Thus says God, who created the heavens,
who fashioned the earth and all that dwells in it;
who gives breath to the people upon it
and spirit to those who walk in it,

‘I am the Lord, and I have called you in righteousness,
I have taken you by the hand and kept you.
I have given you as a covenant to the people,
a light to the nations, to open the eyes that are blind,
to bring captives from the dungeon,
from the prison, those who sit in darkness.’

Isaiah 42.5-8

For a moment, God looked confused, and then he laughed.

‘A lullaby, Jophiel?’

Jophiel bowed and unfurled a wing, before returning to the tenor line.

‘You are right, of course.  This is how to praise me now.’
God listened closely, adjusting to this new perspective.

Joseph stirred a fresh bale of hay, and smiled as the smell of grass caught him.  Mary watched the baby sleeping, her eyes full of wonder:
Look what a word could do.

Overhead, a single star shone brightly.  Radiant, and just a bit smug.
Time, now, to summon the Magi.  Light burst to the four corners of the earth.

Johanna, who had delivered him, and in whose general-purpose room they were lodged, begged her to rest, but at first she could not, and sat up cradling her child. In the end, though, great waves of sleep began to overwhelm her.

‘Look,’ said Johanna, ‘We will do as I used to do when I was working in this room, we will lay him in the manger, make up a safe little place for him there, so he cannot roll, or, or anything. And you can lay down just by him and sleep a little, and be fresher when he wakes up in an hour or two. I’ll leave you, dearie, but if you need anything, you just call.’

And because Johanna had been so kind, Mary for once did as she was told and put her son carefully down, and lying still, just beside him, listened to his breathing. Everybody was happy again – she, Joseph, his cousins. No more to worry over, no more anger, no more strangeness.

She was sleepy enough to be disorientated when Joseph, forcefully evicted by Johanna, briefly allowed to see his wife and child, and then evicted again to allow them sleep, came quietly in.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, almost equally afraid of disturbing Mary, and of being caught disturbing her by Johanna, ‘but it is shepherds.’ Mary looked blankly at him. All she knew of shepherds was that they were a pretty rough lot. Not something she wanted to worry over just now.

‘It is shepherds’, repeated Joseph. It had been a horribly long night, full of worry and of not being able to do anything practical about it, on top of the journey, and everything else. Nobody had yet suggested Joseph might need a good sleep. ‘It is shepherds come to find a new baby – born tonight. They say they will find him in a manger.’ Mary, horribly awake, looked with round eyes at her son sleeping in his manger, while Joseph added: ‘I would not have disturbed you, but they say they saw – angels.’

Later Johanna found them all. Her workroom was packed with men and with the smell of sheep. They were sitting in total silence, looking at the sleeping bairn. Mary’s head was resting on Joseph’s shoulder. Johanna opened her mouth to protest, then – then she saw Amos, (an old shepherd who she knew and of whom she deeply disapproved) look into Mary’s eyes. Joseph caught the glance, a consciousness in his own gaze. There was a secret there which left her excluded, humbled. She shut her mouth, and left. They had not noticed her.

Refrain:
Gaudete! gaudete!
Christus est natus ex Maria virgine,
gaudete!

1. Tempus adest gratiae, hoe quod optabamus;
carmina laetitiae devote reddamus. Refrain

2. Deus homo factus est, natura mirante;
mundus renovatus est a Christo regnante. Refrain

3. Ezecaelis orta clausa per transistur;
unde lux est orta, salus invenitur. Refrain

4. Ergo nostra contio psallat iam in lustro;
Benedicat Domino; salus regi nostro. Refrain

Piae Cantiones: A Collection of Church & School Song, chiefly Ancient Swedish, originally published in A.D. 1582 by Theodoric Petri of Hyland.

A painter accustomed to charting his own ageing,
lovely in his own unloveliness,
this teller of stories has chosen to show us something very simple:

an older father, tender, maybe a little anxious,
surrounded by the tools with which he gives life again
to once-living wood,
leaning on the wicker cot he has plaited
with intense attention
through these long nights of waiting,
incredulous of this daily miracle
of nourishment, contentment, affection;

a younger mother, his lately-arrived love
gifted to him so unexpectedly, so unwarranted,
she now marvels at her newest love,
gently warming his feet,
loosely cradling his rested body in soft fur,
her remarkable hands so unexpectedly skilled
in this new role,
feeding and yet finding herself fed
by the presence of this Life.

