Holidays - Seasons Greetings!

Under the high cry of the women which the music of Heaven had waked out of the slumbering earth, there was another sound, a lower, a less articulate cry. There was in it pain, a dull pain, and a half dumb pain that seemed hardly able to find voice for itself. And there was in it hope, too. But it was a hope that did not find itself. A hope that seemed not yet formed to know and to trust the thing which it hoped.

The sons of men were waking to the music of Heaven.

They were bewildered, these sons of men. The sleep of life and of death was still upon them. They struggled for expression of the things that were stirring in them. They were slow to be aroused.

Yet they did surely cry, trying with hoarse voices and throaty cries to echo the voice of Heaven.

They did not rise to the harmony of Heaven as the women had begun to do. They did not understand so readily. Hope did not spring full grown and unfailing in them. Theirs was not the ready faith of heart. And, too, the habits of life held them in bondage of flesh and custom which they could not so easily break as could the women.

They were men. They were accustomed to deal with and think in the external things of life. They were unused to the elemental things. The supreme, the vital, the divinely simple things of life were hidden from them. And this thing was elemental.

A child is born! Sang Heaven.

To men, not understanding, it was no great thing. To them it was not a thing that stood out, an epochal thing, a thing with which the world began and ended, as it was to the women. It was, to the men, a little thing, a link with many other little things that went to make up a chain which was called life.

There was pain in the struggling, many-toned cry that came up from them to answer the call of Heaven to the King. And it was pain that was very real.

Men knew that they suffered. They knew that the world suffered. Oppression, sin, ruthless cruelty, these things had been from the beginning. They lay in the track of life. Men had suffered, through the will of other men. Power was power, and might was might. It was a part of the joy of power to exact the price from the lives of other men. So it had always been. Might was the strength to make other men do the hard things of life. This was not to be denied. The weak suffered. The poor had their wages taken from them. The little transgressor was thrown into the dungeon, while the great thief rode by at the king’s side. So it had always been.

The poor man suffered for being poor. The sinner was pushed back into his sin, because he was a sinner. So it had been in the days of their fathers. So it was now. So it would be-unless!

Unless! Unless God should indeed come to remake His world.

It was a faint, half believing note of hope that sounded through the hoarse cry of the pain of the sons of men. But it lived. The hope lived. It grew. It took voice. Hope, breaking through unbelief, breaking through the husk and crust of habit, through the chains of things as they are; hope breathed. And struggled for voice. And at last it cried. Hope cried aloud, in surprise, in half belief. And then, gathering breath and heart, hope shouted, hoarsely, from the depths of life, from the depths of men; shouted aloud its belief!

So the cry of the sons of men was joined to the cry of the daughters of earth, echoing clumsily the voices of Heaven in glory to God and on earth to men peace.

There were many things, as Mary heard, in that cry of the sons of men to the King.

Men cried and spoke, each according to his own way, to God in their voices.

Mighty men were there, who had been before the Lord. And they cried, wondering and adoring God. For they were minded of the Promise. These were men who had lived in the lonely places and had conquered the earth in the old, old time. Before God they had walked. And in their strength some had sinned greatly. And all from their height had fallen in some way. But the voices of these were raised now. For ever they had been men of quick heart and mighty faith; such as God loveth. And they called now to God and believed in the King.

And Mary loved the music of their voices to God, for such as these, she knew, men of stout heart and burning faith, would fight and die in the Kingdom of her Son, the King.

And men there cried, men of battle and plunder and raid, men quick to strike and short to anger. And these cried briefly, with thick tongues and few words, laying contrite hearts at the feet of the King who was come. For each understood the coming of the King in his own way.

And there came the voices of the millions of men, voices of priests and prophets, of kings and common men. They cried the sorrow of their hearts for sin, and ever rising in them came the cry of hope from their hearts.

Now the great, untutored chorus of all the men who had walked the earth was heard crying to God their faith in the King. Their cry was choked and unformed, like as the cry of men long dumb. The harshness, the ignorance, the blood and sweat of life, had drowned for them the tones of Heaven. They knew not how to cry and call upon their God. But Mary knew that the cry was of their hearts, the cry which is the only music in which God may be praised and she knew that it was well with them.

They cried of the hopeless struggles of life. They sang the song of the slave bending under the wheel, of the captive dragged at the tail of the chariot, of the poor ground into the soil.

