A baby is born, but not of a virgin, for god's sake, as though the only guarantee of holy purity is to never pass through the tainted channel of a jezebel. After that, even despite the tainted channel, angels will sing on earth. Except the angels do not sing Hosanna to the Son of David, or Senex puerum portabat, or O magnum mysterium. The real angels - the ones who clean your plate before you're done - sing the theme song to Lego Ninjago: Masters of Spinjitzu.
That's my niece, Molly. She giggles and every time she does, baby blue bubbles float into the air and then with a soft POP! they burst glitter all around, a cloud of sprinkles and sparkles. She is a little girl, a big girl. She reads all the voices of every character, with inflection. She likes it especially when adults are ridiculous. She cooks and bakes and rides her bike and every time she does, baby blue bubbles filled with sprinkles and sparkles trail along behind her, floating, swirling in the breeze. Can you see them?
I like to think that Jesus would object a little to the oxy-clean bleaching of his mother. I like to think that he'd sit on the floor engrossed in lego, and that while pressing his Luke Skywalker X-Wing Fighter With Power Functions And R2-D2 Figure together, he'd crack the thing down the middle and say Damn. And Evan would look up and say Hey, Jesus. Have a cookie.
The authority of perfection doesn't compel me. The lie of untouched female purity irritates me. Baby blue bubbles filled with sprinkles and sparkles: they are what's holy. They arrive with an imperfect splash.
I want a host of gods, and I want none of them whitewashed. I want one of them to be in charge of bubbles. I want them to be socialists, to look after each other and divide accountability and resources equally. I want a community of magicians to craft the world - all that we see of it and all that we don't - and I want them to spring from a god-mother who counts down from ten, loudly, until the bionicles get picked up OR ELSE.
I remember the last time I laughed the way Molly laughs, but only if I really think long about it. If I asked Molly the last time she laughed like that, she'd laugh like that. Or maybe she'd stare at me, puzzled, like there's no line distinguishing a good laugh between this morning or yesterday or tomorrow.
And deep, deep inside, her soul would shake its head. Oh that poor thing, that cursed grown-up, forgetting how it is to laugh like that just always, daily, always, at the slightest, simplest, most ordinary stuff. Don't you ever lose that, Miss Molly, her soul would whisper, hoping to register like a record played backwards. Don't let the years squash your bubbles. Your bubbles are your purity, dear sweet lovely little big girl. Your bubbles make you holy. Insist upon them.
What do your gods craft and own? Do you forget they're here? How do you remember?