This Christmas as you hustle and bustle about, shopping, baking and carolling I’m pretty sure I know what question is rattling around in your head, on the tip of your tongue, just busting to be voiced… was Jesus born with shit on his face?
Am I right?
I’m tempted, when walking past perfectly poised nativity scenes, to wipe a bit of vegemite on those baby cheeks, to ruffle Josephs hair and to perch Mary in a more I can barely stand to sit on those special parts so I’ll lean back awkwardly to take a load off while still looking engaged in the moment and desperately hoping my breasts don’t leak everywhere type pose.
Cos really. Just really.
Jesus was born in the shed. A shed with perhaps a few skanky cows, and an annoying goat.
I’m guessing Joseph didn’t remember to pack the calming essential oils with handy aroma diffuser to minimise the awkward moment when you realise that cow urine soaked straw is not the same as sandalwood.
There was no sterile environment, nurses with gloves, birth plan, monitoring equipment, Mary hoping her hair would still be on point for the ensuing Instagram snap, Joseph excusing himself to top up his macchiato between contractions.
I can imagine a slightly more harried, uncomfortable, slightly terrifying, sweaty, smelly, raw and undignified event.
I reckon perhaps Jesus' first breath of life as a human was welcomed with a face plant into a cowpat.
Welcome to the world Jesus.
No special treatment.
Jesus rocked the undignified entrance.
Because Jesus is not fluffy. He’s not some stained-glass pathetic halo wearing weakling. A statue. A relic.
He was a man who was poor, homeless, rejected, despised, betrayed, and killed. A man of great strength and bravery who was bold, steadfast, loving, compassionate and obedient.
The son of God.
He’s the real deal.
So, if you look at nativity scenes and think, what has that baby got to do with me? Just imagine him with vegemite on his face and think, what kind of man would face plant poo for me? Is that the kind of man I want to get to know?
Don’t be put off by our feeble expressions of who Jesus is, or by mine for that matter. Find out for yourself. It’s the best birthday present you could give him.