Every December, as faithfully as the magi following their star and as inevitably as the choir breaking into spontaneous disharmony during warm-ups, our parish assembles the Outdoor Nativity Scene on the church lawn.
It is, I must say, one of our holiest annual undertakings — where devotional intention meets meteorological mischief and a surprising amount of zip-ties.
Act I: The Unboxing of Holiness
There is nothing quite like retrieving the Nativity figures from the depths of the parish storage room. Each year, I open the boxes with the same reverence devotees bring to sacred relics — only to find that Joseph’s nose has once again detached itself and migrated mysteriously into Mary’s veil. The shepherds emerge looking slightly shell-shocked, which is fair, given they’ve been living in a Rubbermaid tomb for eleven months.
The Wise Men always appear particularly regal, though one of them — Melchior, if memory serves — has a leaning problem. Every Advent he slowly tilts to the left, as though pondering a deep theological question or perhaps simply giving up on posture until Epiphany.
Act II: Installation on the Lawn (Also Known as the Annual Wrestling Match)
Setting up the Nativity on the lawn is something between a liturgical dance and an episode of Survivor. The wind, as a rule, is against us. The stakes (literal and metaphorical) are high. And every year, like clockwork, someone asks, “Should we just wait until the ground isn’t frozen?”
To which the proper Anglican response is, “Oh no, we couldn’t possibly.”
Once arranged, the Holy Family stands serenely, as though they have no idea they will shortly become the unwilling adversaries of winter storms. Baby Jesus lies swaddled in His cradle, blissfully unaware that within days He may be gently relocated by a well-meaning toddler visitor — or an over-curious neighbourhood raccoon. (We do love our outreach ministries.)
Act III: The Seasons of the Nativity
There is a moment — usually right at dusk — when the lights switch on and the Nativity scene glows with that peaceful, impossible calm that makes every passerby pause. For all our fussing, zip-tying, frostbitten fingers, and attempts to persuade Joseph to face due east instead of gazing forlornly at the shrubbery, the effect is beautiful.
This little tableau on the lawn becomes a small sermon in itself. A reminder that God shows up not in curated perfection but in fields, stables, church lawns, and even in our lopsided attempts to proclaim good news with plywood saints and Styrofoam sheep.
Each year someone asks me if the Nativity will ever be replaced with something more modern — perhaps inflatable, perhaps illuminated, perhaps interactive. I simply smile and say, “If the Holy Family has survived two millennia, they can surely withstand another Canadian winter.”
And they do.
With dignity.
With grace.
With occasional rescue missions after a windstorm.
And we love them for it.
A Pastoral Thought
Our outdoor Nativity reminds me that incarnation isn’t tidy. It happens in the cold, in the awkward, in the wind-blown, in the delightfully human. It happens wherever we dare to place Christ visibly in the world — even on the front lawn.
May our own lives shine with the same slightly-askew but deeply sincere proclamation:
Emmanuel has come. God is with us. Even here. Even now.
A Companion Prayer
Holy God,
As we look upon the Nativity on our lawn,
steady in the wind and shining in the dusk,
grant us the grace to make room for Christ
in the ordinary and the unpredictable.
Bless all who pass by and glimpse Your love,
and make our lives joyful signs of Your presence.
In the name of the Word made flesh. Amen.