On Christmas Eve, Ann and I went to a X-Mass program at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. For most of the program, we were regaled with lovely choir music, words of togetherness and compassion by the priest, and a feeling of overall good will emanating from the congregation like a comforting and pleasant vapor. And then something happened: These giant waving, teetering, emaciated plaster puppets entered the scene. Held and operated by several people, these sacred, ponderous representations of Joseph and Mary (I'm pretty sure) wandered through the aisles and even floated onto the podiums. I bet all the kids in the audience probably thought magic was in the works and that they'd just been delivered into another plane where humongous creepy papier mache people walked the earth, much to my dismay. I didn't really know what to think: should I be offended by these crude re-presentations? Or should I be more child-like and marvel at these towering figures that reached out to us as if they wanted us to follow them into some giant oven where we'd be cooked into some equally giant pie or loaf? Indeed, I was troubled. However, the rest of the program was enchanting, and the space itself, a classic gothic vaulted cathedral, bestowed a sense of the immenseness of the greater world and a humbling sense of the littleness of our personal troubles, minus the dead-eyed Joseph and Mary.
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