I think I touched on it in my Advent post, but it has been sinking into my brain more and more how crazy Christmas is. And I don't mean the hassle and the long lines. I mean that we believe that God was born here and lived with us, and that angels sang about it, and that it changes everything. I am really not sure that I can get my head around it. Lines like, "veiled in flesh the Godhead see." or "Fall on your knees, oh hear the angel voices." or "He rules the world with truth and grace and makes the nations prove the glory of his righteousness." What would that even look like? But though I have trouble getting it all into my head, I can see the incredible reason to celebrate. I'm beginning to feel sorry for non-believers who attempt to celebrate chestnuts and snowmen and magical family-togetherness. It is seems that those things are the myth. The things that we place hope in that don't come through and don't satisfy. And it is the thing that sounds initially most bizarre, a baby born to a virgin, 2000 years ago, who was God, who was "pleased, as man, with men to dwell." that means more than we can imagine, and gives us reason to celebrate, to party, to give a gift, to feast, to hang lights all over the shrubbery.
I discovered this week that you can subscribe to an email version of Garrison Keillor's, The Writers Almanac. There is something indescribably wonderful about Garrison's voice, as any fan knows, so I recommend listening to this poem as well as reading it. And I hope it is ok to post it, since it is used by permission, but I have included the link to purchase the book for anyone who would like to read more. The last line is really the kicker of the poem, and is what I mean when I think about Jesus's birth changing everything.
Poem: "Advent 1955" by John Betjeman, from Collected Poems. © Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)
Listen to this episode of Writer's Almanac (Highly recommended)
Advent 1955
The Advent wind begins to stir
With sea-like sounds in our Scotch fir,
It's dark at breakfast, dark at tea,
And in between we only see
Clouds hurrying across the sky
And rain-wet roads the wind blows dry
And branches bending to the gale
Against great skies all silver-pale.
The world seems traveling into space,
And traveling at a faster pace
Than in the leisured summer weather
When we and it sit out together,
For now we feel the world spin round
On some momentous journey bound —
Journey to what? to whom? to where?
The Advent bells call out 'Prepare,
Your world is journeying to the birth
Of God made Man for us on earth.'
And how, in fact, do we prepare
For the great day that waits us there —
The twenty-fifth day of December,
The birth of Christ? For some it means
An interchange of hunting scenes
On coloured cards. And I remember
Last year I sent out twenty yards,
Laid end to end, of Christmas cards
To people that I scarcely know —
They'd sent a card to me, and so
I had to send one back. Oh dear!
Is this a form of Christmas cheer?
Or is it, which is less surprising,
My pride gone in for advertising?
The only cards that really count
Are that extremely small amount
From real friends who keep in touch
And are not rich but love us much.
Some ways indeed are very odd
By which we hail the birth of God.
We raise the price of things in shops,
We give plain boxes fancy tops
And lines which traders cannot sell
Thus parcell'd go extremely well.
We dole out bribes we call a present
To those to whom we must be pleasant
For business reasons. Our defense is
These bribes are charged against expenses
And bring relief in Income Tax.
Enough of these unworthy cracks!
"The time draws near the birth of Christ',
A present that cannot be priced
Given two thousand years ago.
Yet if God had not given so
He still would be a distant stranger
And not the Baby in the manger.
1 comment:
Wow, awesome poem! I loved it :)
Both church services I went to on Sunday were talking about not losing the wonder of Christmas - seems like this fits in perfectly.
Kelly
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