DECEMBER 11, 2024 – Anyone who belongs to a mainstream church or even one of the confounding number of offstream churches is familiar with the “pageantry” of the annual Christmas pageant. Back in my churchy days, I thought of these de rigueur features of Sunday school as three-set Venn diagrams. One circle, of course, represented all the children, with the youngest and most oblivious being the stars of the show. In the second circle were the directors, who were invariably an energetic set of church members that had been music or theater majors back in college, and parent conscripts called into service by the Sunday school superintendent. The third circle covered all the parents and grandparents who showed up for the big production—always well-equipped with the latest camera gear.
Since the plot, characters and setting were the same in every production, Christmas pageants over the decades blur into a single memory. Depending on who was involved, I remember generally that some displays were more impressive than others across a broad spectrum, but what they all had in common was a predictable level of amusement based not on anything planned but just the opposite—on just about anything that was unplanned: A little “lamb” running off down from the chancel to its “mommy” sitting at the end of the third pew from the front; or “Joseph” bumping the crèche which collapses, dropping “baby Jesus,” who rolls unceremoniously off the chancel and lands face down, chin just over the edge of the step; or the three wise men who dash up the center aisle of the nave because their handler-dad missed his cue from the director who’d had to roll up the script and wave it in a broad arc from the front of the pews to get the handler-dad’s attention, and the lead “wise man” stops abruptly when his beard falls off, causing a pile-up halfway up to the chancel because his over-eager buddies failed to brake in time. Invariably, the unintended humor is what brings the house down.
Speaking of “wise guys,” I remember the pageant when I was the designated “handler-dad” for the Three Kings, our son Byron being one of them. He was responsible for the gold, which, in retrospect, was a harbinger, I suppose, of his career in finance. The pageant had just gotten underway, so we were killing time in the vestibule just outside the back of the nave until the wise men received their entrance cue. While the myrrh and frankincense kings were idling nearby, Byron and I were seated next to each other on a bench. Out of nowhere, Byron asked, “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Where’s orientar?”
“Huh?”
“Where is orientar?” he said. The second time simply confirmed what I’d heard the first time but failed to clarify what in the world Byron was talking about.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“You know, when we walk in we have to sing ‘We three kings from orientar,’ but where’s orientar?”
Only then did I get it—and let out a proper laugh, followed by an explanation.
** ** **
When I was a kid, my mother was about the churchiest person in the whole congregation after the minister. This meant she was a member of the vestry, sat on every other committee, and was chairwoman of half of them, plus she was the organist, junior choir director and surprise, surprise, heavily involved in Sunday school. The music and Sunday school roles guaranteed her involvement in the annual Christmas pageant.
Throughout my Sunday school years, I was either a shepherd or a wise man, the latter position morphing into wise ass by the time I was a sixth grader. As a third grader, I was a shepherd, and Mother thought I should carry a prop—namely, a shepherd’s crook. I’ll never forget the crazy thing. From white tagboard, she cut a large “crook,” shaded it with a brown Crayon, and somehow managed to tape it onto the metal sponge-holder on the end of a mop handle.
This was before Dad started going to church, so he was out of the loop with regard to Mother’s jerry-rigged shepherd’s crook. (I don’t remember that he attended the pageant, either.) Had he been in the loop, he would’ve cut the crook out of a spare square of quarter-inch plywood, sanded the edges, varnished it, and used a drill and screws to attach the crook to the end of a broom handle. By the time he was finished, the prop could have been used as a real shepherd’s crook. At a minimum, the crook would have been as solid as could be and not wobble back and forth like Mother’s flimsy tagboard version.
Since my role didn’t involve any lines, which would’ve brought unwanted attention, I was okay carrying Mother’s jerry-rigged shepherd’s crook.
Little could I have know that the prop would be put into service again a few months later. Mother had conscripted me into some kind of Easter pageant in which one of the characters was none other than the Bishop of Canterbury. Mind you, this was an Episcopal Church—the American offshoot of the Church of England, whose head is . . . yes, the Archbishop of Canterbury.
The part involved lines, which I was to recite from the pulpit. As long as I didn’t have to sing anything or deliver my lines by memory, I was okay with the assignment. I was also fine with carrying Mother’s jerry-rigged shepherd’s crook—which, of course doubled as the signature symbol of the Archbishop of Canterbury. What I was not okay with, however, was wearing the ridiculous mitre that Mother had made—out of white tagboard—for me to wear.
Mother had made quite a project out of the bishop’s hat, and she was especially pleased with the result. She couldn’t wait to see me standing on a stool in the pulpit of her dear church, with all eyes of the congregation trained on me in a white choir vestment, holding the shepherd’s crook—now Archbishop’s crook—upright at my side, with the Archbishop’s mitre towering over my blond head. In her mind I cut the perfect image of a junior Archbishop of Canterbury.
Me? I was mortified. There was just no way I was going to show my face with that ridiculous tagboard project sitting on my head. I threw a major fit, and in my fury I couldn’t begin to see things through Mother’s eyes. What I do remember, however, is the combination of hurt and panic that filled her face. Her nervous tic, I noticed, was especially reactive.
Ultimately, Mother threatened to appeal to the king of our household, meaning Dad, but in the face of that music, I wisely capitulated.
Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
