I was reminded this past week of John Irving's novel A Prayer for Owen Meany. A significant portion of the story takes place around Advent and Christmas in a little Episcopal Church in New England, shortly after the mother of a character named Johnny is killed in a freak accident, involving an errant baseball-hit, of all people, by Johnny's best friend, Owen. Reflecting on the first Christmas after his mother died, an adult Johnny Wheelwright says:

"Ever since the Christmas of '53, I have felt that the yuletide is a special hell for those families who have suffered any loss or who must admit to any imperfection; the so-called spirit of giving can be as greedy as receiving-Christmas is our time to be aware of what we lack, of who's not home."

I know far too many people who dread this dangerous holiday. Even those of us who do not mourn, or watch, or weep this night are likely to harbor an ineffable fear that, somehow, something will happen to spoil Christmas. Our loved ones won't like the gifts we've bought them, or worse, we won't like the gifts we're given. The Christmas tree will catch fire or the roast will burn, our sister will pick a fight with us, or the Christmas Eve sermon will be a real downer. And over-long.

That's the bad news. But in this most dangerous of holidays, there is an even more dangerous, yet joy-inspiring truth: the good news of Christmas, which we can grasp, if only momentarily, in the re-telling of the tale of a God who loved us so much that this God came to dwell with us, to live and die as one of us, to reconcile us to the God and Father of us all.

In A Prayer for Owen Meany, there's a striking passage that captures, if only for a moment, this transcendent bit of good news, and the awe-inspiring stupor we would all feel were we confronted with God in human form. In this passage, Johnny describes how his friend Owen took over the rehearsal of the Christmas pageant at the Episcopal Church in town. (As a bit of background, you should know that Owen had been a "blue baby," that is, he was born premature, and so although he was in his early adolescence, he was a tiny human being. As if that weren't burden enough, he had an enormous, "ruined" voice. In the book, everything Owen says is in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS, so that, just like those editions of the Bible where Jesus' words are in red, Owen Meany's are impossible to miss.)

Now, Owen had always been forced to play the Announcing Angel in the Christmas pageant, but the Christmas after Johnny's mother died, he managed to pull off a coup, wresting creative control from the rector's wife, and securing for himself the non-speaking role of the Baby Jesus. Further, he orchestrated it so that Johnny was given the part of Joseph. Mary Beth Baird, "a wholesome lump of a girl, shy and clumsy and plain," rounded out the Holy Family as the Virgin Mary. (You should also know that she had a crush on Owen Meany.) At the first rehearsal, Johnny recounts:

Mary Beth Baird foresaw a…problem. Since the reading from Luke concluded by observing that "Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart"…shouldn't she do something to demonstrate to the audience what a strain on her poor heart it was to do such monumental keeping and pondering?

"What?" Barb Wiggin said.

"WHAT SHE MEANS IS, SHOULDN'T SHE ACT OUT HOW A PERSON PONDERS SOMETHING," Owen said. Mary Beth Baird was so pleased that Owen had clarified her concerns that she appeared on the verge of hugging or kissing him, but Barb Wiggin moved quickly between them, leaving the controls of the "pillar of light" unattended; eerily, the light scanned our little assembly with a will of its own-appearing to settle on the Holy Mother.

There was a respectful silence while we pondered what possible thing Mary Beth Baird could do to demonstrate how hard her heart was working; it was clear to most of us that Mary Beth would be satisfied only if she could express her adoration of the Christ Child physically.

