"Dear Baby Jesus," I prayed, "Won't you have a scone? The sins of the whole world must be such an awful weight. Please let me offer you this little treat. It is not a blood sacrifice, but what is any more?
"Amen."
The Baby Jesus looked up at me with all the compassion that ever there was. His eyes bright and alive and full of everlasting love and the knowledge of every generation. I leaned into him to give him a kiss. That's when the Baby Jesus puked on me.
"Dear Baby Jesus," I prayed, fingers steepled at my chin, sanctified discharge dripping from my bowed forehead. "Your vomit is like the nectar of the sweetest fruit, and has the pleasant fragrance of rose petals in spring. Your glory and majesty have infused your holy spit up with a color most like the green of the sea spray and your magnificent bile is yellow like sunflowers.
"Still," I continued, "I have already been washed in the blood. Need I be purified further in your puke?
"Amen."
The Baby Jesus looked up at me and farted a healthy fart. And the Angels that attended him were laid low and sore afraid, so potent was his heavenly reply.
So I ran away from my tea time with the Baby Jesus, but took with me a greater sanctity of spirit and a renewed love of his grace and magnificence. And I learned that hidden within God's blessings you can always find a bit of spew if you look hard enough.
Amen.
Posted at 11:49 a.m.
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