The Holy Birth

Joseph holds Mary's hand, her fingers gripping tight and hard as she begins the final work. She pushes. Every eye in the stable is on her, even the animals seem to hold their breath. The Babe comes--bloody, purple, mottled, his little fists clenched, his legs drawn up tight against his body as he squeezes through the narrow birth passage. As all watch, he takes his first breath of life...and cries. His legs kick, his arms flail, the purple mottled skin begins to turn pink with every breath. Quickly Joseph wraps him in a rough blanket to keep him warm. Another contraction, another push--the birth is done. The innkeeper has supplied a clean knife and the cord is cut. As Joseph runs to the inn for water, Mary brings the Babe to her breast; he eagerly suckles. The animals sigh deeply and go back to sleep, comforted that life has begun anew and that they were blessed to be its witness this cold night in Bethlehem. Joseph returns with a jar of warm water and the servant girl, Iscah. He busies himself with cleaning up the wet, bloody straw and replacing it with fresh, as Mary and Iscah bathe the Babe and Mary washes herself. Joseph pulls a clean robe from their travelers' pack and soon Mary and the Babe are clean, warm and dry. Iscah sits with the innkeeper's dog at Mary's feet and watches as the holy family embraces God's mystery. Joseph passes her the jar of wine after he and Mary drink. "Thank you, child, for helping us," he says as she drinks to the wonder of it all.

I'd like to think that the family had a few hours of rest and sleep then. That Joseph lay down with Mary, and they snuggled the Babe between them to keep him warm. That Iscah returned to the inn, but the dog remained, faithful in his watchful duties. And that...as they slept, the great star hanging high over the little village of Bethlehem began to guide the world to this Babe. From lowly sheperds to great kings---all were called. Life for this holy family, indeed for the whole world, would never be the same.

The Mystery Begins...

The morning feels mysterious--wrapped in darkness, fog, quietly illuminated by the gleaming candles. Snug and warm, I ponder the wonder that comes tonight. I think of Mary & Joseph who will be this night in Bethlehem....

They awaken to begin the last day of travel... weary, dirty, cold. Does Mary feel any signs of the impending birth? Or is she so exhausted that she doesn't feel anything at all? In my mind, they begin their trek walking alongside the donkey who carries their supplies for the journey--blankets, a skin of water, some bread. By day's end, Mary's labor has begun, and she can no longer walk. Riding their donkey now, each contraction causes her to grab his mane tightly; her water breaks as they enter Bethlehem in the dark. Wet,cold, trembling with exhaustion and fear, she's uncomplaining, but Joseph knows he must find her a place to lie down for surely his child will be born before dawn. He knocks on door after door. As each opens he catches a glimpse of the warmth and conviviality of the families gathered inside; he watches as other travelers relax, laugh and eat. For him and Mary, though, there is no room--except in the stable. Will that suit? It doesn't, but there are no other options, and Mary's time is very near. I'd like to imagine that the innkeeper took a moment to help them get settled, that he knew Mary was about to give birth, so he tried to make their meager lodging a bit more comfortable. Perhaps he left a lantern, a jar of wine, an extra blanket? Perhaps he told Joseph, "Come to the inn whenever the Babe is born, and I'll send a jar of warm water to bathe the Babe and for Mary to cleanse herself. My servant girl, Iscah, will help." I can see Mary slowly slide off the faithful donkey and sink to her knees on the stiff, prickly straw covering the stable floor. "Oh Joseph," she softly cries, "has God given me a burden too big to bear?" Then she remembers the words of the angel Gabriel, and her heart fills with God's warmth, her 'soul magnifies and her heart rejoices' because tonight--very soon--her Babe will be born, blessed by God. Joseph cares for the donkey while Mary spreads the blankets. As the darkest hour of the night wraps them in quiet, the only sounds are Mary's muffled cries and the soft breathing of their stablemates--the cow, the sheep, the innkeeper's dog who has come to stand guard. A tiny black cat peers down at the scene from her perch on a rafter and purrs; the chickens ruffle their feathers and settle again on their roosts along the wall where the cow eats her hay. As Mary's moans become more frequent, all awake to watch and wait....

A Visit from Sainte Foy

As I sat in this morning's pre-dawn darkness journaling by candlelight and listening to the pilgrimage music of the great organ at Conques playing on the CD, Sainte Foy came to visit. She took my hand and lead me back to her Abbey Church. We sat there together on the hard wooden pews watching the votives flicker against the shadows on the creamy stone walls of the church. She pointed to St. Jacques keeping her company in the west transept and to Mary's chapel on the east. We listened as the pilgrims gathered there sang "Ultreia," their anthem, accompanied by Brother Jean-Pierre on the grand piano made small by the high walls and vaulted domes. Altar, choir, hard backless benches lined across the nave for small Masses...all protected by lacy ironwork, delicate from a distance, deadly spiked on closer look, forged from prisoners' fetters shattered by the Little Saint.

"Sainte Foy, Little Saint, Virgin Child, martyred for your love of Christ...free me from the fetters of my life that keep me tethered to things that don't matter. Free me to come again to your great Abbey Church to sing praise to your Creator, my Creator, our God, our Christ. Sainte Foy, Little Saint, as you are a child, so love all the children. Hold them in your care and keep them under your watchful eye. Teach them faith, teach them love, teach them to have fun, O Little Martyr. Teach me these things as well. Whisper my prayers into God's listening ear. Whisper His divine will into my listening heart. Bless me, Child Saint. Offer me to God, our Creator."

Prepare the Way

The Advent readings this week are from the prophets. "Prepare ye the way of the Lord!" Isaiah 40:3-5 tells us that a voice cries this in the wilderness. Malachi 3:1..."Behold, I send my messenger to prepare the way.." The Gospels quote these prophets of old as well and add their own stories exhorting people to prepare for the Lord. Matthew tells Jesus' parable of the maidens who went to the wedding feast unprepared and slept, missing the bridegroom when he came. Luke begins his Gospel with the story of John who came before Jesus to prepare the way for the Word of God. Preparation, it seems, is a very important part of Advent. How do we normally prepare for the birth of Christ? We bake, we decorate, we send greetings to friends. We shop and party and generally get caught up in the swirl of holiday fun. Is this how God wants us to prepare? Is this what the prophets had in mind? I believe, that while God doesn't have a problem with this superficial activity, He really means for us to go much deeper, to cleanse our hearts and souls, and to meditate on His word. Elizabeth's Saturday evening homily likened it to deep cleaning your home before you have houseguests. Your guests will poke in the closets, raid your refrigerator, and notice if the bathroom isn't sparkling. All those hidden places better be clean and free from the detritus of worldly living! God knows all those hidden places of your spirit. Are they clean and sparkling? Are they cluttered with worldly junk? As I prepare for Christmas, my deep cleaning includes my Centering Prayer practice and learning about lectio divina. How are you deep cleaning your spirit this Christmas?

This Virgin and Babe are part of one of my Christmas creches.