As I'm sure you all know, Christmas is nearly upon us. In light of the intrinsically busy nature of the holiday season as well as the fact that I hope very much that our contributors and readers are all getting some needed rest, let's shift gears to something a little lighter until after the holidays.
If you're at all interested in blogging here over the break, why not tell us your very favorite Christmas story. It can be fiction or non-fiction, funny or sad, touching or absurd. My wife and I have been rediscovering the comforting power of stories lately. It's served as a reminder that no matter how much propositional theology I read or write, the power of narrative to touch and change my life is always deeper.
So tell us a story, whatever story you like.
If you're at all interested in blogging here over the break, why not tell us your very favorite Christmas story. It can be fiction or non-fiction, funny or sad, touching or absurd. My wife and I have been rediscovering the comforting power of stories lately. It's served as a reminder that no matter how much propositional theology I read or write, the power of narrative to touch and change my life is always deeper.
So tell us a story, whatever story you like.
1 comment:
It's not a story, but it has a narrative, so I am going to count it. This is my favourite Christmas poem, Christ Climbed Down by Lawrence Ferlinghetti:
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
there were no rootless Christmas trees
hung with candycanes and breakable stars
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
there were no gilded Christmas trees
and no tinsel Christmas trees
and no tinfoil Christmas trees
and no pink plastic Christmas trees
and no gold Christmas trees
and no black Christmas trees
and no powderblue Christmas trees
hung with electric candles
and encircled by tin electric trains
and clever cornball relatives
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no intrepid Bible salesmen
covered the territory
in two-tone cadillacs
and where no Sears Roebuck creches
complete with plastic babe in manger
arrived by parcel post
the babe by special delivery
and where no televised Wise Men
praised the Lord Calvert Whiskey
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no fat handshaking stranger
in a red flannel suit
and a fake white beard
went around passing himself off
as some sort of North Pole saint
crossing the desert to Bethlehem
Pennsylvania
in a Volkswagen sled
drawn by rollicking Adirondack reindeer
and German names
and bearing sacks of Humble Gifts
from Saks Fifth Avenue
for everybody's imagined Christ child
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no Bing Crosby carollers
groaned of a tight Christmas
and where no Radio City angels
iceskated wingless
thru a winter wonderland
into a jinglebell heaven
daily at 8:30
with Midnight Mass matinees
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and softly stole away into
some anonymous Mary's womb again
where in the darkest night
of everybody's anonymous soul
He awaits again
an unimaginable
and impossibly
Immaculate Reconception
the very craziest of
Second Comings
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