Bread, beasts and incense

In blood and darkness, God is with us

At a Christmastide when newborns die daily in the Holy Land, I cannot say we celebrate anything less than a baby’s birth. Every birth breathes the air of miracle. But we celebrate also something more: the revelation of the hidden God.

When God revealed Himself to Moses, he concealed Himself in fire and in a cloud of darkness and in the Ark of the Covenant.  Now, the Divine Word has lain hidden for nine months in a maiden’s belly. The Blessed Virgin has become the Temple of God’s presence, ark of a new Covenant.

On Christmas day, the angels descend and tear the veil of Mary’s flesh, strange midwives of the Spirit. The Word is born a baby, a Jewish baby in an occupied land, threatened with death by a puppet king. Many innocents will die at Herod’s command, the first unwitting martyrs of the new Covenant. One who survives will give them life eternal, though their parents do not know and enjoy not even that cold comfort.

A manger serves as the suckling God’s throne. Born in Bethlehem, the House of Bread, the King reigns from the feeding place of beasts. For He will be our daily bread.

The beasts are dumb, and yet among the first to greet the newborn Word. Their song of wordless braying joins the song of angels praying. No harp or timbrel here. The scion of the House of David will dance a new dance, to a new song.

A great light guides the wise from afar, who know the Law of God only by its dim echo in the spheres. The light grows greater, brighter as they approach. Yet they find in blood and straw a light stronger still, a light to lighten the gentiles. They anoint the Godchild with holy oil, anoint Him with gold, burn incense before Him, mingling the animal odours with the sweet smell of sacrifice. The goldclad infant flickers in the scented cloud.

Amid the darkness of immanent infanticide, the darkness of the beasts’ lair, the darkness of a makeshift temple – a glistening. Light incomprehensible, for those with eyes to see through the flesh. The song of hosts of angels, for those with ears to hear through labour pains and animal cries. Joy of joy for those with hearts to pierce bereaved sires’ lamentations.

This night, all changes. The darkness is as light. The arms that will embrace the world cling your hand with tiny fingers. The eyes of such compassion as to save sinners from stoning by the hard of heart are crusted round with yellow sleep. The crown that will wear thorns wears soft infant down. The body that will free the dead and lift all flesh to heaven is caked with a mother’s blood.

And God is with us.

May He bless your Christmastide.