Unholy Pageant
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD LAUGH.
Emma was an early performer, part of which she got from her parents, the rest from who knows where. When our daughter turned one, she started doing something called ‘scary.’ Mostly performed in a restaurant, Emma would put on a terrified look, then make her head tremble rapidly back and forth. Was she going into a trance, or having a seizure? Could she turn her head 360 degrees? People stared, Emma entertained. When we first moved to Montreal in the mid-1980’s, we went to church in a part of the city where there lived many minorities. Trinity Memorial was a beautiful, old church, but its congregation was shrinking, and now largely consisted of nice old grandmothers. There were some young families, but Emma was one of the few children who happened to be white in the Sunday School.
Christmas was coming and it was time to cast the annual pageant. The children would make convincing wise men, shepherds, angels, and of course, Mary and Joseph. “Who wants to be the Baby Jesus?” No one put up their hand. In most pageants, that role is played by a doll. Not at Trinity. Their Christmas pageants had Jesus contributing something. In this case, the infant was to rise to a sitting position upon hearing the line, “The poor baby wakes,” from the carol, Away in a Manger. “I can be Baby Jesus!” insisted Emma, now four. Odd, but she did have blonde hair and blue eyes, just like those pictures of Jesus all around the church. Emma would be distinct, in a cast of colour. A rehearsal was quickly arranged, and children given bits of business to do while singing. They were reminded to bring costumes to make them look like credible wise men, kings, shepherds or angels.
When the great day came, the child actors arrived wearing their best dressing gowns, bedsheets, fake beards or grandma’s jewellery. Emma was wrapped in some kind of swaddling clothes, and given a halo fashioned from a Christmas tree garland. Smiling church-goers filled the basement, eager to see their kin perform this holy ritual of Christ’s birth. The only seats left were right in front of the stage, which is unfortunately where I had to sit, my wife Cara on one side, and on the other, my sister Amanda.
The curtains parted, and there was the manger, complete with bales of hay, stuffed toy animals, Mary and Joseph, and the oversized body of Emma crammed in a makeshift crib. Soon the rest of the bedraggled troupe entered, none looking like they wanted to be there. A pause ensued for the audience to snap pictures, or film the frozen tableau. From the wings a slightly out-of-tune piano started, and the cast began methodically singing Away in a Manger. When they got to the line, “The poor baby wakes,” Emma shot up like a Jack-in-the-box, sporting a look which can only be described as inappropriate, at best. The halo had slipped across her face, and hung at an angle, covering one of her eyes. She was most annoyed it didn’t fit, and made it known by ripping the halo off, and spinning it round her finger like a burlesque performer. It was as if Emma suddenly realized what an ill-suited baby Jesus she made, and wasn’t having any of it. The children faithfully continued, “The little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay…” but the disgruntled Christ child just sat there, arms folded.
Ever tried suppressing laughter in a church? Multiply that a thousand times. We couldn’t show any reaction lest it encourage our daughter all the more. Cara had to hold our own infant son, Aaron, in front of her as a human shield. My sister hid by looking behind me at Cara on the other side. Their eyes met briefly, telegraphing trapped hysterics. For my part, there was nowhere to escape as Emma looked for a response — for a sign I sympathized with her holy annoyance. I forced my facial muscles into a glistening, inane smile, feigning approval. The scene rippled before me in such a tableau of tears, all I could see was an abstract painting — an absurd Rorschach test of my predicament. When the curtain closed on the unholy spectacle, some of the kind old ladies behind us said how lovely it was. We should be very proud of our daughter. We thanked them for their well-intentioned comments, and let the tears finally spill down our cheeks.
© December 2021 by Richard Hancox
