The Holy Child

Born in the night, Mary’s Child,

a long way from your home.

Coming in need, Mary’s Child,

born in a borrowed room.

Clear shining light, Mary’s Child,

your face lights up our way.

Light of the world, Mary’s Child,

dawn on our shadowed day.

Truth of our life, Mary’s Child,

you tell us God is good.

Prove it is true, Mary’s Child,

go to your cross of wood.

Hope of the world, Mary’s Child,

you’re coming soon to reign.

Sovereign of earth, Mary’s Child,

walk in our streets again.

by Geoffrey Ainger

When God comes among us as a Child, the din of war and wrangling of wills, the roar of human working and whir of creaturely movements, the cries of laboring women and the groaning weariness of men, fall silent in the hush of hope that homes into the heart.

The Child has no memories, no past. The Child is filled entirely with hope. And we, basking in the precious presence of the Child, are free to live in hope, which is the whole being and only fuel of the Child, whose tiny hands and bright eyes reach out to touch and taste the world, trusting it all. Nothing but a Child wants the world so entirely.

For God to become a Child in our midst gives all of us the star-struck delight, cooing joy, and wonderment humans know in the presence of newborns.

But God the Child requires all of us to be adults at Christmas. To be present to the Child requires us to be attentive, generous, loving, providing, protecting, caring. All the things newborns are not, we must be. Bending ourselves to the Child’s survival. Making, in the midst of the world, a place for joy. A place for hope to thrive. A place for a future to grow.

And the Wonder World of God-the-Child cannot be found in wistful yearning for the past, for the Child does not belong to the past, nor does Christmas.

So often I long to be the one whom God will guide, protect, solace, love. Yet Christmas does not offer me that role, which is God’s alone at Christmas. Ours, instead, are the so many choices – to be shepherds, not bustling innkeepers, Wise Men, not fools like Herod, angels of mercy, not soldiers of destruction, mothers of hope, fathers of kindness.

Christmas asks of us what Easter also asks: that we set aside our own suffering and sorrows, and all of our assumptions about the world and our place in it, and come to love a small light that is not our own, that will not stay forever but is here now, that is hungry and thirsty and, if we provide for it, will shine in our care.

May we all find in Christmas a glimpse of holiness, heavenly and creaturely peace, a dearly beloved face, and something of the joy of angels.

In winter when the birds put down their flutes

And wind plays sharper than a fife upon the icy rain,

I sit in this crib,

And laugh like fire, and clap My golden hands:

To view my friends the timid beasts-

Their great brown flanks, muzzles and milky breath!

. . . . come, shepherds, from your rocky hill,

And bend about My crib in wonder and adore My joy.

My glances are as good as wine.

The little rivers of My smile

Will wash away all ruins from your eyes . – Thomas Merton, from The Holy Child’s Song

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Illustrations:

by Georges LaTour, 1634, Paris. Vanderbilt Divinity School Library, Art in the Christian Tradition.
Baby Jesus in Manger, photo by Gina Carter, from the blog, Joe Catholic.
Adoration of the Three Kings, by Albrecht Durer, 1530, Basel, Switzerland. Vanderbilt Divinity School Library, Art in the Christian Tradition.
Adoration of the Christ Child, Unknown Painter. Vanderbilt Divinity School Library, Art in the Christian Tradition.