Follow the Lectionary? Follow me!: Bonus Poem: Christmas Exile

Friday, December 30, 2022

Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister (Dresden, Germany)
Dürer, Albrecht: Flight into Egypt (1494-1497)

Christmas Exile It didn’t take a dream to start my Christmas morning exile. “Whose Covid test is this?” my pregnant daughter called in alarm from the other room. “It’s mine,” I answered. “You’re positive,” she said. Thus began immediate self-banishment to the basement bedroom, while FaceTime visions of sugarplums, package unwrapping, laughter, thanks, and ubiquitous hugs made my exile at least a little better than it might have been, and with people leaving food and gifts at the top of the stairs, and all, certainly less of a burden than the one faced by that first family, who had to dodge not Covid but Herod, going into exile without benefit of i-Pad to keep up with the family back home, and after that next dream, dodging the next variant, Archelaus. Thus, Christmas never comes with perfection, but in the midst of the threat of death, in worry for those we love, in the ways we adapt for another’s sake, and in the sure and certain hope in that baby, and what he still brings, with healing in his wings. Scott L. Barton (For other poems on First Sunday after Christmas Day (A)—Isaiah 63:7–9 and Matthew 2:12–23, please see First Sunday after Christmas Day (A))

Christmas Exile

It didn’t take a dream

to start my Christmas morning exile.

“Whose Covid test is this?”

my pregnant daughter called

in alarm from the other room.

“It’s mine,” I answered.

“You’re positive,” she said.

Thus began immediate self-banishment

to the basement bedroom,

while FaceTime visions of sugarplums,

package unwrapping, laughter, thanks,

and ubiquitous hugs

made my exile at least a little better

than it might have been,

and with people leaving food and gifts

at the top of the stairs, and all,

certainly less of a burden

than the one faced by that first family,

who had to dodge not Covid but Herod,

going into exile without benefit of i-Pad

to keep up with the family back home,

and after that next dream,

dodging the next variant, Archelaus.

Thus, Christmas never comes with perfection,

but in the midst of the threat of death,

in worry for those we love,

in the ways we adapt for another’s sake,

and in the sure and certain hope

in that baby, and what he still brings,

with healing in his wings.

Scott L. Barton

(For other poems on First Sunday after Christmas Day (A)—Isaiah 63:7–9 and Matthew 2:12–23, please see

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