Haphazardly stacked Christmas presents and sticky, empty champagne glasses are jostling the nativities, shoving them aside, blocking our view of them. The remnants of our innocently pagan celebrations crowd out the icons of God's triumphant revolution. The birth of the new age is obscured by the mere turning of the years.
The mystery of the Incarnation is, of course, that God puts himself in the hands of those who had reduced themselves to worshiping what they could touch and fashion with their hands. He became sensible for the sake of those who had lost their capacity to sense the infinite.
Thank you, God, for using what we can see to show us what we cannot. Thank you, God, for living parables.
I've cleaned up around the nativities. The Christmas presents are stacked elsewhere now, the champagne glasses in the dishwasher.
For six more days, I want an unencumbered view of the recreation of humanity, of God come in human flesh.
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