Shepherds Ask for Flannel; Wisemen Stay Inside

We here in Scooter Nation are confused, befuddled, and generally stumped. We do not understand the compulsion of otherwise reasonable adults to don bed sheets and tie hand towels to their heads and rent pettable livestock and stand around in 10 degree weather (negative 3 with windchill), looking at a plastic baby doll. We are simply flummoxed by the idea that there are enough people willing to don bed sheets and towels and rent pettable livestock that this bizarre event can take place—sometimes simultaneously—in multiple churchyards by the side of multiple roads in multiple counties in multiple Midwestern states, all with varying degrees of below-freezing temperatures.

The Midwestern obsession with the live nativity is, in a word, insane. For a people known for their farmer-like practicality and polite but firm rejections of anything that is not “normal” (i.e., Chick-fil-a: “A fast food place that only sells chicken sandwiches? Chicken biscuits for breakfast?! Well, I guess if you like that sort of thing.”), they seem quite content to throw sheets over their Columbia jackets and wade out into the snow to pet donkeys and ogle someone’s supposed Jesus-look-alike Bitty Baby American Girl Doll. Never mind that Jesus was born in the Middle East in the desert where it’s warm and definitely not in Wisconsin or Minnesota or North Dakota or anywhere remotely close to the Canadian border and the Great Lakes Snowbelt. Forget the fact that Jesus was actually, in all probability, born during the summer months and that the only reason we now celebrate his birth in December is most likely because of a neat tie-in to the pagan calendar and the winter solstice. And what about the fact that Jesus probably looked nothing like the pasty white doll wrapped up in someone’s old twin top sheet?

Admittedly, Midwesterners do not cast aside all of their practicality for these events. If you can look past the obvious absurdity of the situation, you will find that live nativities (at least, the ones witnessed by your friendly local Scooter Nationalists) are organized with a drill sergeant’s precision and timing. Participants—well, human participants—work in shifts of 30 minutes each, sort of like a tag-team event. Every half hour, one team of shepherds and wisemen and angels and Jesus-bearing parents troops inside to thaw and eat cookies while another team of shepherds and wisemen and angels and Jesus-bearing parents takes their place. I have never actually witnessed the changing of the guard, so I am not 100% sure of the tag-team logistics. It’s like a religious quantum physics problem: can two Marys exist, even temporarily, within the same plywood-and-plastic-tarp stable? Two Josephs? Six wisemen—or wise persons, as some more inclusive churches might call them? Does Team One slip out a handful at a time, like people discreetly leaving a lame party? Or do the 10 paint-lights illuminating the scene black out for a moment and when they’re flipped back on, a new cast is suddenly standing there in the old cast’s place?

Down along the Gulf Coast of Alabama where my mother lives, live nativities seem to make a bit more sense—at least climatically speaking. Typically, the stable is set up next to that one palm tree on the church property to lend some vague Middle Eastern essence to the scene. Visitors to the live nativity can get away with wearing just a light jacket or a glitter-painted, iron-on-appliqué Christmas sweatshirt. In the Deep South, Mary and Joseph don’t have to tag team with anyone to prevent hypothermia from setting in, and the shepherds, angels, and wisemen don’t have to fret about freezing extremities. No on wears mittens. And every once in a while you’ll see a real live baby (albeit a 6 month old instead of a newborn) wrapped in some swaddling clothes over its footy pajamas, sleeping away while a young Mary earnestly watches the manger to make sure the rented cow doesn’t get any ideas.

And maybe that’s why the Midwesterners do it. Maybe once upon a time some well-meaning transplanted Southerner decided that it was high time Mary wore mittens. Maybe they do it to prove to the rest of the country that hey, a little snow isn’t going to stop the baby Jesus. Maybe this whole live nativity obsession is bigger than we at Scooter Nation ever thought, and the Midwesterners are just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak—what if they’re wearing bed sheets up in Canada right about now? Or Greenland? Or Russia? And what if they aren’t insane? What if the one question that Saint Peter asks you when it’s your time to go is “What part did you play in the live nativity, my child?”

Which is why we here at Scooter Nation are seriously considering putting our hands up next year. We may not understand the Midwestern obsession with the live nativity, but you don’t have to understand something to respect it: consider brain surgery or my all-wheel drive automatic transmission, for example. I can handle a 30 minute stint in the snow—I’ve got long underwear. Just sandwich me between a few sheep, I’ll be all right. And make sure my sheet’s flannel.