Across the scene,
a gentle, diagonal light leaves dark corners
but only so that we may see more clearly
all that we need to see:

a mother, a father, a child,
a hunger satisfied,
a promise kept,
an uncomplicated contentment.

[Rembrandt van Rijn's Holy Family of c.1633/34 from the collections of the Alte Pinakothek, Munich]

The delicate hair on her forearm fluttered as softly as the breeze gently breathes through a field of tall, bright yellow meadow grass. Leaves on the overhanging branches above the roof rustled soothingly, the wind playing and dancing around the branches of the wizened old tree. The moon shone fitfully through ragged clouds, her light offering a solemn and nocturnal glow against the grace and flow of the upward growing branches outside.

There the young woman lay waiting, the coolness of the air easing the heat from her brow. The tiny ember within her fanned and enveloped her. The water of life was within her; her blood was His and His was of her, the fire within her engulfed her every limb and fibre. Closing her eyes, she could hear the rush of blood pumping through her ears. Fear gave way to joy as the echoes of the past became present and present became future. Holding her hand to her swollen stomach, the cries of men and women gave way to the sound of trumpet and laughter. The mountains could be heard shouting for joy as the trees in the fields clapped their hands. The blood of eternal life flowed through her limbs; growing, enriching, blossoming.

Pain seared through her like a hot iron. Tears mixed with sweat as her heart beat like a deer on the hillside. And she rejoiced. Wherever the weary bones of humankind might rest; in a foreign field, at home, at sea- there the root of Jesse shall sprout from God’s earth; gentle, vibrant, strong, eternal. Words to be uttered by all of mankind echoed within her. All generations will call me blessed. The hour had come and the spear shaft of anguish and fear lay shattered outside for all eternity.

Photograph courtesy of  Gordon Nichol

We have tested and tasted too much, lover –
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder.
But here in the Advent-darkened room
Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea
Of penance will charm back the luxury
Of a child’s soul, we’ll return to Doom
The knowledge we stole but could not use.

And the newness that was in every stale thing
When we looked at it as children: the spirit-shocking
Wonder in a black slanting Ulster hill
Or the prophetic astonishment in the tedious talking
Of an old fool will awake for us and bring
You and me to the yard gate to watch the whins
And the bog-holes, cart-tracks, old stables where Time begins.

O after Christmas we’ll have no need to go searching
For the indifference that sets an old phrase burning –
We’ll hear it in the whispered argument of a churning
Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching.
And we’ll hear it among decent men too
Who barrow dung in gardens under trees,
Wherever life pours ordinary plenty.

Won’t we be rich, my love and I, and
God we shall not ask for reason’s payment,
The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges
Nor analyse God’s breath in common statement.
We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages
Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hour –
And Christ comes with a January flower.

- Patrick Kavanagh, from Selected Poems

Then, they arrived.  Shuffling in, quite late on, and settling down in the fresh straw.  I raised my head a little but sensing no danger I stuck my nose back under my paw and commenced purring.

Sometime later I became aware of a bit of a commotion.  There was something in the manger and they were calling it a baby, a Jesus, a Messiah, an Emmanuel, I couldn’t quite catch it.  The shepherds, hadn’t seen them in town for ages.  It was very bight too.  That was probably the other visitors.  The ones with wings.

It made a tiny noise, a bit like a kitten.  ”I think he is cold, could you please keep him warm?”  She looked at us all, no-one in particular.  A few stamped forward.  I slunk through their legs and leapt up onto the manger.  It was so peaceful looking, even though it was still making a meowing sound.  I walked around the edge, balancing on the narrow strip of wood, then carefully felt my way through the straw and curled up so that my fur covered it’s feet.  The meowing stopped and it felt good.  I felt good.  Everyone was now sleeping soundly, not quietly, but peacefully.

I woke at daybreak.  ”Thank you” she said.  A hand came down and touch my head.  It was warm and a soft.  ”You have been so kind. Here is something for you, something you can pass on to all who come after you.”

Silently I jumped down on to the dusty floor, thirsty.  I bent down to lap from the trough and saw it, on my head, just above my eyes.  It hadn’t been there before.  The shape of M… I wonder.

Ella – it is there!

Take a closer look at a tabby cat and you will see how grateful Mary was.

The Orthodox Troparion of the Nativity:

Your birth, O Christ our God, dawned the light of knowledge upon the earth.  For by your birth those who adored stars were taught by a star to worship You, the Sun of Justice and to know You, Orient from on High.  O Lord, glory to you.

