Christmas Day, 2007
All the bustle and hustle culminating in the frantic celebration of a day of peace.
In sacred memory of a miracle, a child born of a virgin in whose tender womb God planted a divine seed; that of His own son. Sent to give hope, to offer salvation to humankind. Who, heaven knows, are collectively in dire need of some kind of salvation. As we're such an incorrigibly intransigent collection.
One supposes that God got kind of fed up observing us over the aeons pre-Christ, never learning from our mistakes. Finally determining to send down to us, through great personal sacrifice, an emissary equipped to show us the errors of our ways. Truly, a noble intent. The sentiment was right; who could find fault with it?
A doting Father, looking down on His unworthy flock. Had more than His fill of contumacious creatures obdurately ignoring His dictums and dictates. The rampaging wars, the continuing bloodshed, the misunderstandings, the conquests, the misery were none of His making.
He created man in His likeness and woman in the likeness of man, and if they chose not to inhabit the Paradise He created for them and instead to install themselves in chaos it would ultimately spell their end. He had pity and devised a method by which His only begotten son would descend in great humility to teach and instruct and spread the word of His Father.
Why does this evoke memory? Ah yes, as a child I was an enraptured reader of Greek fable. And there one reads of so many gods looking down from Mount Olympus at the creatures below whom they dominate. Seeing on occasion human females that struck their fancy. Upon which they would descend to attend to the purpose of frolicking with those of great attraction to them.
Oh, sometimes they would also present themselves as bulls, or as swans the better to have their way with these attractive humans. And the children so begotten would then be demi-gods; generally presenting as Giants or as dryads or nymphs with especial powers endowed them by their powerful fathers. But these, of course, were pagan myths.
On this day we entered the quiet, white fastness of the ravine, to amble on this most perfect of Christmas days at our leisure, the solemn joyfulness of the day expressed in the sound of singing birds, sparkling running water of the creek newly released from its frozen state. The sun shone bright, it glanced crisply off the snow, fresh fallen yesterday.
In celebration of His son's birth day, God created He this perfect day. Nothing escapes His notice. Such details as the crafting of a mild winter day outstanding in its lovely perfection is His alone to produce. Despite His notice having wavered sufficiently to escape note of the situation in Darfur, He has done well by us.
Merry Christmas, one and all.
In sacred memory of a miracle, a child born of a virgin in whose tender womb God planted a divine seed; that of His own son. Sent to give hope, to offer salvation to humankind. Who, heaven knows, are collectively in dire need of some kind of salvation. As we're such an incorrigibly intransigent collection.
One supposes that God got kind of fed up observing us over the aeons pre-Christ, never learning from our mistakes. Finally determining to send down to us, through great personal sacrifice, an emissary equipped to show us the errors of our ways. Truly, a noble intent. The sentiment was right; who could find fault with it?
A doting Father, looking down on His unworthy flock. Had more than His fill of contumacious creatures obdurately ignoring His dictums and dictates. The rampaging wars, the continuing bloodshed, the misunderstandings, the conquests, the misery were none of His making.
He created man in His likeness and woman in the likeness of man, and if they chose not to inhabit the Paradise He created for them and instead to install themselves in chaos it would ultimately spell their end. He had pity and devised a method by which His only begotten son would descend in great humility to teach and instruct and spread the word of His Father.
Why does this evoke memory? Ah yes, as a child I was an enraptured reader of Greek fable. And there one reads of so many gods looking down from Mount Olympus at the creatures below whom they dominate. Seeing on occasion human females that struck their fancy. Upon which they would descend to attend to the purpose of frolicking with those of great attraction to them.
Oh, sometimes they would also present themselves as bulls, or as swans the better to have their way with these attractive humans. And the children so begotten would then be demi-gods; generally presenting as Giants or as dryads or nymphs with especial powers endowed them by their powerful fathers. But these, of course, were pagan myths.
On this day we entered the quiet, white fastness of the ravine, to amble on this most perfect of Christmas days at our leisure, the solemn joyfulness of the day expressed in the sound of singing birds, sparkling running water of the creek newly released from its frozen state. The sun shone bright, it glanced crisply off the snow, fresh fallen yesterday.
In celebration of His son's birth day, God created He this perfect day. Nothing escapes His notice. Such details as the crafting of a mild winter day outstanding in its lovely perfection is His alone to produce. Despite His notice having wavered sufficiently to escape note of the situation in Darfur, He has done well by us.
Merry Christmas, one and all.
Labels: Perambulations
posted by Pieface @ 5:51 PM
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