The Space Between Christmas and the Cross

 

Who can truly understand the space between Christmas and the Cross?

The incarnate Word of God arriving as an infant,

And leaving us as a Man,

Both human and divine.

 

I received an early Christmas card today,

It was shaped as a cross,

The verse read,

“May the miracle of Christmas,

Feel your heart with joy, and peace.

 

110 calendar days from this Christmas,

Until Good Friday,

As I write this poem,

In the Year of Our Lord,

November 24, 2016,

Thanksgiving Day.

 

254 calendar days from the next Good Friday,

‘Till the next Christmas of 2017,

Traversing 5 Holy Seasons,

Easter, Ordinary Time, Advent, Christmas, and then Lent,

Culminating in The Holy Tridium,

Followed in 50 days by Pentecost.

 

Passiontide with Easter cards of its own,

Holy Saturday, Good Friday,

3 days, Easter Sunday,

A Liturgical Season all its own.

 

‘Tis Thanksgiving Day,

Reflecting on my recent homecoming from The Holy Land,

The Via Dolorosa, The Way of Pain,

A mere 48-minute walk,

About 2 kilometers from The Church of the Nativity,

33 years in Christ’s lifetime,

A lifetime in mine.

 

Christ crucified outside the city’s gates,

A stone’s throw away from the empty tomb,

Rising to new life,

And ascending to The Father.

 

 

November 27^th,  The First Sunday of Advent,

Arrives soon,

The tree will go up,

There will be 12 holy steps from the crib underneath,

To the crucifix on the wall.

 

2 special ornaments will adorn the tree,

One nativity ornament made from olivewood brought home,

From Bethlehem,

And 1 old cross, made from unknown wood,

Painted gold,

Filling the space between Christmas, and the Cross.

 

The nativity ornament acquired from a pilgrimage to Bethlehem,

12,000 kilometers between 7,500 miles away from my home town,

Of Phoenix,

Phoenix – the magical bird – that dies, and is resurrected across the centuries,

A symbol of the Resurrection.

 

Though the liturgy changes,

The Mass remains the same,

For Christmas, and Easter,

The Holy Sacrifice of the Altar,

Always stays the same.

 

The space and time existing between Christmas, and Easter,

Like the magical bird,

Is eternally resurrected in time, and space,

There is no space between Christmas, and the Resurrection,

Our Resurrected Lord – The same yesterday, today, and forever.

 

Woman, Behold Your Son

 

The Woman just after giving birth on Christmas cradles the baby's soft skin in loose white rags.  The only material abundantly available in the darkness of the damp, black room.  She clutches The Child protectively, tightly, against her ever maternal breast.  She hears the baby's soft, but surprisingly strong - thump, thump, thump-human heart beat.

The healthy white glow emanating out of The Woman's amber and golden clothing dispels the darkness of the cold, damp, room.  A prism of light scatters the darkness, and chases it into the damp corners of the room's outer edge.

Purple shadows play upon the walls.  Shadows cast by the blue outer cloak worn by The Woman.

The Woman lovingly allows The Child to suckle at her breasts.  After nourishment provided, the baby softly cooing, is rocked to sleep, while an adoring Father looks on.

The Child sleeps cradled in The Woman's bright arms.   While The Child is held tightly against her breast, she feels The Child's warm blood pulsating through the baby's clothing, through her own clothing, throbbing against her own body.  A body which also pulsates happily with each new beat of her own red heart.

The Woman amazed and tired from the speedy delivery, recalls the stirrings of The Child within her womb.  The stirrings-a beat of The Child's heart.  A Heart within residence in her womb; a beat, which she knew, and heard, as well as felt.

Did this beat within the womb, she asks, this life's blood, only exist by faith?  Did she really hear it?

She recalls the purple prophetic words of the ancient scripture-I behold The Child, though he is not near.

