Here where we are

A poem about Incarnation

Photo by lilartsy on Unsplash

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Written first as an essay. Became a poem last December, appearing here the week of the 25th. Come back around, the way Christmas does, to tell the story again.

If the Christmas story is yours too, I wish you the comfort and joy of it today. If it’s not, I wish you the comfort and joy of whatever Light-In-Darkness story is closest to your life and heart.

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A STRANGE KIND OF GLORY                                            2023

[The lines in italics are from Chapter 1 of the Gospel According to John.]


In the beginning was the Word.
	A baby sleeps on an armful of straw
	in a shack at the edge of the city,
	waking to blink in the starlight
	while strange visitors come and go.

And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us.
	A weathered man feeds a hungry crowd
	with bread and fish and stories,
	rough voice singing over lake and hillside,
	callused hands warm on bodies in pain.
	
And we have seen his glory.
	An emptied corpse sags
	on a gallows at the edge of the city.
	An improbable guest embraces his friends
	with scarred, familiar hands.

The Word became flesh, and we have seen his glory.
	Flesh is a strange kind of glory --
	drumbeats, thirst, the scent of ripe oranges,
	skin on skin, the flinch away from pain --
	a smelly, curious, wishful glory.
	And brave, sometimes. And mortal, every day.

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.
	Because loving someone
	asks to be where they are --
	to guard their sleep,
	to share their breakfast,
	to breathe their breath and taste their tears.

And we have seen his glory.
	The strange glory of Flesh,
	the living glory of Word,
	the common glory of Love come to find us
	and be with us, here where we are.

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