Christmas is a day of beautiful ironies--most quite familiar to those of us who know the true Christmas story. The sheer poetry of Christmas alone has inspired some of the greatest music, literature, ballet--and in more recent years, theater and cinema. Some of the ironies are obvious: the one through whom all things were made enters his creation by way of human birth--a process he created. But the world that was made by him did not know him. The Word, born as a baby, had to learn to speak. The one who upholds the universe by the word of his power crawled on the ground, eventually learned to walk, and actually needed to be educated in the ways necessary for functioning on this earth. The heir of all things was born in a manger in a small town, entrusted to earthly parents of modest means, at best. And--the greatest irony of all--"Born that man no more may die: Born to raise the sons of earth, Born to give them second birth." To say it in a less poetic way, He was born to die.
And then there were those characters surrounding the birth. His arrival was not reported in Israel Today, The Jerusalem Times,or on any local network. Instead, angels appeared to shepherds, not the most respected, highest paid workers of the day. And those attending His first visit to the temple were not well-known rulers or celebrities of any sort. The attendees were just an old man and an old woman, one who had been waiting his whole life for the consolation of Israel and one who had worshiped and fasted night and day, who immediately recognized this baby as the one who would bring redemption to Israel.
And there are the modern ironies. The world that does not know Him still wishes to celebrate something this time of year--a sort of secular peace and joy, a feel-good season, where lesbian pop singers record Christmas CDs, singing songs co-written by Muslims to the glory of . . . unity/diversity/peace [pick one--certainly not glory to the One about whom the first Christmas singers sang]. The very event that gives life, that provides peace for those on whom His favor rests, has turned into a frenzy of wide-screen, HD TVs, iPhones, video game systems, and front yards decorated with penguins, snowmen, manger scenes, reindeer--the things that drain life from us and often drive us away from him.
This poem by G. K. Chesterton captures the exquisite ironies of Christmas in an incredibly beautiful way. May you know the wonders of the ironies of Christmas: that the one who knew no sin came to earth to be sin for you so that you may be clothed in his righteousness; that he was born to die, and in doing so, triumph over death so that with him, you might share in the victory; that the one for whom there was no room in the inn is now preparing a place for you so that in a real, tangible way, he might be Immanuel--God with us and us with him for eternity.
Gloria in Profundis
There has fallen on earth for a token
A god too great for the sky.
He has burst out of all things and broken
The bounds of eternity:
Into time and the terminal land
He has strayed like a thief or a lover,
For the wine of the world brims over,
Its splendour is spilt on the sand.
Who is proud when the heavens are humble,
Who mounts if the mountains fall,
If the fixed stars topple and tumble
And a deluge of love drowns all—
Who rears up his head for a crown,
Who holds up his will for a warrant,
Who strives with the starry torrent,
When all that is good goes down?
For in dread of such falling and failing
The fallen angels fell
Inverted in insolence, scaling
The hanging mountain of hell:
But unmeasured of plummet and rod
Too deep for their sight to scan,
Outrushing the fall of man
Is the height of the fall of God.
Glory to God in the Lowest
The spout of the stars in spate—
Where thunderbolt thinks to be slowest
And the lightning fears to be late:
As men dive for sunken gem
Pursuing, we hunt and hound it,
The fallen star has found it
In the cavern of Bethlehem.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton
*photo by Katie Selden
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