The tradition started with our very small daughter asking her stuffed animals: Who wants to be Joseph? Who wants to be Mary?
This year, for the 36th year, that same dialogue unfolded, with discussion about typecasting, who would be King Herod, whether the same small person could be both shepherd and magi.
But this year was a bit different. For the first time, the celebration took place outside, in a grey Phoenixville back yard, with light rain threatening.
The shed where chickens roost in snowy weather was the manger. The LED star was hung first on the chicken run, then moved to light the shed door.
Lentil, the rooster, joined the refrain of "Heaven and nature sing." Melvin, the rescue foxhound, happily joined the sheep and shepherds.
So we made it through Christmas Eve: outdoor, socially distanced, masks on except to eat some Christmas cookies and drink mulled wine under the patio roof.
Christmas Day was much colder, the festivities much shorter: backyard gift exchange with icy fingers. Air hugs. Roast chicken for two. Prayer for all who are ill, alone, anxious and afraid.
It's been a much quieter season than usual, the first that Whitney and I spent alone, not visiting family, no children or grandchildren staying in our home. Lots of time to read and think.
What does it mean to rejoice in a season of sadness?
What does it mean that God is with us, when so many are so very alone?
Reading through Christmas poems I found myself pausing on one I hadn't seen before, by Sister Chrysostom, first published in 1946:
The winds were scornful,One of the many mysteries of Christmas: God upended every notion of power and deity to be born as a helpless infant in a dark, dirty shed, surrounded by animal droppings, feed dust, the dank of dark places at night. Mary and Joseph were alone with their new baby, far from the comforts of family and friends, on the first phase of a long, difficult journey.
Passing by;
And gathering Angels
Wondered why
A burdened Mother
Did not mind
That only animals
Were kind
For who in all the world
Could guess
That God would search out
Loneliness.
Another poem, Descent, by Malcolm Guite, suggests the sheer strangeness of the story:
The other Gods demanded fearIn hospital rooms, prison cells, in refugee camps and shanty towns and every place where lonely hearts wait and pray, God comes near, not as a lofty, distant entity, unfamiliar with our grief, but as one of us: the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.
But you gave love . . .
They towered above our martial plain,
Dismissed this restless flesh with scorn,
Aloof from birth and death and pain,
But you were born.
Born to these burdens, borne by all. . .
Weak, to be with us when we fall,
And strong to save.
From that first Christmas, there have been some who believe, and some who don't. John's gospel made that clear.
The True light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world. He was in the world, and thought the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him.
As the Message puts it,
He came to his own people,
but they didn't want him.
But whoever did want him,
who believed he was who he claimed
and would do what he said,
He made to be their true selves,
their child-of-God selves.The Word became flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood.
We saw the glory with our own eyes, the one-of-a-kind glory,
Like Father, like Son,
Generous inside and out,
True from start to finish.No one has ever seen God,
not so much as a glimpse.
This one-of-a-kind God-Expression,
who exists at the very heart of the Father,
has made him plain as day.
This year has been a hard one: political turmoil, deep division, raging pandemic, constant renegotiation of best ways forward.
But there have been seasons of even greater grief, greater disruption, greater division.
In all of those, across centuries, across continent, across cultural divides, the great good news still sounds.
Hosannah! Rejoice!The people who walk in darkness will see a great light.
Those who live in a dark land, the light will shine on them.
Emmanuel, God with us, is making his home with men and women on this weary earth.
Rejoice! Hosannah!
