Taking Another Look

We had a little decoration shifting last night. My son and I bought a puzzle depicting a quaint, snowy village with a steepled church in the background, children playing in the snow around the Christmas tree in the foreground, and cheery pine swags and lights on all the buildings. Where to set it up so we could work on it, maybe even finish it during the holidays?

It’s a tradition to set up a puzzle table. Generations meet to build the picture together. Introverts find a place to stay out of the action while still being with the family. There is time in the lull between Christmas and New Year’s Day to spend time together in pleasant puzzling.

There was no place for the old rickety blue card table in the living room, though. The first spot we tried, in front of the fireplace, blocked the view of our cozy, crackling electric fire log set. The next made the path between couch and chair too tight. It would fit in the corner, but first we needed to find a place for the chair that had been displaced by the Christmas Tree. The best place I could think of was in the dining room, in front of the window where there is a little narrow table perfect for a puzzle.

The only problem was the Nativity Set. It was there on the table, in the wooden stable, draped with greenery and topped with little lights for stars. It is the porcelain set I inherited from my grandparents, painted in muted tones, with a shepherd, wise men, and sweet, docile barn creatures, including the small camel with the glued neck, looking adoringly at the Holy Family. My grandfather made the wooden display out of rough barn wood. I put the set out every year, but this was the first year in a long time that I had given it such a prominent position in the decorations.

To make room for the puzzle, I moved the whole setup to the dining room table until I could find a new place to display it. Walking by it this morning, I stopped to think about it. Maybe I’ll take it out of the stable and put in on the hutch where I usually display it. Maybe it would fit on the sofa table, but would it get knocked over when someone set a drink there?

Suddenly, I remembered a passing comment from a friend who had joined us for dinner a few nights ago.

This friend, a senior at Cal who lived with us during his sophomore year, is a person of color. Over the years, he has shared with us how he experiences life as a child of immigrants. He has gently corrected me when I have been insensitive to the way I take my privilege for granted. I am sometimes surprised and embarrassed at how deeply ingrained my thinking is around people and cultures that are different than my Northern European roots, but I appreciate him caring enough to tell me when something bothers him instead of just pulling away.

As he was passing the nativity set the other night, he said, “Did you just get that?” I told him it was not new; he had probably never noticed it when it was tucked under the cupboard on the hutch.

Looking at it now, I thought about my friend and saw it differently, maybe from his perspective. All the figures have creamy white skin, except one wise man who has a slight tan. The bare-chested shepherd, sweet Mary and tiny baby Jesus have blond hair and blue eyes. Joseph’s wavy locks and beard are light brown. They look nothing like the actual people of the nativity so long ago. The real people would more likely have had dark hair, dark eyes, and dark skin.

I may just put it away for now. I still value the set; it is meaningful because it belonged to grandparents. At this time of year, I like to have a physical reminder of the beautiful way God came to live with us in this world, experiencing our joy and pain. It’s hard not to get caught up in my cultural celebrations of Santa, lights, gifts and special cookies, and forget about Christ’s birth.

I can’t help but see this nativity set differently now, though. It’s probably true that everyone tends to imagine Jesus looking like them, making their experience of him more personal. When Jesus looks like me and my family, though, it’s easier to think that he shares my cultural biases. It’s too easy to think he is one of us, and those who don’t look like us are different, outsiders. It’s dangerously easy to think more highly of myself and people who look like me and less of everyone else.

I don’t want Jesus to look like me. I want to look more like Jesus–in his love, compassion and humility, for a start.