The Niece, like most babies, is mesmerized by anything shiny.  One look at the lamp in the corner can silence her tears and render her hypnotized.  For two minutes, at least–an eternity in infant time.  When I walked her over to her first Christmas tree the other night, her awe was palpable.  Her eyes widened and her hands stilled, resting on her butterball chest.  The hint of a smile danced on her lips, and suddenly, as I held her at my total mercy, I was overwhelmed by what happened at the first Christmas.

Ricky Bobby’s favorite Jesus may have been the baby one, all eight pounds and six ounces of him in his golden fleece diapers , but the infant Jesus is the one I’ve probably considered the least.  I personally and unsurprisingly adore the Wedding at Cana, Water-to-Wine Jesus.  The Walking-on-Water Jesus is impressive.  The Angry Temple Jesus makes me want to throw out some fist-pumps.  And Jesus on the cross–well, there is no comparison.

But what am I supposed to do with a baby?  Sometimes I think I have no more concept of it than I did as a kindergartener singing “Away in a Manger” on a local television program (call my agent for footage).  God as a baby, to be honest, always seemed a little creepy to me.  A means to an end.  A one-time-of-year part of the story to be mentioned in song and then fast forwarded through to get to the good part.

Then I saw The Niece look at that tree.  No, that’s not even it.  Just–then I saw The Niece.

Never is love more vulnerable than on the face of an innocent baby.  Never is it more prone to danger, more dependent on goodwill.  Never is it more perfectly pure.  And never has it stayed that way.  Well, except for that one time.

People talk a lot about what Christmas means, everything from the hands-off “Happy Holidays” to the in-your-face “Jesus is the Reason for the Season”.  Grace, mercy, love, charity, peace…all good things.  But you can’t just give them away as a gift certificate or receive them in a wrapped box.  You can’t just will them into existence and maintain them for a lifetime.  Or a four-week period.  (And if you think you can, then I invite you to take a ride with me down Peachtree Road in Buckhead right now, or walk with me through the food court at Perimeter Mall during lunch today.)  These perfectly warm and fuzzy ideals have to come from somewhere and must have a lifespan upheld by something other than my unreliable intentions.

Responding to his nephew’s good cheer, Scrooge said, “You keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.”  This is not the language of tolerance–it is the language of isolation.  God became a baby, however unreal or creepy it may seem, so that in the midst of the world’s madness, our minds and hearts could settle on One thing and rest there.  No hope could be less exclusive, no joy more all-encompassing.  Grace, mercy, love, charity, and peace have a home, and it is on the face of an infant whose beginnings could not have been more ignoble and whose death could not have looked more like defeat.  Only in one story is a trough a throne.

Most days (who am I kidding?  Every day) I’m more like Scrooge than the Wise Men.  How thankful I am for tales with a twist, for stories of redemption.  For the best one of them ever being true.

Born that man no more may die.