Headlines screamed the abduction. The infant was missing from the city’s Nativity. From the reaction, I thought Christmas would be cancelled. Who knew the people of Chicago had such an attachment to a figurine? The life-size statues were all hand carved in Italy, a gift to the city. There was no way to replace this baby Jesus.
It was just a few years ago that Sunday morning visitors to the downtown creche discovered a bare hay mound where the baby had laid. The television stations began nearly ’round-the-clock coverage. Every newscast started with the mayor in a fit of outrage, indignant citizens demanding action, the police chief promising a complete investigation, and teary Nativity committee members standing before the vacant manger pleading for the baby’s return-no questions asked.
For three days this went on.
I expected to see artist renderings of Jesus on milk cartons (“Have you seen me?”). Surely the tabloids would commission a computer projection of the baby at various ages, should the case go unsolved for some years. (“Here’s what the statue of Jesus would look like at age twelve. And here it is with facial hair.”) With this much coverage, the Lindbergh baby would have been located.
The reporters were obsessed.
Everyone was obsessed.
I found myself fingering a bolt of black cloth at Wal-Mart and planning a campaign of arm bands.
Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, the baby Jesus was found. In a locker at the bus depot. It was a squalid little grotto, unfit for such a fine work of art. But he was unharmed, not a hair painted on his head was mussed, and the city breathed relief. With the baby safely strapped in his bed (thick metal straps, under lockdown with guards standing by), peace returned to a troubled people and Christmas came once again.
“Jesus kidnapped.” That’s how Advent feels to me some years. We have all this activity about the Baby, but where’s the Baby? Sometimes, to be candid, Jesus gets lost in the holy hustle of the holidays. As a pastor I lamented that in making Advent special for others, I couldn’t make it more deeply meaningful for myself. I think that’s why the week after Christmas became important to me.
After the greens were hung and the cantata faded, the baskets delivered and the shut-ins sung to; after the devotionals were stapled and bulk mailing sorted; after the magi were feted and the shepherds instructed and the sheep fetched and returned to the zoo; after Scriptures were studied, a new angle uncovered, and sermons all written and preached; after candles were lighted, wax scraped off the carpet, and church doors closed behind Christmas Eve stragglers, I would turn around and there would be the Baby-lying in a manger-just as the angels had said.
I’d linger a few minutes, just me and the Baby.
And several times during the next week, I would return and sit and marvel that the Baby had found us once again. In spite of our religious whirlwind, and on some level because of it, he had returned. Alone, in the sanctuary of his presence, I understand.
Prince of Peace. Jesus found.
I relish that week after Christmas, and on weeks like this one (when I have seven events in the next seven days, much like you, I’m sure), I live for it.
Eric Reed is managing editor of Leadership Journal.
To respond to this newsletter, write to Newsletter@LeadershipJournal.net.
Copyright © 2004 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click herefor reprint information on Leadership Journal.
