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“‘Be not afraid,’” he mumbled indistinctly.

From the hay in the dark came the cracked falsetto, the ruined voice of an unlikely prompter—but who else would know, by heart, the lines that Harold Crosby had forgotten? Who else but the former Announcing Angel?

“‘FOR BEHOLD, I BRING YOU GOOD NEWS OF A GREAT JOY WHICH WILL COME TO ALL THE PEOPLE,’” Owen whispered; but Owen Meany couldn’t really whisper—his voice had too much sand and gravel in it. Not only Harold Crosby heard the Christ Child’s prompting; every member of the congregation heard it, too—the strained, holy voice speaking from the darkened manger, telling the angel what to say. Dutifully, Harold repeated the lines he was given.

Thus, when the “pillar of light” finally followed the shepherds and kings to their proper place of worship at the crèche, the congregation was also prepared to adore him—whatever special Christ this was who not only knew his role but also knew all the other, vital parts of the story.

Mary Beth Baird was overcome. Her face flopped first on the hay, then her cheek bumped the Baby Jesus’ hip; then she lunged further into prostration, actually putting her heavy head in Owen’s lap. The “pillar of light” trembled at this shameless, unmotherly behavior. Barb Wiggin’s fury, and her keen anticipation of worse to come, suggested the intensity of someone in command of a machine-gun nest; she struggled to hold the light steady.

I was aware that Barb Wiggin had cranked Harold Crosby up so high that he was completely gone from view; up in the dark dust, up in the gloom inspired by the mock flying buttresses, Harold Crosby, who was still probably facing the wrong way, was flapping like a stranded bat—but I couldn’t see him. I had only a vague impression of his panic and his helplessness.

“‘I love thee, Lord Je-sus, look down from the sky, And stay by my cradle till morn-ing is nigh,’” sang the choir, thus wrapping up “Away in a Manger.” The Rev. Dudley Wiggin was a little slow starting with Luke. Perhaps it had occurred to him that the Virgin Mary was supposed to wait until after the reading before “bowing” to the Baby Jesus; now that Mary Beth’s head was already stationed in Owen’s lap, the rector might have feared what Mary Beth would think was an appropriate substitute for “bowing.”

“‘When the angel went away from them into heaven,’” the rector began; the congregation, automatically, searched the ceiling for Harold Crosby. In the front pews of faces that I observed, no one sought the disappearing angel with as much fervor as Mr. Fish, who was already surprised to hear that Owen Meany did have a speaking part.

Owen looked ready to sneeze, or else the weight of Mary Beth’s head was restricting his breathing; his nose, unwiped and unblown, had

dribbled two shiny rivulets across his upper lip. I could see that he was sweating; it was such a cold day, the old church furnace was throwing out the heat full-tilt—the raised altar area was a lot warmer than the wooden pews, where many of the congregation still wore their outdoor clothes. The heat in the manger was stifling. I pitied the donkeys and the cows; inside their costumes, they had to be perspiring. The “pillar of light” felt hot enough to ignite the hay where the Baby Jesus lay pinned by the Holy Mother.

We were still listening to the reading from Luke when the first donkey fainted; actually, it was only the hind part of a donkey that fainted, so that the effect of the collapse was quite startling. Many of the congregation were unaware that donkeys came in two parts; the way the donkey crumbled must have been even more alarming to them. It appeared that a donkey’s hind legs gave way under him, while the forelegs struggled to remain standing, and the head and neck surged this way and that—for balance. The donkey’s ass and hind legs simply dropped to the floor, as if the beast had suffered a selective stroke—or had been shot; its rump was paralyzed. The front half of the donkey made a game effort, but was soon dragged down after its disabled parts. A cow, blinded by its horns—and trying to avoid the falling donkey—butted a shepherd into and over the low communion railing; the shepherd struck the kneeling cushions a glancing blow, and rolled into the center aisle by the first row of pews.

When the second donkey dropped, the Rev. Mr. Wiggin read faster.

“‘But Mary kept all these things,’” the rector said, “‘pondering them in her heart.’”

The Virgin Mary lifted her head from the Christ Child’s lap, a mystical grin upon her flushed face; she thumped both hands to her heart—as if an arrow, or a lance, had run her through from behind; and her eyes rolled toward her shining forehead as if, even before she could fall, she were giving up the ghost. The Baby Jesus, suddenly anxious about the direction and force of Mother Mary’s swoon, reached out his arms to catch her; but Owen was not strong enough to support Mary Beth Baird—chest to chest, she pressed him into the hay, where they appeared to be wrestling.

