In a Christmas world often marked by frenzy, nothing appears more peaceful than the voices of young children dressed as cherubs and holy figures.
Go to most any Armenian church from now through Jan. 6 and you will find our younger generation in a most provocative and timely pose.
The angels are joined by shepherds, Magi impersonators, even barnyard animals. They come dressed as Joseph and Mary. The youngest child in the congregation usually winds up as the infant Jesus. And those in the pews are overflowing with joy.
It’s a time for reconciliation, a moment of truth, an opportunity for all of us to dispel the usual rigmarole and put Christ back into Christmas.
Nothing, not the tree nor the gift-giving, affords me more pleasure than the pageant. Having put three children through the Armenian Church, some of my most memorable moments centered around this tradition and all its ramifications.
My youngest child wanted no part of his pageant. But because he was joined with a class, there would be no excuses. Everyone had to participate, recite the usual prayers, sing the carols, and relive a moment that dates back a couple thousand years.
Otherwise, they would catch the wrath of a Sunday School superintendent, or even worse, the Der Hayr.
“I hope my odar friends don’t see me dressed as a sheep,” he said one day over supper. “I’ll be the laughing stock of my whole school. They’ll never let me live it down.”
“No need to worry,” I told the kid. “They wouldn’t recognize you in that outfit. Besides, you won’t be alone. You’ll be with a goat and a cow. All you have to do is look interested and utter one word.”
“What’s that?”
“Ba-a-a-a. Can you handle that?”
“Maybe with a little practice,” he gushed out.
My second son was a bit more adventurous. Because he could build things out of wood, he was a natural Joseph, who eked out a meager living as a carpenter.
So there he was, the day of the pageant, making his way down the aisle with the Blessed Mary, cradling the Infant Jesus.
Was this the same boy who, just the day before, was checking opponents against the boards in a hockey game and yelling at the refs over a controversial call? He had gone from nasty to nice in a single day. Maybe it was the exposure to being a saint.
The kid had traded in his uniform for robes and a beard. His hockey stick had been replaced by a staff. He looked a bit more pious than his brother the sheep.
My daughter stole the show. She was Mary. Maybe it was because she was my first child and was making her sibling debut. She looked like a natural. No arguments. Suffice it to say it launched an early career on stage and the smell of greasepaint.
I sit and watch the children each passing year. The names and faces may change, but not the show. While one child waves to a proud mom with a camera in overdrive, another may have his eyes glued to the floor.
An itch that needs attention. A frown that knows no smile. A smile that knows no frown. A twinkle in some child’s eye. A tear from some dad. It all runs the emotional gamut.
It’s what Christmas is all about—the pure essence of children in their splendor and glory. The one time when all are at center stage in a House of God.
Take all the Santas in the world, all the hysteria that surrounds the day, all the decorated trees and promotional gizmos, and nothing could ever replace the majesty of a Christmas pageant.
You see, I, too, had that pleasure when I attended an Armenian church in my prime. And yes, my mother made me do it. Being a staunch Armenian Catholic, she taught us that it was better to give of ourselves than to receive.
We lived down the street from a Catholic church with the most realistic manger display you would ever imagine. It could have passed for a live tableau. At night, I would look out my bedroom window and see the crèche all illuminated with music filling the air. It was quite divine.
Until one day when the unthinkable occurred. Some sneak thief stole the Infant Jesus from the cradle. Word hit the neighborhood to be on the lookout for the Holy Child. Turns out, the culprit was a five-year-old child with good intentions.
“I just wanted to give the baby a ride in my wagon,” he announced.
Tom Vartabedian
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