Christmas Poem, 2017

Christmas arrived, again, amidst political

and social unrest, this season of promises,

of “peace on Earth” and all. And he went once more

to the church, arriving early, away from the small

group gathering, old folks and children, mostly. 

The old church was growing older and shrinking,

despite the preacher’s youth and enthusiasm,

this modern church, upbeat and new, inviting

the children to the front for the Christmas story,

a squirmy bunch of kids too restless for stories,

awaiting Santa or grandma’s arrival, talkative

kids full of misunderstanding and unanswerable questions.

And their parents, too, squirmed in the pews,

all smiles, but anxious to leave, too much to do

to ready themselves for the holiday, here only

because of tradition and their mothers’ insistence;

“but it’s Christmas,” she told them who had given up

“Christmas” years before, lost in their disbelief

of stories told by pastors too enthusiastic, perhaps

even out of touch with the reality of living.

He, too, had been lost many Christmases before,

looking for peace and finding none in a world,

like now, of political and social tension,

in a church that gave no ready answers, shared no peace,

so he left, vowing no return to the dogma

and demands of deacons and deities, ministers

and his parents whose beliefs he could not live,

could not trust, not as simply as they did.

But he missed the Christmas story, a child born

to a virgin birth, shepherds and wise men,

away in a manger among the sheep and donkeys,

joy to the world, and on earth, peace, goodwill.

Unreal as it all seemed, it offered something good;

it offered hope, something beyond the unrest,

beyond his own life, something out there

to believe in amidst the confusion of living.

So he came to church early this Christmas eve,

avoiding the faithful and the faithless,

the children and the grandchildren gathering,

readying themselves, despite too much to do

in this holiday season, too busy perhaps

to remember the stories themselves, the questions

left unanswered, the anticipation of something new.

He came to hear the stories anew, the music,

joy to his world, angels heard on high, sweetly singing

this holy night, this silent night, the stars brightly shining

on a midnight clear, an experience he shared, now,

if only with himself, this reminder of Christmas,

Christmas and the peace implied in its story.

The details may be skewed, not exactly as he recalled them,

this story of joy, of peace, this story of hope,

this precious gift given freely to a broken world

that must fix itself, each man by himself remembering,

just as he has this Christmas Eve returning,

a season of promise and hope,

of Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Men.