Bonus Poem: Christmas Exile

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

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))

Bonus Poem: The Child

This is the fifth of five new poems for Advent, 2022.

For poems for Christmas Eve/Nativity of Our Lord, please see:

Christmas Eve, Nativity of Our Lord (A, B, C)—Isaiah 9:2–7; Luke 2:1–20

Sir Edward Burne-Jones: The Star of Bethlehem, 1887-1891

Birmingham Museums Trust

https://unsplash.com/photos/Y_XS34BFX00

working preacher

The Child

 

Wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?” (Matthew 1b-2a)

 

How Odd

 

How odd, they came to worship a child,

How odd, that someone so meek and so mild

Would gain the attention of the wise.

 

How odd, we come to him this night,

How odd, no matter our power or might

To change the world, or even our lives.

 

Perhaps the children are the key

—Those who from fear and violence flee—

To help us finally be humane.

 

For when our hearts by love are stirred

And lines ’twixt us and others are blurred,

We’ll come to this odd new Child again.

 

Scott L. Barton

Bonus Poem: Emmanuel

 

Jesus MAFA: Virgin and Child

This is the fourth of five new poems for Advent, 2022.

For poems for Advent 4, Year A, please see Fourth Sunday of Advent (A)

 

Emmanuel

 

“Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel,” which means, “God is with us.” (Matthew 1:23)

 

Wee Word

 

When we’re at a loss, we look for a savior,

Someone to get us out of a mess,

A mess which has made us all, in a word, desperate.

The desperation addressed by Isaiah,

The impending loss of nationhood,

Came in one word, Emmanuel, a child to be born.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, they say.

But God with us, with faith, hope, and love,

Still fells all that would defeat us with just one wee word.

Scott L. Barton

Bonus Poem: Herod

This is the third of five new poems for Advent, 2022.

For poems for Advent 3, Year A, please see Year A, Third Sunday of Advent

The three Magi before Herod, France, early 15th century. Musée de Cluny/Musée national du Moyen Âge, Paris.

Herod

 

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.” When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born.  (Matthew 2:1-4)

 

Heartbreak

 

All megalomaniacs have fear

They’ll be dethroned, from far, or near;

Thus, nothing stops them from their ends,

Including children, whom they’ll rend

From life and parents, by all means

Necessary! Thus it still seems

That holding power for its sake

Can only end in great heartbreak.

 

 

Scott L. Barton