Ah yes, my favorite Christmas tale. I turned atheist around the age of 10, but before that I went to church on the regular. My church (First Presbyterian, in Columbus, Indiana) had a special Christmas Eve tradition in which the pastor would read the story of the birth of Christ, and all the kids in attendance would dress as a character in the story. When their characters were first mentioned, they would rise from the pews and join the nativity scene on the stage. I had a friend named Brock Jolly who liked to pick farm animals and would show up in elaborate costumes constructed of cardboard and papier mache. My sister and I would just grab hockey sticks and bathrobes at the last minute and go as shepherds.
Typically if you were dressed as Mary you were responsible for bringing a baby Jesus. So all Marys would carry dolls and place them in the manger. One year I decided to be Joseph, and I also decided that I had just as much a stake in our son (no pun intended) as Mary did, so I brought a baby Jesus. Now this wasn’t just any doll. This was one my mom had as a girl. It was large and heavy and realistic. When you tilted its head back, the eyelids would close over its stunning glass eyes. I had the best baby Jesus in the room, hands down.
The way the story was told, the pastor mentioned Joseph before Mary, so I had a leg up on the competition. I went up there with my son and nestled him snug in the manger. By the time the cavalcade of Marys approached, I’d decided the crib was mine–after all, my Jesus objectively kicked their Jesus’ asses–and I stood my ground. Rabidly. Blood may have been shed. Look, bitches, this inn is full.
I don’t remember how they eventually got me to relent. I think adult intervention was involved. But for a moment I had truly created a Jerry Springer Christmas on that stage. And for any baby Jesuses I may have tossed out of that manger in a fit of parental pride, I truly apologize.
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