Due, not to popular indignation but to small group litigation, there is no nativity scene in front of the city hall in my town.

There is a huge, bushy Christmas tree, strung with multicolored lights. The tree showers the downtown with radiance, and it provides a very relaxing shift for the police officer who sits in a nearby squad car during the dark hours, guarding the coniferous symbol of Christmas.

Like most downtowns in America, ours is deserted after 7 p.m. and the tree keeps its night watch mostly over the street people, the drug addicts and the drunks who live under the overpass. Its lights can be seen clearly by the heroin-addicted prostitutes who work nights on the sidewalk in front of the public library.

During the day, the tree's green shadow falls on the little city hall employees who make $40,000 a year handing out dog licenses and the big lawyers whose tasseled loafers send them bounding athletically up the steps.

I believe Jesus lives in the tree, peering out from between the branches like an anxious squirrel, watching the parade of pomposity and poverty.

I can believe this without being thought crazy because Jesus is anything you want Jesus to be. If you live out in lizard country and you believe Jesus told you to retire to an isolated ranch with 75 of your followers and 200 assault rifles, then who can prove you wrong?

The Jesus who lives in the trees is gentler and will not shoot to kill.

He watches. Some stray drunk urinates against the wall of the law office across the street. A confused young fellow, thrown out by his girlfriend, walks the street all night, plotting strategies of apologies. One of the side effects of welfare and rent subsidies for women with children is the woman throws the man out far more often than the man throws the woman out.

Jesus knew the poor pretty well. Peering out from his green, lush branches, he understands how hard it can be to get someplace to live.

Being poor is the hardest job in the world, which is why most people aren't very good at being poor. One misstep and they end up under the Christmas tree, but not wrapped as presents. Sometimes, in fact, they are insufficiently wrapped, particularly if December is cold.

Every tree waits for presents, for the heaped-up bounty that is its eventual destiny and every tree eventually gets presents, even if the presents are a little drunk or crying over nothing or bipolar and off the meds.

I love Christmas. I drink eggnog, and I wear brightly colored Christmas ties featuring elves and snowmen. I decorate my house and I whistle carols in the office and, starting on Thanksgiving Day, I use a Zippo lighter with Santa Claus engraved on the side. I miss those who are gone and cherish those who remain.

In my home, the Baby Jesus lives in a proper Nativity scene, suitable for worshipping.

But I like Jesus in the tree better.

To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's book of Pulitzer Prize-nominate columns, "Between Wealth and Welfare: A Liberal Curmudgeon in America," is available for Nook and Kindle.