I smoothed the scotch tape securing a tiny box of Pampers onto one of the wise men’s camels at the Nativity scene. Tessa didn’t approve, but she didn’t object. Much. I hot-glued the acrylic figure of Bruce Lee in a flying side-kick where the angel goes on the peak of the stable. After I arranged the South Park boys in the middle of the scene between the shepherds and the wise men, I stood back and reflected.

There were two kinds of men there, the illiterate, and the learned. The South Park kids weren’t there in real life or anything. In real life, there were the shepherds and the scientists: The men who knew nothing, and the men who knew they knew nothing. I am always one of the South Park kids– somewhere in between.

Wisdom– like grace, like power, like peace (and many other good things in life)– becomes more elusive the more it is pursued wrongly. A student once asked his Zen master, “How long will it take me to achieve enlightenment if I try really hard?” The master replied, “Ten years.” Surprised, the student says, “No, I mean, I’m going to do nothing but meditate and concentrate and try really–” The Zen master interrupted, “I’m sorry. Twenty years.” The bewildered student presses on, “No! I mean I’m going to try really, really, REALLY har–” “Thirty years,” the instructor interrupted again.

You can bait a hook and let the fish come to you, or you can roll up your jeans and reach into a catfish hole and drag out a forty-pound whopper. Of course, the noodler has only a muddy catfish for his efforts. Unless he grabs hold of a snapping turtle. Or a gator grabs hold of him. The prevalence of the bait-and-hook method may explain which of the two methods affords greater satisfaction.

In the sixth century, the Emperor Wu in China was a famous disciple of Buddhism. He once asked his teacher, “How much good karma do I get for building all these temples and donating all this cash to the monks?” The teacher replied, “None at all.” The emperor comes back with something like, “Who the hell are you!” The teacher replied, “Not knowing.”

I look forward to receiving a text or an e-mail telling me I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. But I don’t really deserve such a compliment. I can’t think about wisdom without recalling Socrates: “The truly wise man is the man who knows that his own wisdom is worth nothing.” Socrates was addressing the jury in his own death penalty case. Some members of the jury accepted that statement without taking offense. The majority, as we all know, were just regular guys. Like me. Like the South Park kids at the Nativity. Just standing around. Obtuse. Barely conscious.

I doubt the shepherds had much more knowledge (or even wisdom) after their visit to the Nativity. The wisemen were seeking knowledge, of course. They found a king lying in a feed trough. Maybe they squabbled about who took the wrong turn. Perhaps Balthasar even went out and scored some actual diapers. I doubt they were able to draw many scientific conclusions based on the data they had gathered. At least the poor camel who carried the gold had his load lightened. So, I guess they were all just a little . . . different, maybe. Better? Who knows?

Look, all I’m saying here is that wisdom is a perceptual experience transcending somatosensory modalities. I think that about says it all. Or not.