No sense cribbing about a moving manger in our multi-faith Ireland

THEY went and shifted the crib. All these years it had turned up annually in the same location in a major Dublin hospital.

Next thing, it gets removed, lock stock and stable, to the hospital church.

Political correctness gone mad, crib-lovers on the hospital staff say. Respect for diversity, hospital authorities say: hospital customers come from many ethnic and religious backgrounds.

They add, with admirable restraint, that removing the nativity scene reduces the crib-count only by a third: another two replicas of Bethlehem are still to be found within the hospital.

What a perfect microcosm of a country bumping haphazardly towards multiculturalism. Back in the days when we had a substantial Jewish population in this country, it never struck anybody that a Jewish doctor (and we had a wealth of them) patient or visitor would be offended by a crib, just as it never struck home that Protestants visiting a hospital might be offended by religious statues, whether on a solo run or in serried ranks.

The innocence of Catholic triumphalism, a few decades back, is matched only by the innocence of democratic triumphalism in Iraq today: because we knew it to be the best option available, we couldn't imagine it offending anybody.

It offended some of ourselves, of course. I grew up in a house where one bedroom was dominated by an enormous black and white picture of Christ, with lettering across the middle that's still imprinted on my brain: Sterrer Pinx.

Whether Sterrer Pinx was the artist or an enigmatic message, nobody seemed to know. Anyway, the wording didn't have quite the same impact as the picture itself, which had Christ pointing to His open heart in a detached way, using his index and second finger, rather than the rude way we pointed, with our index finger alone. The heart had a hole in the side and a crown of thorns on top, which was doubly confusing.

I hated it. Cribs, on the other hand, I thought were cool. I had a little pale green luminous plastic one which glowed in the dark just enough, if I tented the bedclothes right, to be bright enough to read by. I went through all of Enid Blyton, after lights out, courtesy of that crib.

The official parish crib, on the other hand, was a major production. Coming up to Christmas, the church opened up an alcove and filled it with a cave shaped out of what we were told was sugar paper. I queried how greyish-blue cave-making paper was connected with sugar and was told not to be bothering whoever I asked.

After forming the cave, enough paper was left over to keep the dramatis personae under wraps until their big moment came.

During Advent, the rock cave was filled with rock figures, some of them kneeling and one of them weirdly tall (after the first year, we knew the tall one was the third of the kings, who was black and had a crown on him like a jewelled busby).

A few days before Christmas, the paper came off Mary, Joseph, a shepherd and the animals, leaving kings and Infant still wrapped up. It made no sense whatever and so seemed perfectly sensible to us as children. Everything else was wrapped to exclude us coming up to Christmas, so why not a king or two? On Christmas morning, all would be unwrapped.

As children, we learned much more than Christianity from the crib. We learned about the impartial cruelty of bureaucracy; how a census could humiliate an already impoverished family. We learned that good deeds don't always improve a reputation: who ever praises the lateral thinking of the innkeeper who so sensibly offered his barn? We learned how animals make no judgments based on wealth or appearance.

WE developed affiliations, too, liking the three wise men, but preferring the shepherds (and that was long before the Internet suggestion that if Three Wise Women had been involved, they'd have asked for directions, got there on time, cleaned the stable, helped deliver the baby, brought a casserole and there would be peace on earth).

The great thing about the church crib was the unintended and inexplicable messages it delivered alongside its main theme. Our Lady, for example, was kneeling down, but had her arms crossed and her hands flat-palmed on her chest just below the shoulders.

"Why is she like that?" I asked my mother, the first time I noticed this.

"She's surprised," was the response, in a hushed hiss indicating that a) this was obvious and b) I was to ask no further questions.

Our Lady couldn't see the kings around the corner of the cave, so she wasn't flabbergasted at the inappropriateness of their gifts, and she had known she was expecting a baby, so his arrival shouldn't have rendered her so aghast.

On the other hand, his size might have been something of a blow to her expectations. Very big, he was. Not fat, but sturdy, like a well-nourished toddler. Plus he seemed to be able to chair the proceedings, lying back with his hands held out and even the donkey paying attention. That would surprise a teenage mother, all right.

The three central figures had haloes, which was OK for Mary and Joseph, but tough on the infant, because he was lying on his and it looked very spiky and hard for a baby's head. I longed to put my hand between his hair and the halo to cushion him a bit.

Watching St Joseph, I decided it was not a good thing to marry a man that much older. He was standing up, instead of being down at the baby's level doing something useful, and he had a walking stick that came up to his head.

"He should cut it in two, he's a carpenter," I told my big sister.

"Would you ever," she said crossly.

I didn't understand that, either. Nor how three kings, one of them wearing a diamond-studded busby, came such a distance with a single camel between them and one of the kings shuffling on his knees. My father said it was a mystery. He seemed happy that the Church had answers to almost everything, and anything it didn't have an answer to was a mystery. It was like mathematics with angels added.

In spite of my personal fondness for cribs, I have to agree that reducing the overwhelming one-faith presence in December is probably a good thing. Introducing the symbols and stories of other faiths throughout the year would be an even more positive gesture, indicative of a genuinely inclusive intent.

This Christmas, oddly, that intent is best exemplified by two sets of radio ads.

The Census people are hiring, and their ads ironically, given the season establish that the Census, these days, comes to citizens in their own homes in the evening after work.

The HSA, at the same time, is enthusiastically running ads in languages unfamiliar to many of us. Presumably about Health and Safety.

Thereby indicating not just that there's room in the inn, but the inn wants you safe and healthy while you stay in it.

Careful where you put that frankincense. Mind that myrrh.