Of the rest of this tale you have no doubt heard,
how a star heralded the birth of this child,
rising to the attention of pagans in the east,
practicing their forbidden arts
(how strange the ways of God’s revealing).
How they traveled over sand and mountains,
coming to the matrix of Herod’s power,
seeking an unexpected and unwelcome heir.
How that crafty fox sought to make them hunters for his quarry,
ferreting out this child so that he might exterminate an infant rival,
how when thwarted by angelic intervention he bared forth is barbarous cruelty on Ramah,
burying all his greatness under a wave of blood,
to forever be known as Herod the brute.
Meanwhile the child escaped to Egypt, there to exile for a time like Israel past,
until called to freedom by the Lord He might forever be known in history’s fame as
that ancient hero,
Jesus of Nazareth.

Merry Christmas everyone!

An old man, well wrinkled with the years,
resting within Solomon’s porch.
Though outwardly fading,
the inner man zealous and alert.
Surrounded daily by the splendor’s of Jehovah’s earthly house,
yet looking past it all for the greater expectation.
The Spirit’s promise throbbing with every heartbeat,
that he would live to see the Messiah enfleshed.
And on that day, his alertness suddenly sparked to life,
he was drawn to the poor couple and child,
newly dedicated to the Lord according to Moses’ word.
With trembling hands and tears he came,
taking the child from the wondering mother, wide-eyed yet willing,
his heart thrust through with pure joy as he felt the tiny heart beating against his chest,
the warmth of salvation, near and alive.
Then with anointed tongue he spoke,
of the glories and trials to come,
of this child’s strident manhood,
of His standing as a touchstone for Israel,
both raising up and bringing down many,
that the ancient promises might be fulfilled and all set right,
and that the river of salvation would flow out to the earth,
a light of new revelation, new creation break forth over a darkened world.

Now in the same country there were the easily forgotten,
the lowest ones, exiled to solitude with the dumb beasts.
Standing watch at night, fire the only comforting friend
holding back the dark in bright circumference,
casting its fiery fingers towards the greater lights of heaven.
The quiet occasional bleating of the sheep the only noise,
besides the crackling of the flames and night bugs.
Their cloaks wrapped tight around them against the coolness,
like silhouetted mounds they sat.

If their eyes had strayed to the stars above the hills,
one would have caught their eye,
burning brightly and growing against the darkness.
Soon enough its increasing strangeness was noticed,
and their eyes turned intent upon this wonder.
Multiplying in splendor, this streaming golden mass of light approached,
its glare beginning to dazzle the eyes,
bearing down upon them with such awful intensity every heart began to palpitate.
Then suddenly it landed before them in a shower of golden sparks that sent the sheep scattering,
and up rose the most glorious and fearsome being imaginable,
like a man,
yet so dissimilar in any appearance to the idea of “man” that one could barely apply the name:
a golden gloriousness that set terror in their hearts, and weakness in their knees.

With a golden voice, yet edged with the briskness of a great invigorating wind he spoke:
“Do not be frightened by me, a mere servant of Jehovah,
for I come to you first with glorious news for all creation.
Your Messiah has come at last to save His people,
and as a child in Bethlehem you will find Him,
in the strangeness of a feeding trough.
Now go and see this great thing.”
And suddenly it was as if they were surrounded with the sun,
and as the voices of water and wind together formed a multitude of praise:
“Glory to the Highest of Kings in heaven,
and on the earth let peace rest with His chosen ones”.
Like a dark, thick curtain cast across a window,
Suddenly all was dark and silent once again.
The shepherds, stunned for a moment as if in stupor,
Suddenly jerked to life, as if enervated by the energetic light that had surrounded them,
forgetting flocks and fields, made straight away to Bethlehem,
searching every shed and shelter, until at last,
they came upon Joseph, Mary, and the fresh young child,
there kneeling in awe, their minds attempted to grasp the awesomeness before them,
as Mary equally pondered in wonder what she beheld.
Then departing, they became the first bearers of the gospel,
proclaiming the news the King’s arrival wherever they went.

Another friend of mine posted this poem and I just had to share it:

Advent Calendar

He will come like last leaf’s fall.
One night when the November wind
has flayed the trees to bone, and earth
wakes choking on the mould,
the soft shroud’s folding.

He will come like frost.
One morning when the shrinking earth
opens on mist, to find itself
arrested in the net
of alien, sword-set beauty.

He will come like dark.
One evening when the bursting red
December sun draws up the sheet
and penny-masks its eye to yield
the star-snowed fields of sky.

He will come, will come,
will come like crying in the night,
like blood, like breaking,
as the earth writhes to toss him free.
He will come like child.

- Rowan Williams

(A little bit early here advent wise, but here it is)

It was not decent, that birth in the straw.
It did not smell of antiseptic, but dung.
No midwives to guide, just two rough, awkward hands.
Not the way to imagine your first son’s birth,
much less the birth of a God.
Another irony added to the tale;
one would think He delighted in them.
Yet how compassionate,
that in calling others to stoop low He asks them to go no lower than Himself.
A King for the people, among the people,
with the lips, and hands, and feet of a child.
Like the first Adam, greeted by the beasts at his first arrival,
But His destiny to release, not bind their chains of corruption.
Those groans of labor cried so that all the world might groan no more.

