The church is full of angels.
Tinsel slivers moult onto the tiles,
straying into every corner.
Glittering,
they will be discovered
long after the heavenly host have disappeared
- wings
furled beneath their coats.
Mary and Joseph (yet again) have made the long
journey up the aisle to worship at the crib
I see them hovering, undecided, on the chancel
steps.
Stranded in confusion,
looking for Grandma in the crowd,
they have forgotten why they came.
Meanwhile the unaccustomed congregation sings,
- almost inaudibly
- the praises of the Christ child.
Huddled,
- as if fearful that the words they never meant to
utter
might be taken down and used in evidence against
them -
fighting shy,
they stand
ready to hurry these holy storytellers out into
the night.
And anger surges
unexpectedly ,
as I recoil from their reluctant presence.
Shocked by myself,
I find I am as frightened of their cold
indifference
as they are of the threat of this dream-shattering
tale.
And yet,
despite our crucifying fears,
the God who melded his own being
nerve by nerve with humankind
who shot his glory through our births and deaths
and resurrections
still,
amidst the tinsel,
comes to us with painful mercy.
Christmas 93.
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