice with a 3-D host above it. Embedded
in the host is the Babe. Don’t you see? It is Christmas at every Eucharist.
History gives way to Mystery. Tradition is replaced by your small personal
theology. The message: He is born every day if you receive him.
Soon
you grow out of all that. Out of History. Out of Intellect. Out of Theology.
Out of Creativity. Out of Ideation. Out of delivering messages. You grow. Into your Self. Into your
personal craving for His Coming. Christ is not born in Bethlehem. In one little
piece of the universe. His geography is fuzzy. Infinite. Not pinned down to latitude
and longitude. Bethlehem is not where Bethlehem is. Bethlehem is where you feel
His coming. In your drawing room. In your laughter. In those embraces of loved
ones. In your tears. In the bread you break together. Your crib must express it
all. It is no longer art or craft or philosophy or sermon. It is your prayer
made tangible.
And when your
daughter in the USA tells you of her personal prayer, you say Amen. It is the
year of the Presidential election around the time of Christmas. She prays for
the first black President. It means something to her. She places the Babe
inside a replica of the White House. With Isaiah’s prophecy: “And the
government shall be upon his shoulders.”
Closer
home, your other daughter is moving house. She wants the Babe to know her new
address. She wants Him to move with her from Amboli to Yaari Road. Her crib
this time is a mover’s truck. Her own personal prayer.
And
I? And you? And all of us who want to fabricate this personal prayer this
Christmas. What are we going to do this year? Will the crib be our family album
that includes in its pages Jesus, Mary and Joseph as our close relatives? Our
very own prayer for harmony and understanding? Is there a wedding in your
family? Will then your crib be an invitation card to the Holy Family? And
today, amid the din of slander and mischief of the media and the splatter of
blood on our television screens, what is our crib-prayer going to be? Can it be
your very own newspaper, “Glad tidings” that
looks for good news to give your friends? Your prayer for a better world.
