Tropic nights can be very dark. Stars that, in Canada, blur into the light blob above our cities, shine like the fabled Star of the Magi in black dome that arcs over the simple dwellings huddled below.
No, this is not the old story about the Nativity of Jesus, in what is now Israel. It’s about the nativity of my granddaughter Katherine, then known only as Rediet. And it happened in Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, on the other side of the Red Sea from the lands where Judaism, Christianity, and Islam were born.
In 2005, my wife and I went to Ethiopia to support our daughter as she adopted an orphan girl. Rediet (pronounced “ready-yet”) had been abandoned at the gate of a mission school for the blind. She must have been born only days before; she still had her umbilical cord attached. Her mother -- unknown -- must have believed that although she couldn’t take care of her newborn infant, the Christian folks at the school would.
And they did.
Ten months later, their successors handed her over to us.
With an ear infection, unfortunately. The 10-month-old child was in constant pain. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t tell us what was wrong. Lay quiet only while held in someone’s arms.
An uninterrupted night’s sleep was obviously not in the books. For her, or for us. So we divided the night into shifts.
Just the two of us
I don’t recall which shift I had. I do remember that it was pitch black outside. A nightlight in one corner of the room cast a pale yellow glow onto the ceiling. The city slept.
The darkness outside was so thick, it felt solid. The stars were pin-holes in the sky. No birds sang.
I cradled little Rediet in my arms. I tried to synchronize my breathing with hers. I crooned nursery rhymes dimly recalled from my own childhood: the Farmer in the Dell, Three Blind Mice, Frere Jacques... The language was nonsense to her; she had never heard anything but Amharic. But the rumble of my voice resonating in my chest seemed to quiet her.
She looked up at me.
I looked into those coal-black Ethiopian irises, and I knew, deep in my heart, that I could never do anything that would hurt this child. Never.
I missed that experience with my own children, somehow. Not that I would ever have wanted to hurt them. But there were dollars to earn, diapers to wash, bums to wipe, appointments to keep… “miles to go before I sleep,” as Robert Frost once put it. We didn’t neglect our children, but the opportunities to feel the wonder of their existence often got swept away by the rush of being new parents, of carving new lives for ourselves as well as our offspring.
Vulnerability
I had to wait until I was a grandfather to recognize the power of vulnerability. Of utter dependence.
That’s the power of infants. The only power that infants have. Otherwise, they can’t feed themselves. Can’t move themselves. Can’t protect themselves. They are totally dependent on their parents. Or their grandparents, like us.
In a society that values rugged independence above almost anything else -- personal, corporate, financial, academic -- infants are an anomaly. They haven’t earned respect. They haven’t earned anything, in fact. They are, by any practical reckoning, a liability.
And yet their helplessness, their vulnerability, leads us to love them.
Loving an infant is an act of ultimate altruism. They can do nothing for us in return. In later life, they may not even remember an adult who showed them kindness, gentleness. We offer them unrequited love. We give it to them freely, even though they cannot yet make a choice to accept or reject it.
Always loveable
That, I believe, is the origin of the Nativity stories found in the gospels of Matthew and Luke. The two stories agree only that Jesus was born in Bethlehem, to a young woman named Mary, while she was still unmarried.
And that infant was utterly lovable. By his parents, who had nothing to give him but love. Also by uncouth, unlettered shepherds. Even by the most respected intellectuals of the time, the star-gazing emissaries of other nations.
Infinitely loveable at his birth. Infinitely loveable in his life. Infinitely loveable even in his death.
The nativity stories are not, and don’t have to be, literal history. They point us to a greater truth. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to be wealthy. You don’t have to be a commander-in-chief to be loved. You just have to be.
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Copyright © 2017 by Jim Taylor. Non-profit use in congregations and study groups encouraged; links from other blogs welcomed; all other rights reserved.
To send comments, to subscribe, or to unsubscribe, write jimt@quixotic.ca
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YOUR TURN
I got mostly affirmation for last week’s column about Keaton Jones feelings of being bullied – with one significant exception (see below, from Bob Rollwagen).
Otherwise, Steve Roney wrote, “Two thumbs up for this one, Jim!”
And this from Jim Henderschedt: “An excellent article -- straightforward, honest, and compassionate. They are three things needed in our society today. Thank you.”
Tom Watson wrote, “I must have missed the story about Kimberley and Keaton Jones. Thanks for making me aware of their heart-rending situation. One of the best movies about ‘being different’ and the effects of it is the current film Wonder. The positive aspect of the movie mirrors your closing thoughts about when things get better and why.”
Barb Brousseau: “Your honesty and humility at your own mid-steps helps us all reflect on our own stories.”