They cried of the burden of sin that was in the world, so that a man could scarcely walk but that he walked in sin. Ignorance stood at the one side, and superstition, and the fainting loss of faith. Oppression stood upon the other side, and the will of the strong, and the will of the world. And, wandering, among all these things, they had sinned, they cried. But always, as they cried the louder, the note of hope rose higher in their voices. For the King was the King of hope, a King new born, the King of a world new born, a world of hope.

Then Mary heard the voice of the world about her.

Her heart trembled. This was not the voice of a world that leaped, quick hearted into the fire of faith.

Through the cry of the tears and the hope of the world that had lived, she heard the clamor and the cackle of the world that now lived, in these hills, in this the city of David, in Jerusalem the proud, in the world without, in that great, contemptuous Rome that sat upon the top of the world.

Would these, these who lived today, who busied themselves in the things of life and wealth, whose view looked no farther than the beeves and the shekels of life, whose god was money and power, who thought not of contrition nor of the blessed hope, but who from great Caesar down lived only in the body; would these cry with Heaven, singing the glory of God in the King, her Son?

They would not. Mary knew they would not. And even the Light that shone here from the Throne could not drive away the shadow of the cross that fell across her heart.

But there came now a greater cry, a cry that rose above all the other cries of earth and swelled up to Heaven and would not be denied, but must be heard.

It was the cry of the world yet unborn, the world that came unbidden out of the bosom of eternity to greet the King. A world of uncounted millions, a world that would not be bounded or held by anything but the immensity of God’s own self. And this world, both of men and women, cried high to God in a voice that went beyond all ages, crying:

Glory! Glory! Glory! To the King new born, Our Lord!

Then Mary, looking, saw poor men kneeling at the side of the stable and adoring God, her King.

And she knew that those millions of voices out of the womb of the future were calling into being the Kingdom of the King, her Son.

And as she looked, herself adoring, the King stirred.

And there went out upon the breathless stillness of the night, a cry, a feeble cry-the cry of a new born child.

The Angel saw the Babe lifted from the manger and laid in the circle of the mother’s arm. Bowing low before the miracle of motherhood divine he brought the homage of Heaven to a wonder such as not Heaven or earth had yet seen. Then, rising, he drew a circle of the Light of the Throne about the little head where it lay pillowed on the mother’s breast.

Now he wrapped an aureole, a softer, gentler circle of the light about the head of the mother. The cry of the Babe was stilled, as the cries of all the children of earth are stilled in the warmth of mother love. Mother and Babe slept.

Then the light which had illumined the stable went out with the Angel, leaving only those circles of the Light which stood about the heads of mother and Child. The Angel gathered the choirs of attending spirits, who had come singing from the throne to adore at the manger, and led them back toward Heaven. With them they carried the cry of the Babe, to God.

Out over the earth they winged their way, all silently, their voices hushed in the cry of the Child.

Earth did not hear the cry, for earth slept. Men did not hear the cry, for men were deaf and knew not that the heart of God cried out in the cry of the child. The sea did not hear the cry as the myriads of angels swept above, for the sea was filled with its own voice.

But other worlds heard the cry as it passed along, and looked to earth, wondering that it could be heedless of the great thing that was come to pass in it.

The sun heard the cry, as the legions of angels passed out of the shadow of earth and flashed glistening through the illimitable waves of light. And other countless, pale suns, even to the far-scattered last ones of the universe, heard the cry, and stilled the music of their motion to listen.

The cry of the Child had caught the heart strings of creation, even as the reins that hold suns and worlds in their courses led back and were gathered into His clutching, tiny fingers.

The vast, unbroken silences of the unmeasured spaces heard now the first sound they had heard since the voice of the Creator had called them into being. The cry of the Child went through them, redeeming them from what had been their reproach of God’s forgetfulness.

To the outer confines of Heaven the cry now came, and the angels who there guarded the ultimate gates listened in hushed wonder, their own singing of the praises of God turned to a wondering, worshipping silence by the voice of the Child. So now forever those outer angels are listening, in memory of that cry of the Child that once came first to them, for the cry of the children of earth. And never a voice of prayer or pain goes up from a little one among us but is caught up by those angels who wait listening at the very first out-gates of Heaven.

Then through all Heaven went the cry that came, borne on the breath of angels’ wings, up from the Child.

It was the cry of the innocence of little children, and Heaven knew it as the most precious thing that earth had to give. It was the laughter and the frolic of babes, telling of the pure joy of being. It was of the things that babies smile about in their sleep.

