Unpacking the boxes of Christmas decorations from the attic, my wife and I found our beautiful little white ceramic nativity scene. Deanna asked me if I would set it up. That’s usually our son Mark’s job. Has been for years. He will probably rearrange it when he comes home. It’s a handsome set complete with camels, donkeys, sheep, the wise men, an angel, Joseph and Mary, and, of course, the Baby in the manger.
Every nativity scene we have ever seen, every nativity play, has been taken from Luke’s birth narrative. The reasons are obvious. Luke tells of the angels’ appearances to Zechariah, Mary, and Joseph. Mary and her cousin Elizabeth celebrate their good news. Wise men and shepherds come to visit the child, and an angel chorus sings the birth announcement. The whole narrative is uplifting, bright, joy-filled and comforting.
“Glory to God in the highest!”
But what about those who are in trouble at Christmas and find it painful to look at a white, ceramic nativity scene? If they have no light, no music, no joy in their lives, are they left out in the cold? Did God come to care only for those whose tummies are full, whose family relationships are solid, whose health is strong, whose bank accounts are fat? We’ll never see a nativity scene built on Matthew’s account—the hateful, scowling King Herod, his slaughter of the infants, Mary and Joseph on the run to save the baby’s life.
But there is comfort available for the troubled in those dark scenes. They say that God came, not only to share the white ceramic lives of the blessed, but also to taste with the tortured the terror of their darkness, fear, and chaos.
We who will enjoy a white, ceramic Christmas have the privilege of sharing the love of God with those who would otherwise sit in darkness.