"I could kiss him," Mary Beth said softly. "I could just bow down and kiss him-on the forehead, I mean."
"Well, yes, you could try that, Mary Beth," the rector said cautiously.
"Let's see how it looks," Barb Wiggin said doubtfully.
"NO," Owen said. "NO KISSING."
"Why not, Owen?" Barb Wiggin asked playfully. She thought an opportunity to tease him was presenting itself, and she was quick to pounce on it.
"THIS IS A VERY HOLY MOMENT," Owen said slowly.
"Indeed, it is," the rector said.
"VERY HOLY," Owen said. "SACRED," he added.
"Just on the forehead," Mary Beth said.
"Let's see how it looks. Let's just try it, Owen," Barb Wiggin said.
"NO," Owen said. "IF MARY IS SUPPOSED TO BE PONDERING-'IN HER HEART'-THAT I AM CHRIST THE LORD, THE ACTUAL SON OF GOD…A SAVIOR, REMEMBER THAT…DO YOU THINK SHE'D JUST KISS ME LIKE SOME ORDINARY MOTHER KISSING HER ORDINARY BABY?"
…. "But shouldn't I do something, Owen?" Mary Beth asked. "What should I do?"
"YOU KEEP THINGS IN YOUR HEART!" Owen told her.
"She should do nothing?" the Rev. Mr. Wiggin asked Owen. The rector…appeared "amazed."… "Do you mean that she should do nothing, Owen?" the rector repeated. "Or that she should do something less, or more, than kissing?"
"MORE," Owen said. Mary Beth trembled; she would do anything that he required. "TRY BOWING," Owen suggested. "Bowing?" Barb Wiggin said, with distaste.

Mary Beth Baird dropped to her knees and lowered her head; she was an awkward girl, and this sudden movement caused her to lose her balance. She assumed a three-point position, finally-on her knees, with her forehead resting on the mountain of hay, the top of her head pressing against Owen's hip.

Owen raised his hand over her, to bless her; in a most detached manner, he lightly touched her hair-then his hand hovered above her head, as if he meant to shield her eyes from the intensity of the "pillar of light."…

The shepherds and kings were riveted to this demonstration of what Mary pondered in her heart; the cows did not move. Even the hind parts of the donkeys who could not see the Holy Mother bowing to the Baby Jesus-or anything at all-appeared to sense that the moment was reverential; they ceased their swaying, and the donkeys' tails hung straight and still. Barb Wiggin had stopped breathing, with her mouth open, and the rector wore the numbed expression of one struck silly with awe. And I, Joseph-I did nothing, I was just the witness. God knows how long Mary Beth Baird would have buried her head in the hay, for no doubt she was ecstatic to have the top of her head in contact with the Christ Child's hip. We might have maintained our positions in this tableau for eternity-we might have made crèche history, a pageant frozen in rehearsal, each of us injected with the very magic we sought to represent: Nativity forever.

But the choirmaster, whose eyesight was failing, assumed he had missed the cue for the final carol, which the choir sang with special gusto.

"Hark! The her-ald angels sing…."

Mary Beth Baird's head shot up at the first "Hark!" Her hair was wild and flecked with hay; she jumped to her feet as if the little Prince of Peace had ordered her out of his nest. The donkeys swayed again, the cows-their horns falling about their heads-moved a little, and the kings and shepherds regained their usual lack of composure. The rector, whose appearance suggested that of a former immortal rudely returned to the rules of the earth, found that he could speak again. "That was perfect, I thought," he said. "That was marvelous, really."

"Shouldn't we run though it one more time?" Barb Wiggin asked…
"NO," said the Prince of Peace. "I THINK WE'VE GOT IT RIGHT."

We may never get Christmas entirely "right," if by "right" we mean the perfect present, the pristine Christmas tree, the tenderest turkey or the most tasteful décor. We may never get Christmas right. On the surface of it all, Christmas is too dangerous a holiday to get "right;" the burdens it places on us and the hopes we invest in it are too heavy for either it or us to bear. But in the midst of all the wrapping paper and cardboard crèches, whether we are the hind end of a donkey, a mere spectator, or the rector himself, we can be transfixed for one glorious moment by the Christ Child in the center of it all, offering us blessings greater than we can hope or imagine. This Christmas, of all Christmases, if you but take a moment to look at the ordinary and see the extraordinary, you will proclaim, like the Rev. Mr. Wiggin, "That was perfect, I thought. That was marvelous, really." And the true Prince of Peace, for whom all this folderol supposedly is staged, will look down from on high, and-for once-declare, "I think you've got it right."