In the Orthodox tradition, the Star of Bethlehem is not seen as a physical astronomical event, but as a supernatural one.  In Orthodox Iconography, the Star of Bethlehem is often not painted golden, but  is a dark semicircle at the top of the icon, symbolising the Uncreated Light of Divine Grace, with a ray pointing to the manger.

I find the idea of a “dark light” pointing the way intriguing.  Darkness is something we are suspicious of.  It’s not good.  Spiritual darkness has connotations of evil.  But the darkness of which the great Carmelites wrote was positive.  St John of the Cross wrote it out brilliantly in verse in his poem “The Dark Night of the Soul”.

The Dark Night Of The Soul by Saint John of the Cross
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Songs of the soul rejoicing at having achieved the high state of perfection, the Union with God, by way of spiritual negation.

Once in a dark of night,
Inflamed with love and wanting, I arose
(O coming of delight!)
And went, as no one knows,
When all my house lay long in deep repose

All in the dark went right,
Down secret steps, disguised in other clothes,
(O coming of delight!)
In dark when no one knows,
When all my house lay long in deep repose.

And in the luck of night
In secret places where no other spied
I went without my sight
Without a light to guide
Except the heart that lit me from inside.

It guided me and shone
Surer than noonday sunlight over me,
And lead me to the one
Whom only I could see
Deep in a place where only we could be.

O guiding dark of night!
O dark of night more darling than the dawn!
O night that can unite
A lover and loved one,
A lover and loved one moved in unison.

And on my flowering breast
Which I had kept for him and him alone
He slept as I caressed
And loved him for my own,
Breathing an air from redolent cedars blown.

And from the castle wall
The wind came down to winnow through his hair
Bidding his fingers fall,
Searing my throat with air
And all my senses were suspended there.

I stayed there to forget.
There on my lover, face to face, I lay.
All ended, and I let
My cares all fall away
Forgotten in the lilies on that day.

That perfect union is what we are promised, what we look towards in Advent. O, come quickly.

He sighed, very gently. If he had been a man to whom faith and trust came more naturally perhaps he never would have doubted her preposterous story about the baby. But he was a rational, logical man. Mary was the one to whom angel explanations came easily.

He sighed again. There was nobody to whom he could tell his own fears and anxieties and sorrows. They were packed up in a box, and he only occasionally took them out and looked at them. Now, because the pain in his arm was keeping him awake, he let them out, one by one. He did not want to be heading to Bethlehem to make a fresh start – he had wanted to stay at home with his mother, but that was plainly impossible just now. He was worried over getting enough work in a new town, however handy he was, and however much distant cousins offered reassurances of recommendations. He was worried by the exhaustion written on Mary’s face.

The baby, safe in the bulge of Mary’s stomach, found his accommodating home was resting on a firmer surface. He kicked it, hard. Joseph felt the tiny heels drum on him. He was taken by surprise, and found himself finally looking at the big worry, the one he had successfully avoided for days.

Would he be able to be a father to this child? He had so longed for a son of his own. He had so wanted a spark of his own spark, a son like him to teach and to nurture. His own child, conceived in an act of love and excitement, who carried his line on into the future; that same line that went all the way back to King David.

That imaginary child, the miniature Joseph, was not this live one which was kicking him. Could he be a father to it? Carefully, carefully, he put his warm hand over the bulge, and pressed gently against the heels. There, those were the buttocks, lying up towards her ribs, and now, down, over the back, and that, there, that hard and resisting lump, that was the head. This was a living child, hidden, but there, perfectly formed.

‘Suppose I say, “I don’t want to be your father” – what then?’ though Joseph, ‘suppose I say, “I can’t manage it?” what would happen?’ It struck him that it would be a terrible thing to have a half-hearted father. But suppose that was all he could manage?

His arm ached worse. It seemed that the sweetest thing in the world would be to move his arm. To move his arm, and to have a child of his own body, the sweetest things. He looked down at the determined beloved face, and knew his arm would not move, until she rolled off it. He laid his hand on the little hidden head of the child. So small, so vulnerable to a thousand mis-adventures. Suddenly, as though without his willing it, a great tide of protective love rose in him. This child, this was the child he loved and longed to be father to. Not some imagined, perfect reproduction of himself, but this particular flesh and blood baby carried by his beloved. He suddenly wanted it with a great aching longing, so huge that his earlier doubts seemed stupid.

‘Though I bet you will be just as stubborn as she is,’ he whispered to the bump. Mary sighed and moved her head a fraction, so that his arm hurt worse. Joseph, whose powers of acceptance were great, lay in the huge stillness of night, with a hand over his son, blessing him.