Jean Hamilton suggested, “You must have had a great relationship with your son that he felt free to tell you how he felt about your writing, and trusted you enough to do it.”
Isabel Gibson reflected on the effect of modern communications: “The internet has made everything faster: reactions and judgements especially. Thanks for gently reminding us that the right response is almost always generosity of spirit.”
Sylvia McTavish felt empathy with Keaton: “I have a brother who was bullied cruelly as he entered his teens --- he had alopecia [an auto-immune disorder that results in massive hair loss: JT] and would be thrown to the ground by a few boys while others sat on him and pulled his hair out. What fun it was to see the great bald patches on the head of a 14-year-old! When the school principal was asked to stop their ‘fun’, he said ‘Let him wear a hat.’ End of discussion.
“My brother was deeply affected by all of this. His hair did grow back, then another attack and he was bald again, avoided by people who thought he had some dreadful disease, but he started shaving his head and had fewer stares -- never mind he had no eyebrows or beard. The medical world could not help him. He would go a few years with hair, then many without, no body hair at all. Diet, vitamins, lotions, massages, try this, try that -- nothing worked. He had boy friends in his older teen years, but no girlfriend -- they would talk to him but would not be seen with him.
“Growing up different has to be difficult; too many suffer because of it! Unfortunately, bullying and cruel teasing seem to be a way of life.”
Sharon Mansiere corrected me on a quotation: “I am not sure if it matters to others, but the ‘nature red in tooth and claw’ was from Tennyson [not Kipling]
“I am a biology professor who also has an English degree, so it is something I refer to more than some!”
Bob Rollwagen raised a serious issue – that there’s more behind the story than I was aware of, or than the media reported: “I was chatting with my niece, a young woman very into the social network and working in downtown Toronto. She seemed to be aware of events which preceded the taping in [Kimberley Jones’s] car. From her perspective, Keaton had been using the ‘N’ word repeatedly when addressing a fellow student and apparently, the majority of the students present took exception.
“She suggested that Keaton became more abusive… As such an event would do, it escalated to a verbal exchange where Keaton felt bullied as he did not understand why he had become the target.”
If so, Bob continued, “Now I try to picture the event. A young kid from a family, that appears to be racist, is being taunted by his peers for using racist language against their colleagues. Should his peers not shout him down? Should they not search out the parents who taught him to be so disrespectful?
“Keaton Jones did not understand why he needed to be silenced, and probably was not willing to listen because of his upbringing. His mother should be arrested for Child Abuse and the children trying to help Keaton understand his ignorance should be applauded.”
JT: I tried to check Bob’s take on the Keaton Jones’ story, with limited success. It may be true; it may be part of the venom directed at Keaton’s mother. True or not, it does caution against leaping to hasty conclusions.
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TECHNICAL STUFF
If you want to comment on something, write me at jimt@quixotic.ca. Or just hit the ‘Reply’ button.
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My webpage is running again -- thanks to Wayne Irwin and ChurchWeb Canada. You can now access current columns and five years of archives at http://quixotic.ca
I write a second column each Wednesday, called Soft Edges, which deals somewhat more gently with issues of life and faith. To sign up for Soft Edges, write to me directly at the address above, or send a blank e-mail to softedges-subscribe@lists.quixotic.ca
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PROMOTION STUFF…
To use the links in this section, you’ll have to insert the necessary symbols.
Ralph Milton ’s latest project is called “Sing Hallelujah” -- the world’s first video hymnal. It consists of 100 popular hymns, both new and old, on five DVDs that can be played using a standard DVD player and TV screen, for use in congregations who lack skilled musicians to play piano or organ. More details at wwwDOTsinghallelujahDOTca
Ralph’s HymnSight webpage is still up, http://wwwDOThymnsightDOTca, with a vast gallery of photos you can use to enhance the appearance of the visual images you project for liturgical use (prayers, responses, hymn verses, etc.)
Wayne Irwin's “Churchweb Canada,” an inexpensive service for any congregation wanting to develop a web presence, with free consultation. <http://wwwDOTchurchwebcanadaDOTca>
I recommend Isabel Gibson’s thoughtful and well-written blog, wwwDOTtraditionaliconoclastDOTcom
Alva Wood’s satiric stories about incompetent bureaucrats and prejudiced attitudes in a small town -- not particularly religious, but fun; alvawoodATgmailDOTcom to get onto her mailing list.
Tom Watson writes a weekly blog called “The View from Grandpa Tom’s Balcony” -- ruminations on various subjects, and feedback from Tom’s readers. Write him at tomwatsoATgmailDOTcom or twatsonATsentexDOTnet