I post this at the beginning of every December so it may “ring a bell” —- no pun intended:

Adult Jesus Ruins My Christmas Shopping

Christmas shopping would be so much easier if Jesus would just remain a baby.

Every time I venture out to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child and try to purchase a gift for someone I love I am stumped.

What do I buy that will somehow declare the birth of the Son of God?

I don’t have the where-with-all for a gift that marks the birth of a King.

Besides, every time I begin to shop in honor of Baby Jesus, I get images of Him being whipped unmercifully and then nailed upon a cross.

Blood spurts derail my shopping. I resist the thoughts but they will not go away.

Before I can do much looking around the malls Jesus jumps out of the crib. He’s fully adult, almost running, sometimes dancing, celebrating on the streets and I can hardly keep up. He’s healing people left, right, and center. He’s getting into all kinds of trouble.

I am lost. I am out of control. No, he’s out of control.

He goes to the wrong places. He loves the seedy parts of town. He goes where I have never been before. He mixes with the rejected. He storms City Hall and insults merciless leaders. He is outspoken, scathing to those who are unfair in their business practices. He doesn’t care about rank, stature, or wealth but detests double standards, addresses them at every encounter.

I want to grab him, shove him back in the crib where he was safe, where we were all safer.

When I thought he would stop in at a church or two – perhaps a cathedral built in his honor – he’s off in a smoky bar with washed out losers. He’s talking politics like I have never heard. He’s hot on fairness, justice, mercy, truth. I tell him not to mix politics and religion and blush with the absurdity of it all.

If he would just stay in one place like a baby should is all I can think.

It’s not long before I am in a jostle with the crowds. It’s not the kind of popularity I was expecting.

Prostitutes love him. Drunks defend him. The poorest of the poor, the marginalized, the rejected, are out in their masses. He dances in the streets with street children and people he has just met. Young men and women, piercings and tattoos all over their bodies, circle him celebrate like long lost friends. Then, ignoring ordinances, he feeds the applauding masses.

Now what do I buy?

Clearly, anything I spend, if I am really out to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child, has to be grand. Yet modest. His birth was modest: a shed, a feeding trough. Secrecy. Shame. Danger. Poverty dictated the details for this dramatic night. I cannot spend much. Yet, it was the greatest night Earth had ever seen. Angels sighed! The order of everything disturbed by Love’s intervention.

I tell him he’s ruining things, that he is too quick to befriend the wrong people, but his mind is elsewhere. I beg him to befriend religious leaders, a pastor or two, but he will not listen.

Then, they are up in arms against him.

All but a few want him gone. He’s a hindrance to tourism. He’s a threat to peace and he’s being accused of not attending church!

Next, he looks crucifixion in the eye.

If only he would remain a baby.

It is so much easier to shop for a baby.

(Published first in The Indianapolis Star some years ago)
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Yesterday’s brief outing to a beautiful market: