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“NO TICKLING,” Owen said.

“No nothing!” Barb Wiggin insisted. “No touching Baby Jesus.”

“But we’re his parents!” proclaimed Mary Beth, who was being generous to include poor Joseph under this appellation.

“Mary Beth,” Barb Wiggin said, “if you touch the Baby Jesus, I’m putting you in a cow costume.”

And so it came to pass that the Virgin Mary sulked through our rehearsal—a mother denied the tactile pleasures of her own infant! And Owen, who had built a huge nest for himself—in a mountain of hay—appeared to radiate the truly untouchable quality of a deity to be reckoned with, of a prophet who had no doubt.

Some technical difficulties with the harness spared Harold Crosby his first sensation of angelic elevation; we noticed that Harold’s anxiety concerning heights had caused him to forget the lines of his all-important announcement—or else Harold had not properly studied his part, for he couldn’t get past “Be not afraid; for behold, I bring you good news …” without flubbing.

The kings and shepherds could not possibly move slowly enough, following the “pillar of light” in front of the altar toward the arrangement of animals and Mary and Joseph surrounding the commanding presence of the Christ Child enthroned on his mountain of hay; no matter how slowly they moved, they arrived at the touching scene in the stable before the end of the fifth verse of “We Three Kings of Orient Are.” There they had to wait for the end of the carol, and appear to be unsurprised by the choir charging immediately into “Away in a Manger.”

The solution, the Rev. Dudley Wiggin proposed, was to omit the fifth verse of “We Three Kings,” but Owen denounced this as unorthodox. To conclude with the fourth verse was a far cry from ending with the hallelujahs of the fifth; Owen begged us to pay special attention to the words of the fourth verse—surely we did not wish to arrive in the presence of the Christ Child on such a note.

He sang for us, with emphasis—“‘SOR-ROWING, SIGH-ING, BLEED-ING, DY-ING, SEALED IN A STONE-COLD TOMB.’”

“But then there’s the refrain!” Barb Wiggin cried. “‘O star of won-der, star of night,’” she sang, but Owen was unmoved.

The rector assured Owen that the church had a long tradition of not singing every verse of each hymn or carol, but somehow Owen made us feel that the tradition of the church—however long—was on less sure footing than the written word. Five verses in print meant we were to sing all five.

“‘SORROWING, SIGHING, BLEEDING, DYING,’” he repeated. “SOUNDS VERY CHRISTMASY.”

Mary Beth Baird let everyone know that the matter could be resolved if she were allowed to shower some affection upon the Christ Child, but it seemed that the only agreements that existed between Barb Wiggin and Owen were that Mary Beth should not be permitted to maul the Baby Jesus, and that the cows not move.

When the crèche was properly formed, which was finally timed upon the conclusion of the fourth verse of “We Three Kings,” the choir then sang “Away in a Manger” while we shamelessly worshiped and adored Owen Meany.

Perhaps the “swaddling clothes” should have been reconsidered. Owen had objected to being wrapped in them up to his chin; he wanted to have his arms free—possibly, in order to ward off a stumbling cow or donkey. And so they had swaddled the length of his body, up to his armpits, and then crisscrossed his chest with more “swaddling,” and even covered his shoulders and neck—Barb Wiggin made a special point of concealing Owen’s neck, because she said his Adam’s apple looked “rather grown-up.” It did; it stuck out, especially when he was lying down; but then, Owen’s eyes looked “rather grown-up,” too, in that they bulged, or appeared a trifle haunted in their sockets. His facial features were tiny but sharp, not in the least babylike—certainly not in the “pillar of light,” which was harsh. There were dark circles under his eyes, his nose was too pointed for a baby’s nose, his cheekbones too prominent. Why we didn’t just wrap him up in a blanket, I don’t know. The “swaddling clothes” resembled nothing so much as layers upon layers of gauze bandages, so that Owen resembled some terrifying burn victim who’d been shriveled to abnormal size in a fire that had left only his face and arms uncharred—and the “pillar of light,” and the worshipful postures of all of us, surrounding him, made it appear that Owen was about to undergo some ritual unwrapping in an operating room, and we were his surgeons and nurses.

Upon the conclusion of “Away in a Manger,” Mr. Wiggin read again from Luke: “‘When the angel went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go over to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us.” And they went with haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And when they saw it they made known the saying which had been told them concerning this child; and all who heard it wondered at what the shepherds told them. But Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart.’”

While the rector read, the kings bowed to the Baby Jesus and presented him with the usual gifts—ornate boxes and tins, and shiny trinkets, difficult to distinguish from the distance of the congregation but somehow regal in appearance. A few of the shepherds offered more humble, rustic presents; one of the shepherds gave the Christ Child a bird’s nest.

“WHAT WOULD I DO WITH A BIRD’S NEST?” Owen complained.

“It’s for good luck,” the rector said.

“DOES IT SAY SO IN THE BIBLE?” Owen asked.

Someone said that from the audience the bird’s nest looked like old, dead grass; someone said it looked like “dung.”

“Now now,” Dudley Wiggin said.

“It doesn’t matter what it looks like!” Barb Wiggin said, with considerable pitch in her voice. “The gifts are symbolic.”

Mary Beth Baird foresaw a larger problem. Since the reading from Luke concluded by observing that “Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart”—and surely the “things” that Mary so kept and pondered were far more matterful than these trivial gifts—shouldn’t she do something to demonstrate to the audience what a strain on her poor heart it was to do such monumental keeping and pondering?

“What?” Barb Wiggin said.

“WHAT SHE MEANS IS, SHOULDN’T SHE ACT OUT HOW A PERSON PONDERS SOMETHING,” Owen said. Mary Beth Baird was so pleased that Owen had clarified her concerns that she appeared on the verge of hugging or kissing him, but Barb Wiggin moved quickly between them, leaving the controls of the “pillar of light” unattended; eerily, the light scanned our little assembly with a will of its own—appearing to settle on the Holy Mother.

There was a respectful silence while we pondered what possible thing Mary Beth Baird could do to demonstrate how hard her heart was working; it was clear to most of us that Mary Beth would be satisfied only if she could express her adoration of the Christ Child physically.

“I could kiss him,” Mary Beth said softly. “I could just bow down and kiss him—on the forehead, I mean.”

“Well, yes, you could try that, Mary Beth,” the rector said cautiously.

“Let’s see how it looks,” Barb Wiggin said doubtfully.