Early morning finds two small figures,
making their way down to the plain.
Joining the throng of the uprooted,
moved by the will of an empire.
Glancing back upon their town
did they realized they would not see it for many a year?
Or perhaps their only thoughts lay before them:
Bethlehem, a hundred miles away,
to which they would fly gladly if they could,
rather than endure the trials of the way, with a child soon to come.
Both anxious, yet fighting to trust the certainties of God–
that Jesus would come, as surely as the sun rises.
So South they went.

(Note: I just want to offer my sincere thanks for the warm reception I have received here and elsewhere as others have linked to my poem. I am glad my words could be a blessing to you all. -Chris)

In those days Israel was not its own.
Though great in the scheme of God’s redemption,
merely another drop in the imperial measure of Rome,
spilling out like grains over and around the Great Sea.
Now desiring to see its numbers, Caesar,
divine head and god of men (so called)
issued his decree of census.
Joseph was no less a subject than any other man,
but a speck in the sea of souls now moved to obey.
Yet his concerns were no less abated:
an eight month pregnant wife, a hundred mile journey,
food, clothing, money,
all needs and cares.
And yet did the prophecy ring in his mind,
demonstrating the purpose of such struggle?
That Caesar compelled mankind at the will of the Almighty?
None can know—but that he went.

Posted by Richard

My daughter gave me an early Christmas present this year. And what a gift it was. She and I braved the first big Calgary snowstorm of the year to trudge to the Southern Alberta Jubilee Centre for the Vinyl Cafe Christmas Concert with Stuart McLean.
If you’re not familiar with Stuart McLean you owe it to yourself to fix that as soon as possible. He is sometimes described as the Canadian Garrison Keillor and the comparison is quite natural. They are both superb storytellers who make old-time style radio their main medium. But Mr. McLean is no mere imitator. His stories usually revolve around a character named Dave who owns the Vinyl Cafe, a record store (Motto: “We may not be big, but we’re small”), his wife Morley and their children, Stephanie and Sam. Perhaps the best place to start enjoying McLean is to listen to two of his classic Christmas stories – Dave Cooks the Turkey and Let It Snow. [check for more podcasts here].

The show was scheduled to start at 8pm at which time Stuart McLean walked on stage to tell us that the beginning of the show would be delayed by 10 or 15 minutes to allow people to get there through the storm. “Right now,” he said to much knowing laughter “there are couples having a bad time trying to get here. There’s a guy hearing his wife say ‘I told you we should have left early!’ Let’s give that guy a break, shall we?” This set the tone for the rest of the evening. Stuart is nothing if not kind and thoughtful of the needs of others, particularly guys who, like his character Dave, mean well but often mess up. This was a welcome respite from the harshness of the weather and traffic outside, not to mention the harshness of the malls which I’d endured earlier in the day. So the show would be delayed but we didn’t have to sit around and wait. We got a bonus as Stuart stayed on-stage for some Q&A, answering questions about his literary influences, his characters, and some of the stories in particular. It was a great time of give and take with the audience. Though the venue is quite large he made it seem small by taking questions even from the balconies. His gifts as a host and people-person were apparent. Whenever a couple entered the theatre he greeted them with “Welcome. We were just waiting for you!”

Then the show began for real. The Vinyl Cafe orchestra were in fine form and the musical guests were superb. Stuart likes to showcase little known but excellent Canadian talent on his show. This year it was Jill Barber and Matthew Andersen, both recent East Coast Music Awards recipients. The sultry voiced Ms. Barber sang Chances and Mr. Andersen sang So Gone Now. Both also gave us terrific renditions of standard Christmas Carols, with Matt provoking a standing ovation with his heartfelt O Holy Night. The sanding ovation did not surprise me. It was the audience’s way to acknowledge Mr. Andersen’s wonderful performance but also, I think, to say “Yes! This is what Christmas is about. The ‘holy night’, the ’stars brightly shining’, the ‘dear Saviour’s birth’ and ‘the soul fe[eling] it’s worth’. This is what we love about Christmas. Thanks for reminding us.” There is something about gospel-truth proclaimed in a non-preachy way that is very powerful.

Stuart regaled us with two wonderful Dave and Morley stories and one Stephanie story that made me so glad for the priceless gift of literacy. He also had a personal story about his first Christmas away from home (his family traveled across Canada to surprise him on Christmas eve). He show ended, all too soon, with a singalong of Sleigh Ride.

It was a wonderful evening for a proud dad and his university senior daughter to share. There is so much in this world that is harsh and cynical. We walked out into the snowy Calgary night glad for the reminder that there is also plenty of kindness, gladness and laughter to be enjoyed in this world. In the words of my daughter’s favourite Christmas carol:

“God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

Thanks, Mr. McLean and co. for reminding us of that. And thanks, E. for a wonderful Christmas gift.

While this is not really an Advent or Christmas poem I always associate it with the season. Archibald Lampman’s depiction of a snowy Canadian afternoon is one of the very few poems I know by heart. I love to recite it to myself, or to my long suffering family when the first big snow comes. He captures so well the magical quality of a heavy snowfall.

Loreena McKennitt, while she leaves out some verses, gives a moving rendition. Enjoy!

White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.

The road before me smooths and fills
Apace, and all about
The fences dwindle, and the hills
Are blotted slowly out;
The naked trees loom spectrally
Into the dim white sky.

The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.

Save when at lonely intervals
Some farmer’s sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runners and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear;

The barking of a dog, or call
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far a-field;
Then all is silent, and the snow
Falls, settling soft and slow.

The evening deepens, and the gray
Folds closer earth and sky;
The world seems shrouded far away;
Its noises sleep, and I,
As secret as yon buried stream,
Plod dumbly on, and dream.