The tremulous glow of a new and ancient holiness emanates from a tightly swaddled package, lain in animal fodder. His mother is dumbstruck by obedient love, of the same kind that will keep him one day bound to a painful end. For what use are words in the presence of God incarnate brought forth from your own body?
Instead he speaks for us, against the accusers and the poisoned gossips. Clear and bright the telling, silencing them as he will later silence the self-righteous scribes with carefully chosen words scratched in sand. The mortifying that they, that we, want to perform, holding the stones in our sweaty hands, angered at the shadow of a splinter caught in the corner of our vision, sticking out of the plank in our own eye.
No, there is no room for our words at the inn, and here in the stable beyond is where it will come to fruition, this saying yes to the indwelling of God’s love, as all of us must do if we are to follow the star, and end sitting empty and speechless in wonder on the straw.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015