It carried the unconscious worship of the little ones, a worship unalloyed. Every little white soul of earth cried up, in the voice of the Child, the gladness of living. Joy of dawn was in the cry, and the glory of the fresh morning. And every springing leaf that took the dew cried in the cry of the Child.

Then Heaven understood. This was Life itself that cried up from earth. For God is Life.

And the voice of the Child carried more than the cries from earth of those whom earth calls children. In that cry were the cries of great men’s hearts, men who, in their strength and in the push and battle of life, had never forgotten to be little ones in heart. These were men on whom the shell of selfishness had never grown. Men who woke laughing to the toil of the long day, who gave with one hand and never thought to take with the other, who loved God beyond reward, who loved men nor ever guessed that men were unworthy; the hearts of these Heaven heard in the voice of the Child. For these are like unto little children, and of such is Heaven.

Now the cry of the Child came on into the nearer courts of Heaven, where the great ones stand in the Light of the Throne. Here were the mighty warriors, and the angels of the council, and those whom God had made great in the practice of His own greatness. And here, among these great ones, was the cry of the Child best heard and best understood. For these, being greatest, were also littlest. And, too, only these knew in the fullest the greatness of the Child which was born on earth. These were they who, in the beginning of all things, had seen Heaven rent in twain at mention of His name. These knew. And falling down they worshipped in the cry of the Child, echoing the Narne that is above every other name.

Again the Angel lay prostrate before the Throne.

And the Light of the Throne beat down upon him. And he spoke not, nor raised himself from the foot of the Throne. But the cry of the Child which he had brought from earth stayed not with him.

The feeble, treble wail of the Babe that was born on earth went on up over the adoring Angel, on up above the steps of Light that were the steps of the Throne, on up, until it came to rest in the ineffable heart of God!

The cycle of the Promise was completed.

The Breath had come down from the Throne; and on the Breath, the Word.

Now the cry of the Child was come back to the Throne.

And the cry was the Breath, of the Word, made flesh.

Now the heart of God was kindled, as it had not warmed or delighted with any of the things made of His hands.

And He forgetteth not ever that it was the cry of a Child that came unto His heart, the echo of His Breath and His Word.

So that the way of the cry of a child, be it in laughing, or in play, in fullness or in hunger, in glee or in pain, is ever open, straight to His heart.

And once in every year, as the earth lives and as long as earth shall live, the cry of a Child goes up to the heart of God. With it go the cries of all the children of earth, for the way is open.

The cry of the innocence of children goes ‘up, and with it goes the word that that innocence is protected and loved and cherished of men on earth. So God is gladdened in His heart, in that He hath made man.

And baby laughter, as meaningless and yet as mysterious as the voices of breeze and wave, goes up to God. And He understands, for the things at which babies laugh are known to Him.

And the shouts of children’s glee go up to Him from homes where love reigns, where the whole world is set at naught for the twining of baby fingers, where mothers work their miracles of love and patience, where strong men rest and find again their strength. These God loves these shouts of romping, happy children. For He knows that those whom these bind together not all the men of earth can put asunder. And upon this He has built His world.

Even the tired sighs of full little stomachs, even these go up to God in Heaven-and these be not despised. For God hath planted the earth with fullness for these.

Others there be, little ones, who shout not aloud in play or do not fall sleepy with full stomachs. And for these God has made Christmas and has put into the hearts of men and women the passion that is the holiest and the godliest one which stirs their breasts, the passion for gladdening the hearts of the forgotten little ones of earth.

And for the cries of little ones so gladdened, God does not wait for them to come up to Him, but listens, leaning down from His Throne, and whispers to the heart of you and me to go search out these; that not one voice of gladness of the children of earth be missing from the cry of the Child that goeth up to the Throne.

“Joseph.” It was a soft call, but he heard it. At once, he picked up the second jar of water and hurried inside. The two lamps still shed a soft glow over the stable, even though it seemed years since they had been lighted.

The first thing he noticed was his wife. Mary was sitting tailor-fashion with her back against a manger wall. Her face was clean; her hair had been brushed. There were blue hollows under her eyes. She smiled at her husband and nodded. Then she stood.

She beckoned him to come closer. Joseph, mouth agape, followed her to a little manger. It had been cleaned but, where the animals had nipped the edges of the wood, the boards were worn and splintered. In the manger were the broad bolts of white swaddling she had brought on the trip. They were doubled underneath and over the top of the baby.

