Everything is different now. Everything has changed.

Merry Christmas and THANK YOU for subscribing to Wilderness Times

Well, it’s a bit of a circus, isn’t it?

Maybe you’re putting finishing touches on one or three worship services, or maybe you’re somewhere unfamiliar, trying to sleep in a strange bed, or remembering to breathe between waves of holy chaos and burnt coffee. Or, maybe you’re so tired from making Christmas happen for everyone around you that your eyeballs are leaking.

Wherever you are, I hope there’s some glimmer of love.

On behalf of both myself and Broadview, I just want to take a minute, right in the thick of this beautiful, bonkers, sacred day, to say thank you. Truly. Thank you for being one of the first people to subscribe to Wilderness Times. Thank you for inviting these ragged reflections into your inbox.

As a little gift, here’s something I’d like to share: a handful of poems from the nativity. Three different voices, all trying to make sense of what it means when God shows up, uninvited and irresistible.

Spoiler: Everything is different now. Everything has changed.

That’s the promise of Christmas.
Messy, radiant, impossible love.
Right here. Right now.

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We hear from the Shepherds

The light was so bright, we could see it coming from the distance,
   illuminating the whole of the earth, 
      from one horizon to the other.

With news!
(What news?)
Of Joy!
(What joy?)
For all the people!

But who are we to receive such news?
Ordinary folks in our ordinary tasks,
   of caring,
      of tending,
         of wandering the lands
            and sharing the news of the day
               to whoever will listen.

And this time, the news is unexpected.
It’s spectacular.

A baby,
   just like any other baby,
      in a home,
         just like any other home,
            whose parents shined on him adoringly.

But we knew,
   we knew,
      that everything was different now.

Everything had changed.

And all the hopes and dreams and rants…
   all the things we go on and on about
      around the fire, 
         sheltered by the hills,
            when just for a moment we could pretend to be protected and free…

Maybe they could actually be true.

Maybe the angels were right.

And maybe this baby,
   just like any other baby,
      would bring the blaze from the fields to the city streets.

From our hearts to those who need it most.
From the hills to the world.

We keep telling the story of our hearts breaking open,
   the whole of humanity picking up the pieces,
      shards of divine light, together and one,
         landing home.

We hear from the Magi

It was hard to believe him.
There is no king who willingly kneels before another,
   especially if that sovereign is a small child.

Nevertheless, we followed that star along dusty paths and dangerous roads,
Until it stopped,
   over a house,
      just like every other house surrounding.

It was difficult to know what to expect when we found him,
   asleep on his mother’s breast.
Did he know what was coming?
How could he, swaddled and loved as he was.

But we knew what we could expect for him:
A child named a threat before he could even hold up his head.

And so we kneeled down to the mother;
       she seemed almost to be expecting us.
We kneeled down to the sleeping child,
      his face reflecting all that is Divine.

And we offered our gifts:
Frankincense and myrrh to aid the mother’s healing,
      all the faster to get on the move…
Gold to fuel the race for their lives through foreign lands.

And yet, despite the urgency,
   we did not feel fear.

We would have expected the fear.

But no, instead we were overwhelmed with joy,
    because despite the danger that lie ahead,
      we knew,
         we knew,
            that everything was different now.

Everything had changed.

We left our gifts and took our leave.

It was time to go,
      and yet we were already home.

So we did not go back the way we came.

There is no king who willingly kneels before another.
And this small child,
   tiny and delicate,
       marked as miracle,
          held majesty greater than any monarch.

We may count the stars,
     but kings should now count down their time.

We hear from Mary

I have been expecting you for so long,
     and yet,
        I’m not sure what I hoped this night would hold.

Far from home, at the mercy of strangers.

So many people are rushing about,
      consumed with the busyness of their lives.

Don’t they know that everything is different now?

Everything has changed.

The midwives said that ours was an utterly ordinary birth,
   yet how can such an extraordinary baby arrive in an ordinary way?

Perhaps every other woman
     who has pushed new life from her womb
         wonders the same.

Because in this dim light,
   while the world spins on,
      I look upon your face,
         your tiny hands,
            your perfect feet,
               and I know you are the most extraordinary thing
                   I have ever seen;

Not because it is what so many will call you,
   and not because long before you formed in my womb,
       you knew me so completely.

No.

You are extraordinary,
   because you are mine.

And I am yours.

You will take and eat of my body many times.
You will grow.
You will laugh and you will weep.
You will learn what is is to be human,
   within this creation you first molded.

The earth is hard and it needs you.

Extraordinary moments will come.

But for now,
     for right now,
Let the ordinary rhythms of our bodies overtake us.
There is a time and a place for everything.
     and it has been a long night.

For now,
   let us rest,
      let us sleep.

Let us dream. 🐦

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Wilderness Times is co-created with Broadview, an award-winning Canadian publication known for thoughtful journalism that attends to spirituality, justice and the questions that tug at our collective conscience.

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Your support empowers Broadview to tell more courageous stories and helps build a more just and compassionate world.

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join me in the comments…

What does “everything is different now” mean for you this season?

If you were to write your own “We hear from…” poem, who would be speaking?