The angel of the Lord sang low
and shucked his golden slippers off
and stretched his wings as if to show
their starlit shadow on the wall
and did the old soft shoe yeah
did the buck and wing
In the winter of 1984 we were in London, and often went to Southwark, the old gothic cathedral on the bank of the River Thames near London Bridge, to hear its Christmas concerts. In a display case cut into one of the ancient walls, we saw a small Nativity cluster — Mary, Joseph, Jesus, two shepherds with their sheep and dogs, and the three Wise Men — all about three inches tall. These semi-abstract figures, carved out of olive wood from Bethlehem (hey, would they tell lies in such a holy place?) captivated us. The cryptic Magi, leading their camels on little chains, kneeling or standing with their gifts, stared intensely at the cradle with deep-set eyes. As a child, I had loved their story, the long crossing of the desert following the Star in the East, and their cleverness in tricking Herod the King, who wanted them to spy on the Child, in some sort of Biblical version of extraordinary rendition.
We wanted them for our Christmas crèche, on the mantel over our fireplace; and with a considerable amount of trouble and trekking back and forth across the river, we bought them. Since then, every Christmas season I unwrap and oil the little group, and set up the scene. They've all become familiar friends, even the animals, who in my arrangements often misbehave with inappropriate sniffing; and we're particularly fond of the Magi, who seem to have grown less stern as the years roll by. Perhaps I've been rubbing off their frown lines.
One year I lined them up alongside each other, instead of in the usual single-file row, and immediately, and pleasantly, thought of them as dancing for the delight of Baby Jesus. This is because, some years before, three wise friends of ours — young magi, perhaps — put on the Twelve Days of Christmas for our children, arriving at our house each afternoon from Dec. 25 through January 5 with costumes, songs, presents and dances, making it the children's most memorable Christmas season ever.
The Magi put their arms around
each other then with chorus line
precision and enormous zest
they kicked for Jesus onetwothree
high as any Christmas tree
and Caspar was the best
I embraced the idea of the three kings bringing laughter, as a gift more important than gold, frankincense or myrhh — I'd always been a bit vague about the latter two, anyway: I imagined them as medicinal herbs, available at Rollin' Oats or Nature's Finest. So I began organizing the crèche more like a dance than a prayer service. Life, after all, is a tragedy that ends badly, but with luck we can have some laughs along the way. "A merry heart is a good medicine, but a broken spirit drieth up the bones," says Proverbs 17:22.
Charles Dickens got it right. A Christmas Carol has a heart-breaking background, with its view of an impoverished and sick society, but generous laughter, like that around the Cratchit Christmas table — O, what a wonderful pudding! — is what can temporarily cure us. Cure may not be the right word, but when we laugh, that's when we ourselves feel like kings (and queens).
And so, a few years ago, I took out my notebook and wrote this poem you've been reading (unless, of course, you've been skipping it and just reading the prose: if so — go back now!)
And Melchior told a story
that had Joseph sighing in the hay
while holy Mary rolled her eyes
and Jesus smiling where he lay
as if He understood Lord
knew the joke was good
But Balthazar began to weep
forseeing all the scenes to come:
the Child upon a darker stage
the star their spotlight stuttering out
then shook his head smiled
and sang louder than before
There was no dignity that night:
the shepherds slapped their sheepish knees
and tasted too much of the grape
that solaces our sober earth
O blessèd be our mirth hey!
Blessèd be our mirth!
"God bless us, every one," cried Tiny Tim. And Jeanne and I say, "Have a Merry 12 Days of Christmas (or whatever makes you feel like dancing) and a Rollicking New Year!"
Peter Meinke's latest book is Unheard Music, a collection of stories; "The Gift of the Magi" is from his Liquid Paper: New & Selected Poems. He and Jeanne celebrated their 50th anniversary earlier this month. Jeanne notes, "We enjoy working together, in separate rooms."
This article appears in Dec 26, 2007 – Jan 1, 2008.