Mary smiled at her husband as he bent far over to look.

There, among the cloths, he saw the tiny red face of an infant. This, said Joseph to himself, is the one of whom the angel spoke. He dropped to his knees beside the manger. This was the messiah.

Down in the valley, sheep huddled against the chill. The shepherds sat on little eminences, dozing. The herds wandered by day, up and down the grasslands of Judea, always edging closer to Jerusalem, the big market for sheep. Those without blemish brought a good price as sacrificial animals for the temple. The others were sold for shearing and for food.

The people of the town scorned the shepherds. They were wanderers. They had no roots. They seldom married and, when they did, they stripped the soil from the hillsides, exposing the soft white rock beneath. The men carved apartments in these hills, and raised their families remote from the towns.

Some were dozing, a few were watching, when the deep night sky was split with light. It was brighter than day, more like staring at a noon sun, and the sleeping shepherds awakened and, in fear, hid their eyes in the folds of their garments. After a moment, the intense light faded, and an angel appeared in bodily form, standing in air over the valley.

The herders were terrified and their sheep began to run in tight circles. “Do not fear,” the angel said slowly, and the words seemed to echo off both sides of the valley of Bethlehem. Some of the men took heart and looked up. Some did not. “Listen,” the angel said, “I bring you good news of great joy which is in store for the whole nation.”

Good news? This would make any Jew open his eyes and lift them to the skies. They had been afraid of the justice and vengeance of God for centuries. They had worshiped carefully, with respect for all of the nuances of ritual; for fear that God might be displeased and visit unhappiness upon their people. Now-good news?

They looked up hopefully and the angel spoke again.

The voice seemed to permeate the valley. “A savior,” the angel said, “who is the Lord Messiah, was born to you today in David’s town. And this will serve you as a token: you will find an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and cradled in a manger.”

The shepherds repeated the words. “A savior… Lord Messiah… David’s town… infant in a manger.” There was nothing frightening in that news. The angel had spoken correctly. It was good news. It was better than good news. It was the long-awaited news. It was the thing which had been promised by God a long time ago. It was the advent of him who would save the people of the world.

The dark brown eyes of the shepherds studied the angel and saw the effulgent light on the sheep and the rocky sides of the hills, and they knew that they were not sleeping. This thing was happening; happening to lonely and despised men in a valley beneath Bethlehem.

They were still dwelling on the wonders of God and his works when the angel was joined by hundreds of others, who appeared brightly in the night sky, and began to sing in a heavenly chorus:

“Glory to God in the heavens above, and on earth peace to men of good will.”

On the eighth day, the infant was taken to the synagogue in Bethlehem for circumcision. Centuries before, God had commanded Abraham, as part of a convenant, to circumcise all male Jews shortly after birth. It pledged all sons of Judea to observance of the law.

Mary wrapped the baby warmly, and handed him to Joseph. The man took him outside the cave and on up the steep path to the inn. This was the baby’s first sight of the world he had come to save and, from his blanket, all he saw was azure-blue sky and sunlight. Up there, somewhere, was the heaven from which he had come and to which he would return only after giving his mortal life in pain.

Joseph passed the inn and went on to the crossroads of Bethlehem. There he saw the synagogue and, after inquiries, took the precious charge inside. He asked the rabbi if he could circumcise the first-born himself. The teacher nodded. Joseph said that he had had no experience with this, and he would need some assistance. The rabbi smiled. He understood. It was common for new fathers to ask to officiate, and it was also common for them to be frightened at the prospect.

The teacher guided the hand of Joseph, and the first few drops of precious blood were shed. So too were the first tears. Symbolically, the young lamb was on the altar. The Son of God was obedient to the law of the Father. The rabbi asked the name to be given the baby and Joseph said Jeshua. This was the name given to Mary by the archangel, It was also given to Joseph in a dream.

The ancient prophet Isaias had predicted that the name of the Son of God would be Emmanuel, which means “God with us.” He also said that the messiah would be called the Prince of Peace, God the Mighty, Wonderful, Counselor and Father of the World to Come. The only name in which all of these meanings are embraced is Jeshua, or Jesus.

The baby was carried back to the tiny stable, with its loose-board room. Jesus was now an infant Jew; a son of the family of David. He would be uncomfortable for several days, but he had suffered the first pain of the man child, and Joseph patted the bottom of the blanket to soothe him.