The Woman's faith is strengthened by the recall of the words of Elizabeth, her kinswoman.  For Elizabeth felt the joyful beat of her own child's heart within her womb, upon The Woman's visitation.  A visitation from a Woman, who was clothed in blue, while bathed in yellow sunshine.  A visitation during a Spring of Rejoicing.  For green truly is the true light of all the living.

The Woman watched as the true-white lamb in the Bethlehem stable brushed up against the rugged manager.  The manger holding The Child.  A careless nail from the manger pricked through the white woolly coat, and drops of red blood spilled out onto the yellow straw, creating an orange glow.

A passionate embrace of true God, housed in true red, and true Man, housed in true blue, the Incarnation, creating purple, the cloak of Royalty.

The Woman pondered all this in her heart.  For-Red is passion.  Love is Blue.  Purple is Death-death in mourning's cloak.

This Purple Heart, The Child's Sacred Heart, stopped on Calvary.  This Sacred Heart liberated the hot life blood, that was no longer contained within a gently, receiving womb, but was poured out on the cold, brown, unreceptive earthen ground.  A libation to God, from God, for all people everywhere, in every time, born, preborn, and yet to be born.

The Woman's bright eyes watched The Child with wide adoration.

On the cold, brown Earth of Calvary's hill, The Child said, "Woman, behold your son."  The Child to the son said, "Behold, your mother."

 

Woman, Behold Your Son

 

The Woman just after giving birth on Christmas cradles the baby's soft skin in loose white rags.  The only material abundantly available in the darkness of the damp, black room.  She clutches The Child protectively, tightly, against her ever maternal breast.  She hears the baby's soft, but surprisingly strong - thump, thump, thump-human heart beat.

The healthy white glow emanating out of The Woman's amber and golden clothing dispels the darkness of the cold, damp, room.  A prism of light scatters the darkness, and chases it into the damp corners of the room's outer edge.

Purple shadows play upon the walls.  Shadows cast by the blue outer cloak worn by The Woman.

The Woman lovingly allows The Child to suckle at her breasts.  After nourishment provided, the baby softly cooing, is rocked to sleep, while an adoring Father looks on.

The Child sleeps cradled in The Woman's bright arms.   While The Child is held tightly against her breast, she feels The Child's warm blood pulsating through the baby's clothing, through her own clothing, throbbing against her own body.  A body which also pulsates happily with each new beat of her own red heart.

The Woman amazed and tired from the speedy delivery, recalls the stirrings of The Child within her womb.  The stirrings-a beat of The Child's heart.  A Heart within residence in her womb; a beat, which she knew, and heard, as well as felt.

Did this beat within the womb, she asks, this life's blood, only exist by faith?  Did she really hear it?

She recalls the purple prophetic words of the ancient scripture-I behold The Child, though he is not near.

The Woman's faith is strengthened by the recall of the words of Elizabeth, her kinswoman.  For Elizabeth felt the joyful beat of her own child's heart within her womb, upon The Woman's visitation.  A visitation from a Woman, who was clothed in blue, while bathed in yellow sunshine.  A visitation during a Spring of Rejoicing.  For green truly is the true light of all the living.

The Woman watched as the true-white lamb in the Bethlehem stable brushed up against the rugged manager.  The manger holding The Child.  A careless nail from the manger pricked through the white woolly coat, and drops of red blood spilled out onto the yellow straw, creating an orange glow.

A passionate embrace of true God, housed in true red, and true Man, housed in true blue, the Incarnation, creating purple, the cloak of Royalty.

The Woman pondered all this in her heart.  For-Red is passion.  Love is Blue.  Purple is Death-death in mourning's cloak.

This Purple Heart, The Child's Sacred Heart, stopped on Calvary.  This Sacred Heart liberated the hot life blood, that was no longer contained within a gently, receiving womb, but was poured out on the cold, brown, unreceptive earthen ground.  A libation to God, from God, for all people everywhere, in every time, born, preborn, and yet to be born.

The Woman's bright eyes watched The Child with wide adoration.

On the cold, brown Earth of Calvary's hill, The Child said, "Woman, behold your son."  The Child to the son said, "Behold, your mother."