It Is As If Infancy

 ...Were The Whole of Incarnation

One time of the year
the new-born child is everywhere,
planted in madonnas’ arms
hay mows, stables, in palaces or farms,
or quaintly, under snowed gables,
gothic angular or baroque plump,
naked or elaborately swathed,
encircled by Della Robbia wreaths,
garnished with whimsical
partridges and pears, drummers and drums,
lit by oversize stars, partnered with lambs,
peace doves, sugar plums,
bells, plastic camels in sets of three
as if these were what we needed
for eternity.

But Jesus the Man is not to be seen.
There are some who are wary, these days,
of beards and sandalled feet.

Yet if we celebrate, let it be
that He has invaded our lives with purpose,
striding over our picturesque traditions,
our shallow sentiment, overturning our cash registers,
wielding His peace like a sword,
rescuing us into reality, demanding much more
than the milk and the softness and the mother warmth
of the baby in the storefront crèche,
(only the Man would ask all, of each of us)
reaching out always, urgently, with strong
effective love
(only the Man would give His life and live
again for love of us).

Oh come, let us adore Him—Christ—the Lord

This thought provoking poem was written by Luci Shaw, the gifted American Christian poet who died this week aged 96. She lived in Bellingham, Washington State [which is also where my dear friend J. lives] Maybe she rest in peace and rise in glory.