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We may long to sit in silence before the manger--
simple tableau of the infant Jesus and his blessed mother;
beatified visions of long, long ago--
as we would in the presence of dearest friends;
wishing eagerly to be immersed in its goodness,
transformed by the warmth of their glowing hearts.
The ways of holiness may seize our senses.
and we may yearn somehow to spend the remainder of our hours
simply hearing again the treasured story;
bathing in the glory and the hallowed music;
living in the already reflected aura
of an ancient, glorious light.
But if we sit silently all the hours of our days,
passively listening to ancient texts and treasures,
then where is the real Christmas miracle?
Where the transformation that yet might redeem our world?
True transcendence comes not at the hour of prayer,
but after the amen, in the moment when the prayer ends.
It comes not by worshipping endlessly
at the crib of the holy child,
but when we rise from our knees,
and greet every child as holy,
and worthy of our care and our concern.
We carry the truest icon within us always:
a heart which Christmas makes anew each year
of real flesh and blood, not merely of stone or wood and thin veneer,
beating madly at last with the love of peace.
Just as that holy child whom we adore, beautiful as he may be,
has never lived, in truth, unless he lives in you and me,
in all of us, rising again to take up our work in this real world,
with joy in our hearts, and a holy song blessing all the Earth
upon our lips.
jbs
9/16/04 - 12/5/04 - 12/24/05
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