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Around this time of year, there is much talk about the true meaning of Christmas.  Symbols abound in the blazing stars, quiet villages, quests for truth.  The infant, soft and mild, is tranquillity itself.  Why then, I wonder, does no one ever talk about this time of the year about twenty-four months later?  What was Jesus like in 2 A.D.?

The birth of Jesus has been celebrated for almost two thousand years.  Scholars spend lifetimes explaining minute facets of it.  But no one talks much about the toddler years of the Christ child.  No one has really researched those first stumbling steps, that transition from swaddling clothes to underwear, the first time the Holy Baby screamed “Mine!” and then threw himself on the floor. 

It’s true Jesus had an unusual situation.  Mary and Joseph were, essentially, his foster parents.  His Father was away on an extended business trip, and although there was probably some communication, it’s a safe bet that visitation was limited.

One assumes they got out of that barn situation.  And I’ve never been straight about whether there were any siblings.  Let’s leave that for scholarly debate.  We’ll suppose they lived in the suburbs of Bethlehem, a modest, working class neighborhood.  Joseph built his houses, while Mary stayed at home, setting up play dates with other mothers and their kids.  What happened the first time that some little Philistine had a special icon that Jesus particularly liked?

It’s a tricky situation.  Jesus has several options.  He could pull it out of the other kid’s hand, cast it down, and tell him it’s an evil symbol of a soon-to-be dead religion.  He could practice a future sermon about loving your enemies.  But, maybe the other kid was bigger.  Maybe the ‘other cheek’ business was a bit too sophisticated.  Jesus is in a bind.  He has to be good, for the rest of civilization.  But this is not a very compelling reason for a Toddler.  He should have any toy He wants – He’s God, for Christ’s sake! – and He should have it NOW!

Then he thinks of something.  Dad.

His Dad is kind of the Big Guy on the block.  Jesus had a fall-back position that really couldn’t be beat.  If He really, really wanted to He could smite that nasty little boy down with one well-aimed lightning bolt, and walk away coolly with that nifty little icon.  What could anyone do?  And besides, in thirty-one years they were going to kill Him anyway.  There wasn’t much point in making long-range plans.

Now Dad has His own problems here.  If Jesus really gets Himself in trouble, Dad has to come to his rescue.  And Jesus knows it.  God has to watch His step -- or else His only begotten Son is going to end up being a holy terror.

What do you do with a two-year-old deity?  Poor Mary.  She’s the foster mother, given this Child for a few short years, with hardships to endure in the birth department and only vague promises of idolization later.  Joseph is probably not much help; not only does he have to work a full time job, he has to watch over some other Guy’s kid, and then gets forgotten by almost all the religions ever afterwards.  Joseph has always suspected the immaculate conception thing anyway.

So Mary’s in the soup all alone.  What is she supposed to do when the Kid starts wailing?  If she smacks Him one, you never know what the real Father is going to do.  He sees all, after all.  She can try reasoning, but sometimes the little Squirt doesn’t want to listen.  She cries a cry that has echoed down the centuries: “God is ignoring me!  God won’t listen to my entreaties!”  But in her case, she’s just trying to get Him to eat something besides stale Halloween candy.  Prayer and supplication are about all she can resort to.  If He listens, she is happy.  If not, she wonders what she got herself into.  Just like every mother ever in the history of the world.

Somehow, Mary copes.  Maybe she has figured out some games.  (“Let’s see you walk on some water.”)  Or maybe she has threatened the longest time-out ever -- forty days in the wilderness.  (He’s not up for that yet, but the time will come.)  She figures out how to handle this Kid who has been entrusted to her for a few short years.   He ruins his appetite.  He refuses to brush His teeth.  He screams when you mention going to bed.  But, eventually, He sleeps.

Mary must look at him then, and sigh with soft relief.  The struggles of growing up are temporarily put aside.  His ultimate power has been traded in for a few hours of quiet slumber.  Mary smiles, wiping the crumbs off his face, and marvels as she does every night . . . how her little devil can so immediately turn into a perfect angel.