I am, perhaps, the only person in Christendom, who did not like the Christmas story when it was told to me as a child. It all began when my parents took me to see the Nativity Scene at our church. The story goes (I was much too young to remember the actual event), that it was my father's decision to walk the few blocks to our parish church one snowy, Saturday afternoon.
Thick flakes were already falling and a chilling wind was blowing off Lake Michigan. We climbed the stone steps in front of the church and Daddy opened the huge, glossy, wooden doors. Inside it was not much warmer than outside, so we kept our coats tightly buttoned.
We entered the vestibule and Daddy clapped his leather gloves together and put them in his heavy tweed coat. He also took off his wool derby and flicked the melting snow. Mother stomped her feet on the rubber mat near the door and urged me to do the same. Then we followed Daddy down the middle aisle. The stained glass cast mottled colors on the floor while the lit candles danced on the gray stone walls. There were several people in the church, possibly spending a little time in meditation in front of the Christmas crib. This was in the days before church doors were locked after Worship and passers-by could come in for a few moments during the day to pray if they wished.
As we moved closer to the crib, we could see more people standing or kneeling. Daddy spotted Monsignor McGuire who joined us. Daddy and Monsignor McGuire were friends even though Daddy was not a Catholic. I did not know how strange this was in those days. They gestured to each other, and carried on in hearty whispers. I would have expected mother to "shush" them both, but Monsignor McGuire was the pastor!
We came upon the Nativity Scene. I had been told what to expect, but was startled by the statues which towered over me. I spotted the lambs and sheep first. Perhaps it was because they were closest to my size. They were white wooly things frozen forever in time. Next I saw the shepherds who were dressed in a rainbow of colors. What took my breath away was the marvelous sight of angels in white and gold hanging over the stable itself. THEN! I saw the baby! It was in a bed of hay with only a diaper! If God was so great, and the angels were dressed in such wonderful clothes, how could God cloth Jesus in so little? I knew the baby must be freezing. I did not like the way this story was going!
I bolted from my parents and scurried around the communion rail to the manger itself. It was so awful to let that baby lie in straw without a blanket! Without much thought at all, I wrapped the baby in my blanket. Somewhere in the background the sound of my mother gasping did not deter my mission. I continued until I thought the baby was properly covered. When I stood back to survey my work, I was startled that my "blankie" was no longer an appendage to my body. I had given away my dearest treasure and there was no taking it back!
The beauty of this story is in the wisdom and kindness of the pastor. The story goes that he left my "blankie" there, in the splendor of that baroque setting, as covering for the child during the whole Christmas and Epiphany season.
The memories of this church and the pastor are a kaleidoscope of times that I spent there as a child and probably do not go back to this particular day itself. I remember the story, only through the ritual of retelling that happened in our family. The kindness of the man who was not terrified that a small worn blanket would ruin the ambiance of the scene has been passed on to me. It remains with me because it is the way I would like to pastor; to take each fragile moment of a person's story and be able to react to it in a nurturing and caring way.
The genesis of the idea of "Jesus Blankets" began on that day, somewhere in the 40's, on a snowy Advent afternoon, with the giving of my "blankie."
Children today, just as when I was I child, need to hear the stories of our faith. But! They also need to be able to experience those stories. How could I give our children an experience that would be meaningful?
The world today is so different. TV brings far away places into the family room. Space is collapsed. When I began talking about missions to our children, they had no difficulty grasping the geography that I did not understand until I was much older than they. I also discovered that their religious understanding was more sophisticated than mine at the same age.
When I suggested that they make blankets for Jesus, the children looked at me with puzzled faces. It had never occurred to them that Jesus needed one! I quickly explained that the blankets would not be for a statue, but for live babies in mission countries. The blankets would be gifts that we made and then, give to children who were less fortunate. It was important for them to understand that through the gifts we give to others, we ultimately give to Christ. "Whatever you do for the least of my brothers and sisters, you do for me."
It was then the flurry of activity began. Each children's class, from the youngest toddlers to the youth in high school, began to create designs that would decorate baby blankets. For several weeks the children drew with fabric crayons. Their creations were transferred to cloth which women in the church turned into warm fluffy blankets.
On a special Sunday in Advent, the children proudly brought their gifts forward during the Children's Sermon and draped them across the front pews. These blankets, and this story, are our gift to the missions and to you this Christmas Season.
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