Historical Setting: Monkwearmouth, 793 C.E.
The Christmas story is when the poor and weak are lifted up and the proud and powerful are cast down. It was the story Jesus was born into. And this too is that story.
I take the bones of the near drown girl to the Reverend Mother of Monkwearmouth. She puts another in charge of the choir just as they prepare to process in, and she guides me to take this wailing bundle into her chambers off the sanctuary. This room is encumbered in brocades and velvets. I lay the waif on a golden upholstered couch. Then seeing the child is naked, the elder nun sends me away handing me back my cloak soaked and tattered. She asks me to fetch the tall nun, second to the last in the women’s choir. So, I do, and now I step into the congregation late to worship but not too late for the reading of the Gospel.
In this so-called “women’s worship service” the Abbot of St. Peter and St. Paul rises to the pulpit fully adorned in his seasonal regalia: jeweled cross, silken robes and brocade chasuble. He proclaims the day. His voice is omnipotent, strong and powerful, quaking morning snoozers awake.
“In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the City of David called Bethlehem because he was of the house and family of David. … ” [Luke 2:1-4]
Thus begins the Christian paradox with familiar grandiose words –“decree” “Emperor” even the mention of “David” the nearly mythical greatest king ever — and this familiar reading ends with, “…they laid him in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn.”[Luke 2:7b]
“The Word of the Lord!” And the song rises.
It is this calm of winter when we set the earth with spangles and candles and sing the songs and shout the toasts for the season, and clatter our mugs of ale with friends and strangers alike. It is the Christmas story, the same story as always upside-down. For every person born there is a birth story. It is one story when what seemed unimportant is suddenly all that ever mattered.
I see the Holy Mother at her chamber door, gazing over the gathered people, maybe, looking for me.
(Continues tomorrow)
Lazarus Ink 