Poem: It Is as if Infancy Were the Whole of Incarnation
One time of the year the new-born child is everywhere, planted in madonnas' arms hay mows, stables, in palaces or farms, or quaintly, under snowed gables, gothic angular or baroque plump naked or elaborately swathed, encircled by Della Robbia wreaths, garnished with whimsical partridges and pears, drummers and drums, lit by oversize stars, partnered with lambs, peace doves, sugar plums, bells, plastic camels in sets of three as if these were what we need for eternity.
But Jesus the Man is not to be seen. We are too wary, these days, of beards and sandalled feet.
Yet if we celebrate, let it be that he has invaded our lives with purpose, striding over our picturesque traditions, our shallow sentiment, overturning our cash registers, wielding his peace like a sword, rescuing us into reality, demanding much more than the milk and the softness and the mother warmth of the baby in the storefront creche, (only the Man would ask all, of each of us) reaching out always, urgently, with strong effective love (only the Man would give his life and live again for love of us).
Oh come, let us adore him -- Christ -- the Lord.