Not a beautiful story

Thinking about my post of yesterday, this morning, in the shower, I was reminded of something.

Once, while we were looking at a Botticelli Adoration of the Magi (the one with the Medici and the supposed self-portrait) Patricia asked me whether I did not think “it was a beautiful story”. I suppose she meant the birth in the stable, the angels, the shepherds, and the Magi. Perhaps the peacocks and the beautifully dressed Medici at the edges of the picture, too.

Of course, any mother is inclined to think any birth an amazingly beautiful thing. Research shows that mothers are rendered temporarily insane during the act and their memories of the event are subsequently occluded. (They must be, otherwise no one could possibly want to repeat the ordeal -- and a minimum 2.0 birth to mother ratio is needed to sustain the population).

But, surely, Patricia can’t possibly mean the immaculate conception ("thou shalt have a baby"/"I am your servant, o lord" -- did i hear anyone pronounce the word "free will"?); the slaughter of the innocents; or any of the other dreadful stuff that followed: "one does not cast pearls before swine”; the hideous death on the cross; St Thomas sticking his fingers in Christ’s putrid wounds.

Blah. I am hard-pressed to find anything beautiful here.