Lifting myself from silken sheets this morning, I breathed a stretch and opened weary eyes to the glow of the morning light, thinking: Last night, The Christ was born.
Not, reflections on a man in a red suit.
Not, curiosity encircling a muddled array of colored stockings pinned over the fire.
Not, mused guesses as to the identity of certain suspicious packages beneath a tree currently tilting in our living room.
Not, even, the bursted realization that meat will once again enter my diet.
No. Mere awareness that the Nativity holds one more occupant.
Thus, my year begins. Not, at the dropping of the glittered ball at the stroke of midnight in a few weeks. My year begins this morning. And reaches fruition in the spring when Christ infuses this day with its imPassioned meaning. And then, the waiting for: the next Nativity.
This morning marks the beginning of the life assumed in His earthly flesh; a life only made significant by the next anticipated event: the spring’s crucifixion and resurrection of that same Christ when He fulfills His promise to Love His people. To. Love.
Centuries of Christians wait for the Second Coming of our Beloved. But my friends: He comes again every year on this day. He dies, is resurrected, and ascends again in the spring—and then, yes, we wait: separated from Him in our earthly prison.
But He. Comes. Again.
Wake up, sleepy world. Not to silver and gold and packages and bows.
The manger glows our Redemption.
Merry Christmas to all. And to all a good Night.
Peace.
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