This year a well-known chain of bakers produced one of the most talked-about Nativity scenes. The substitution of a sausage roll for the Child Jesus horrified some, but, odd as it seems, it made sense theologically. At Christmas the Word becomes flesh and nourishes us with his very self in the Scriptures and sacraments, above all the Eucharist.
When St Francis of Assisi created the first live Nativity scene at Greccio in the 13th century, he little realised how popular it would be, or what a useful tool it would prove for teaching the meaning of Christmas. That first crib had no figures of Mary or Joseph, no shepherds or kings, just a Christ figure, an ox and a donkey, and those who came to worship.
In time the Nativity scene became subject to much elaboration. Statues or puppets began to take the place of living participants and the number of figures increased. Interestingly, the ox and the donkey (which come from Pseudo-Matthew and are not mentioned in the canonical Gospels) have tended to be constants and have often been taken to symbolise the Son of God’s humility and patience.
Angels, shepherds and Magi make their appearance at various times during the Christmas season, but so, too, in some places somewhat surprising additions. Camels and elephants one might expect, but the appearance of Adam and Eve and the serpent, or Noah and his animals, or the Twelve Tribes of Israel, or a Dove, symbolising the Holy Spirit, perhaps not. Charles III, King of the Two Sicilies, was probably the first to introduce a bevy of richly decked characters into the Nativity scene and from his time date some of the cribs which tell us more about life in contemporary Naples or Poland than 1st-century Palestine. Regional variations became more pronounced so that today it is possible to tell immediately where a crib was made.
Whatever kind of crib we have, it reminds us that Christmas is about something both very human and utterly transcendent. Here at the monastery (which was once a barn) we place our crib near the entrance, against the wall where animals were tethered. It is austerely beautiful, being made of white figurines from the south of France. For me, its sweeping lines and flowing curves recall Hopkins’s line “… the Holy Ghost over the bent / World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.”
But alongside all that theology of the Incarnation and the wonder and awe it evokes is a grounding in the stuff of the stable. We are not far from the blood, sweat and sheer messiness of suffering and birth. No amount of artistry can, or should, distance us from that.
When, on Christmas night, the figure of the Christ Child is placed in the manger, we assert an important truth. God has become man, and we have been united with God in a way that can never be broken. We are not asked to become less human, an awkwardly sanitised version of ourselves, but rather the reverse. We are to become more real, more human, more our true selves. God finds his happiness in us as we are to find ours in him, but we can only do that if we take seriously everything that follows from the Incarnation. That would be daunting were it not that we know we have his help. As St Leo remarks: “No one is beyond the power of the prayer of Christ.”
Perhaps it is time to look again at the figures that crowd around the crib, at those smelly shepherds and exotic Magi. Is there anyone with whom we can identify in our desire to be close to the Lord?
We are no longer children. Our faith may be weak and wobbly, or layered with complexities that seem out of place in such a setting. We may be conscious of having nothing to lay before the King of the universe. We search in vain for the gold of generosity or the incense of prayer within ourselves. Even the myrrh of service may be lacking in our lives. We know only our need, and the fact that God has answered our need.
Provençal crib scenes are full of figures lacking here in Britain. They reflect the trades and occupations of their makers. Some are a little gross, but there is one that has always spoken to me. Usually at the back, almost out of sight, is Barthélémy. He is so poor that he has no gift to bring except his joy. This Christmas morning we may be empty of everything save that. It is enough. Our joy is taken up into that of the whole of creation and becomes one with that of God himself. Let us give God our joy.
A blessed Christmas to you all!
Sister Catherine Wybourne is a Benedictine nun. She tweets @Digitalnun and blogs at ibenedictines.org
Areas of Catholic Herald business are still recovering post-pandemic.
However, we are reaching out to the Catholic community and readership, that has been so loyal to the Catholic Herald. Please join us on our 135 year mission by supporting us.
We are raising £250,000 to safeguard the Herald as a world-leading voice in Catholic journalism and teaching.
We have been a bold and influential voice in the church since 1888, standing up for traditional Catholic culture and values. Please consider donating.