Osler's Razor

A few weeks ago, I had a conversation over lunch with a nine-year-old of my acquaintance. He enjoys theological discussions, so I asked him, "If Jesus was to be a King, why was he born in a barn?" The boy thought about it for a minute and ate a few fries, and then said "I think God makes some things happen in a certain way so that we learn a lesson from it." Fair enough, but I had to ask him, "what is the lesson?" He ate a few more fries and then said thoughtfully, "I think it's that great things come from poor people sometimes, and where we don't expect it."

At some point today, my dad will get restless. He will probably want to drive into Detroit and go to some decimated neighborhood, and will want me to go with him, and I probably will. He often wants to do this on Christmas eve. One year, he wanted to show me what he said was a beautiful old Arts and Crafts style building near Brush Park on the East Side. We went there and he said, "It's just so wonderful," and got out to go into the building. I looked out, and saw something different. The building had burned; it was gutted, probably by arson. Even part of the roof was gone. I stepped out of the car and there were crack vials in the gutter that crunched underfoot. I followed him to the door, and saw there were three men in there, living in the rubble. Dad, as is his way, went over to talk to them, about the light in the place and the neighborhood. I watched and nodded and we went home and there was a fire in the fireplace and a tree and the smell of gingerbread. I cried with happiness that night when I went to bed, and with sadness.

And the next day was Christmas.