The most frequently stolen Christmas decoration in the United States is not the inflatable Santa. Not shiny-nosed Rudolf. Not even bunches of kiss-inducing mistletoe. No, the most often lifted holiday token is the baby Jesus figurine. Faced with the threat of the holy little tyke going missing from their nativity displays, some churches have even installed GPS trackers in the little Lord Jesus.

This led me to wonder how many people would in fact be able to describe the real Jesus for a missing person’s report. With so many Christians upset about Christ being “taken out of Christmas,” I’d like to suggest that those who lament this vacancy should examine what exactly it is that they would like to see in Christmas. Who is this Christ? Is he the Christ of tradition or is he who he says he is? And are the two all that different?

There is one line in a beloved Christmas carol that I have not sung for almost eleven years, nor do I ever intend to sing again. Rather, I feel like going on a crusade to bring the heresy of the seemingly innocent lyric to the attention of the potentially deceived.

It was December of 1997. Through moist, glazed eyes, I made out an image that has lingered ever since as a surrealistic mast. Cheap tinsel glistened on an evergreen tree near the front of an unfamiliar sanctuary. The dancing of light, through the reds and greens of the decked out room, suddenly pierced into my cloud of mourning--not enough to free me, but just enough to pronounce into the haze: “It’s Christmas out here! Life goes on even when it may have stopped and frozen for you.” The jarring glare of refracted light seemed almost a mockery of what we were going through, saying our goodbyes to my little sister Amber, the baby of the family, the one whom--if life were “fair”--should have been the last of us to go.

That touch of sparkling tinsel, viewed through the waters that I fought to keep from spilling forth from my eyes, stayed with me, intermingling with the carols that would play in the walking dream that followed. For days and weeks afterward, nothing was real, yet this glimmer remained with me. Words melted into incoherent syllables, sounds, bells, clanging, empty, loveless. Time was not linear--did it even exist?

Children stood donning their Christmas best in the front of another church, singing “Away in a manger....” The song warbled impotently across air that was as visible as anything else. Cute little baby Jesus... I know, I know, I’ve heard it all before. Jolly old Saint Nick and the Easter bunny... Deck the halls and flashback to Amber.

Amber and I shared a room growing up. I used to have such a hard time keeping my big mouth shut. Christmas presents should be surprises, I thought, but I would always end up spilling the beans and telling her what I had gotten her. Then I would have to get her something else, too--so she could have a surprise. Before long, I would inevitably tell her about the new gift, necessitating that I find yet another. The gifts may have been small stupid things, the kind of special inside jokes that only sisters can understand.

Back to the kids singing on the stage... sisters standing next to each other, one pokes the other, the other whacks her back, sticking out the tongue, hitting, pinching... a mom glares at her offspring. Why can’t they be good at least until the song’s over and they’re out of the spotlight? The song warbles on: “...the little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes....” That’s it, the mom thinks, why can’t my kids be more like the Little-Lord-Jesus? One sibling pinches the other. Little sister sniffles, a full blown fit is about to ensue. “The Little-Lord-Jesus, no crying he makes...”

The song reminds all seated in the mass of ceremony how unlike us that Little-Lord-Jesus is: He is a super hero. The entire taking on mortality thing that I thought Christmas was supposed to be about begins to unravel. God put on a costume to pretend he was a real baby, but the fact that he didn’t cry gave him away. He’s an impostor!

Suddenly, the quaver of the sweet traditional hymn is pierced by a fleck in the flickering tinsel--I’m back at the funeral, trying to hold back the tears, trying to be good, trying to act like the hope of being reunited in the afterlife is enough now, in this moment. “The Little-Lord-Jesus, no crying he makes...” The flickering tinsel is ablaze in flame now, engulfed in righteous anger, and the anger is not mine. “LIE!” a voice shouts through the fog, but everyone else drones on, they didn’t hear--perhaps they are trying to drown him out. “The Little-Lord-Jesus, no crying he makes...” The enflamed tinsel becomes a tear, a blazing hot tear burning through the fog. It washes over me in a refreshing flood that will never again allow me to sing those words: “The little Lord Jesus...” did what?

Have you ever had that feeling of betrayal, when you discover that someone has been spreading lies about you, defaming your character? You thought they knew you, but they obviously didn’t. You may feel anger about being misrepresented. You may feel hurt. But then, if someone you love dearly is harmed by the misrepresentation, the anger and hurt give way to heartbreak. You want to pour yourself out and wash over your beloved, to wash away the poison and make it all right. You want to whisper the truth, to be heard, believed, to bring healing. The lie may go on, but once healing has occurred and you are holding the one you love, it fades like meaningless noise into the background. You whisper the truth and the power of it washes away the evil lies.

“The little Lord Jesus...” the voice whispers, “Where is that in my book? Where?” He flips the pages of my memory and my eyes settle on the words of the shortest verse in the Bible: “Jesus wept.” (John 11:35) “Jesus wept,” it says. How beautifully profound. How perfect. Jesus wept. When Mary and Martha had lost their dear brother Lazarus, in that very moment. In that moment. Jesus knew they would see him again. Jesus even knew that he had the power and would bring Lazarus back to life. He could have said, “Get over it. You’ll be with him in heaven.” He could have said, “Settle down, look, he’s alive now. No biggie.” He could have used any of the comforting words spoken by Job’s friends and all of their descendants to put those of “little faith” in their places and to tell them to be good. Jesus, however, did none of these things. Jesus wept.

Since December of 1997, that verse has become central to my understanding of what the gospel of Christ is. We are so often distracted from what is central by the droning noise of our own traditions. La la la la la... blah blah blah blah blah... it is all like a clanging cymbal “if we have not love.” (I Corinthians 13) He didn’t come into the world to be a role model. Follow me. Be good. You better watch out. You better not pout. You better not cry... He came because he wanted to be with us. To laugh with us. Cry with us. Feel with us. Love with us.

All I want for Christmas is to see a few more droning choruses shattered, if that will help us to see the Jesus who wept, and still weeps--who loves us every moment and doesn’t expect us to be good little super-heroes.