We didn’t have a manger, but annually, our mother let us have things from the kitchen to make one. Jesus, like every year, was an almond wrapped in exactly one square of pink toilet paper. Mary was the whitish, bottom part of a stick of celery, the only thing we could find that looked like a flowing gown. Joseph was a small carrot. Three cauliflower heads were the sheep. That was all we were allowed to have, besides a cutting board on which to arrange them. Cecilia requested some broccoli for the landscape, but my mother dryly replied that there were no trees in Jerusalem.

Jesus was all that had survived by midnight mass. Mary, Joseph and the three sheep were sliced into a Caesar’s salad when they had begun to wilt. At first I screamed, but my mother assured me this would not hurt their resurrection. As I ate them, I wondered if things eaten by me would resurrect with me, as part of me, or if eaten things would resurrect directly out of me,

I rubbed my eyes sleepily. The church bell, a recent donation of the Knights of Columbus, tolled midnight. Cecilia was sound asleep at my mother’s side, despite the organ that seemed to pump a strange, spiritual life into St. Andrew’s cement vaulted veins. In a corner, a statue of the Virgin Mary offered her breast to Jesus, a happy, healthy baby. Jesus as an adult was unrecognizable; He was sickly looking, emaciated, unhappy; I felt weak looking at Him as He bled and bled on the cross. Mankind must stop sinning or Jesus would soon be eaten away. As it was, His ribs had nearly broken out of the skin of His torso; there were more tendons on His arms and legs than meat; His feet were so bony, one could discern every detail of their skeletal structure; and yet the blood continued to drip, and mankind continued to eat Him, though anyone would have to admit, He was far from appetizing.

The priest’s voice roused the congregation. In oneness, it stood and was seated, bowed and lifted its head, sang Hallelujah and Hosanna, breathed Amen. Only an occasional cough or infectious snort broke the charm, reminding us we still had our feet on the earth.

The priest preached, “See, the Lamb of God that takes away the sin of the world.”

To my dismay, an image invaded my mind, an horrific image of Jesus, lamb, roasting upon a rotating cross. The lamb’s skin was evenly crispy; juice and melted fat fell freely from the small, pitiful body … I closed my eyes to make it disappear.

The priest preached, “Keep your senses, be watchful. Your adversary, the Devil, walks about like a roaring lion, seeking to devour someone.”

I knew it was time to eat Jesus, for the baskets were being passed down the rows. Mass was more like a self-service cafeteria where one pays then eats, than a restaurant where one eats then pays. My mother put in a nickel for me, and a dime for her. She wasn’t about to pay for Cecilia, who was sleeping. My mother, I noticed, was always friendlier with her neighbours before the Eucharist, when they would shake her hand and say, “Peace be with you,” than when they passed her the basket.