And I, Joseph—I saw how the little Lord Jesus got his mother off him; he goosed her. It was a fast attack, concealed in a flurry of flying hay; you had to be a Joseph—or Barb Wiggin—to know what happened. What the congregation saw was the Holy Mother roll out of the hay pile and across the floor of the manger, where she collected herself at a safe distance from the unpredictable Prince of Peace; Owen withered Mary Beth with a look as scornful as the look he’d shown Barb Wiggin.

It was the same look he then delivered to the congregation—oblivious to, if not contemptuous of, the gifts the wise men and the shepherds laid at his feet. Like a commanding officer reviewing his troops, the Christ Child surveyed the congregation. The faces I could see—in the frontmost pews—appeared to be tensing for rejection. Mr. Fish’s face, and Dan’s face, too—both of these sophisticates of amateur theater were mouths-agape in admiration, for here was a stage presence that could overcome not only amateurism but the common cold; Owen had overcome error and bad acting and deviation from the script.

Then I came to the faces in the congregation that Owen must have seen about the same time I saw them; they bore the most rapt expressions of all. They were Mr. and Mrs. Meany’s faces. Mr. Meany’s granitic countenance was destroyed by fear, but his attention was riveted; and Mrs. Meany’s lunatic gawking was characterized by a naked incomprehension. She had her hands clenched together in violent prayer, and her husband held her around her shaking shoulders because she was racked by sobs as disturbing as the animal unhappiness of a retarded child.

Owen sat up so suddenly in the mountain of hay that several front-pew members of the congregation were startled into gasps and cries of alarm. He bent stiffly at the waist, like a tightly wound spring, and he pointed with ferocity at his mother and father; to many members of the congregation, he could have been pointing to anyone—or to them all.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING HERE?” the angry Lord Jesus screamed.

Many members of the congregation thought he meant them; I could tell what a shock the question was for Mr. Fish, but I knew whom Owen was speaking to. I saw Mr. and Mrs. Meany cringe; they slipped off the pew to the kneeling pad, and Mrs. Meany covered her face with both hands.

“YOU SHOULDN’T BE HERE!” Owen shouted at them; but Mr. Fish, and surely half the congregation, felt that they stood accused. I saw the faces of the Rev. Lewis Merrill and his California wife; it was apparent that they also thought Owen meant them.

“IT IS A SACRILEGE FOR YOU TO BE HERE!” Owen hollered. At least a dozen members of the congregation guiltily got up from the pews at the rear of the church—to leave. Mr. Meany helped his dizzy wife to her feet. She was crossing herself, repeatedly—a helpless, unthinking, Catholic gesture; it must have infuriated Owen.

The Meanys conducted an awkward departure; they were big, broad people and their exit out of the crowded pew, their entrance into the aisle—where they stood out, so alone—their every movement was neither easy nor graceful.

“We only wanted to see you!” Owen’s father told him apologetically.

But Owen Meany pointed to the door at the end of the nave, where several of the faithful had already departed; Owen’s parents, like that other couple who were banished from the garden, left Christ Church as they were told. Not even the gusto with which the choir—following frantic signals from the rector—sang “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” could spare the congregation the indelible image of how the Meanys had obeyed their only son.

Rector Wiggin, wringing the Bible in both hands, was trying to catch the eye of his wife; but Barb Wiggin was struck as immovable as stone. What the rector wanted was for his wife to darken the “pillar of light,” which continued to shine on the wrathful Lord Jesus.

“GET ME OUT OF HERE!” the Prince of Peace said to Joseph. And what is Joseph if not a man who does what he’s told? I lifted him. Mary Beth Baird wanted to hold a part of him, too; whether his goosing her had deepened her infatuation, or had put her in her place without trampling an iota of her ardor, is uncertain—regardless, she was his slave, at his command. And so together we raised him out of the hay. He was so stiffly wrapped, it was like carrying an unmanageable icon—he simply wouldn’t bend, no matter how we held him.

Where to go with him was not instantly clear. The back way, behind the altar area—the unobserved route we’d all taken to the manger—was blocked by Barb Wiggin.

As in other moments of indecision, the Christ Child directed us; he pointed down the center aisle, in the direction his parents had taken. I doubt that anyone directed the cows and donkeys to follow us; they just needed the air. Our procession gathered the force and numbers of a marching band. The third verse of what was supposed to be the Rev. Mr. Wiggin’s recessional carol heralded our exit.

Mild he lays his glo-ry by, Born that man no more may die,