It seems pretty obvious to me that the story of the Nativity was recorded by men. I feel it’s necessary for Octo-woman to step in and straighten them out.

The story was set in the Roman Empire before it became “Holy”, and was triggered by a guy named Augustus Caesar, nephew of Julius. Julius was the dictator dude who wouldn’t leave office so he got stabbed 23 times by a sub-committee of senators chaired by his former best pal, Brutus, of “Et tu” fame. It was politics as usual.

Augustus was a more enterprising emperor than Julius primarily because he implemented the first really successful Internal Revenue Service. It was similar to ours: that is, pay your taxes or go to jail for life with no parole, or, alternatively, you could sell your children and then starve when the denari (dough) ran out, or you could be scheduled for several public floggings, or as a last resort, you could get thrown to the lions.

As it happened, Augustus Caesar suspected he wasn’t getting a juicy enough tax rate and decided that all men had to return to the town they were born in to be counted in a new census. Women were exempt because they didn’t have any denari worth counting.

Enter a young girl named Mary – age somewhere between 12 and 16 years old. And St. Joseph, a hero if there ever was one. They both lived in a small town called Nazareth (population 400).

Their relationship was instigated by a real angel as I explained in a previous post . . .

Mary could never have been elected to be the homecoming queen.  Nobody was going to name her “Miss Nazareth” or write a song about her called “The Girl I Want To Marry”.  Far from it.  Mary was a teen-aged pregnant, unwed mother-to-be.  In those days and in that part of the world, the only thing her station in life could have qualified her for was death by stoning.   Certainly, as far as the Jewish bachelors in her village were concerned, Mary was dog-doo.

But, enter Joseph, our hero: a hard-hat carpenter by trade. I’ve never believed that it was Mary who proposed.  In the first place, the girls weren’t allowed to in those days, and anyway, she was probably too bashful.   No, it had to be like the nuns told us: an angel did it.

The conversation might have gone something like this:

Angel (think Tim Gunn here): “ Joseph, for your next assignment, you are to get this kid off the streets and marry her.  There’s something important she has to do.  In return, we’ll help you start your own furniture line.”

Joseph: “Well, I don’t know . . . “

Angel: “Do it!  Make it work!”

And he did.  Joseph just couldn’t say No.

Try to imagine the reaction of his drinking buddies:  “You’re going to marry WHO?  You’re going to marry a pregnant VIRGIN?  Are you nuts?”. . .

Soon, when the census decree got decreed, the newly-betrothed Joseph realized that the internet was still down, and that he was going to have to show up to be counted in person in his home town of Bethlehem (not the one in Pennsylvania). This Bethlehem was the one about 90 miles from Nazareth (about 475,200,000 cubits in biblical measurements.) That’d be about a week of travel on foot or donkey rental. If you’re lucky.

Joseph thought about it. The journey would be up hills and down hills, and – this is the truth – passing nearby forests full of lions and wolves and boars and bandits, Oh My. With a young lady who was maybe nine months pregnant. On a donkey. On the other hand, he couldn’t very well abandon her to the nosy neighbors, the Pharisees, the money changers and the sanctimonious rabble-rousers in the Nazareth town square. So he made a fateful decision. The conversation probably went something like this:

Joseph: “Hail, Mary!”

Mary: “What’s up, Saint Joseph dear, besides your rescue of my good name for all eternity?”

Joseph: “Well, here it is. Howdja like to have a fun getaway to celebrate our engagement? I was thinking we could maybe duck over to Bethlehem for the holidays.”

Mary: “To Bethlehem? Well, I guess not because actually I’m not sure traveling at this time . . .

Joseph: What’s the problem? Is it the heartburn?

Mary: No, it’s just that I’m not sure when I’m due and . . .

Joseph: Bummer! The angel didn’t tell you your due date? Can’t you call him and find out?

Mary: Well, I could, but he didn’t leave his number. Maybe you should go without me.

Joseph: No, I can’t. I can’t leave you here alone because you’d probably get stoned.

Mary : ME? You mean – like with WEED?

Joseph: No. Like with ROCKS! We better go start packing.

So that’s how it happened that they had to go on the road, but you can be sure that Mary didn’t go willingly. She may not even have been due to deliver, but after seven days of lurching around on a donkey, what could you expect? A premature delivery in a stable, that’s what.

As for that part about those bulky swaddling clothes, I don’t buy it. The Blessed Mother would never have left home without a diaper bag. She’d of brought along some onesies and Pampers and a couple of nice soft receiving blankets to present her little baby in to any shepherds or angels or kings who might be dropping by.

And one more thing. I’m not sure the good Sisters at St Patrick’s School knew this, but it’s entirely possible that Mary wasn’t a Catholic. I could be wrong, of course. You can’t expect me to know everything!

There’s several other corrections I need to make to the narratives as presented by St. Luke and St. Matthew, but they will have to be continued next year because now I have to go make some potato salad. To keep you going on the right track though, tune in below to view yet another version of our wonderful story.

Before I sign off, I want to thank you for patiently reading these posts, even when they’re too wordy and dull. It’s not so lonely when I know you’re out there. And I truly hope you and all your loved ones have a Christmas that’s brimming with joy and affection even if you can’t be together. Have peace and be safe.