A Christmas Letter to an Irish Friend

Dear Maisie,
Your postcard came in May.
I knew the site at once --
the entrance stone, the roof-box, and gypsum face --
the passage-grave at Newgrange.
Without masonry, wheels, or shovels
your ancestors piled stone on stone
to welcome the frozen dawn of a new day,
the shortest day of the year.
They welcomed the sun of God
from a holy place.

In December
at sunrise,
I think of that marvelous hill.
I wonder at its antiquity -- some five thousand years!
With straw baskets and wooden sleds
they moved rocks into place.
They poured such energy into earth at the solstice --
how much more did they surely give to
eating, singing, dancing, dressing,
love-making, gift-giving, and worship
during that early Yuletide?
The angular, swirling lines of the entrance stone
describe a storm of festivity.
Even yet, those strands of memory
swirl around your churches and bind you to your past.

This postcard is an icon for me,
an entrance into earth.
The ghost of Christmas past
beckons from this tomb.
We will not comprehend the feast
nor save the world
until we follow her through that corridor
to those ancient times
to visit those who pray so earnestly.
She sings from that enchanted stone
as the sun mounts Earth’s eastern edge on Solstice Day.
Prostrate before his feeble strength,
Charming, seductive, passionate, and pious,
She lifts herself with intense human effort.
She welcomes his embrace with festive, religious effort.
His moist wanton eyes must worship her.
She pulls him down to her and into her,
Lest he forget her and her children.
He falls on that tumescent hill,
Covers, penetrates, and warms it now
with swelling strength.
Her people revel in their fond embrace
And in their bondage to sun and earth and seasons.
In spring she is pregnant
Thank God! – as you Irish would say --
And the sun is hot and whole and healed.

Our Santa Claus makes a sorry spook
of Christmas present.
Fixed on pleasure, besotted by greed,
Afflicted with futility,
With neither fear nor faith,
fertility nor fervor,
He has lost his memory -- poor soul --
and will pass by Easter.

I found the Ghost of Christmas Future
within the womb of Newgrange --
and I leapt for joy.
She said, “This is the only world
that you will ever see!”
Could we Christmas out there
without earth, without Solstice?
The future showed us Earth from outer space
whirling round her sun.
We saw his frank, admiring eye
inspiring her virginity,
filling her fecundity.
A child can spin a classroom globe
a thousand times a minute.
A thousand years are but a moment in his sight.
The future showed us that.

Christmas is as old as earth
And will last as long.
Before the first farmer
cried in panic at the cold distance of the sun,
before Africa ventured into northern lands,
before the first green slime of life appeared
she was whirling, twirling, dancing, swirling
around her lover-star.

Only moments ago,
as the ardent Earth embraced the sun at Newgrange,
Christmas welcomed her Lord --
“Fulfillment of the Feast!” --
she called him.
We were born neither to escape the earth,
nor to destroy her,
But to sing her songs, celebrate her seasons,
declare her thanks, and welcome her Savior.
When you and I, Maisie,
are nothing more than moldy dust,
waiting silent in some unremembered tomb
for a stirring breath of wind,
and the sounding of our names
in a dear familiar voice
she will yet be whirling, twirling, dancing, swirling around her lover-star.

The Syro-Phoenician Woman

The Syro-Phoenician Woman
Come gather round, and all sit down, I'll tell you a Jesus story!
It's grandiose; if you listen close, you'll know the road to glory.
It'll make you wonder, perhaps you'll ponder mysterious ways of grace;
You'll see more clear, and love more dear, the kindness of God's face.

He worked all day as he led the way, his disciples trailed along;
He'd sometimes sit, but he never quit, on his lips he carried a song.
At last one morn, he said, "Guys, I'm worn; for awhile let's change the pace."
So off they went, by the Spirit sent, to find a quiet place.
He left that land under God's command for the region of Sidon and Tyre,
He wanted to rest, take a break from his quest, to refuel, rekindle his fire.
But they met an old hag, a dreary old nag, who chased them down the road;
She begged him "Please, won't you hear my pleas, for I carry a weary load.
My daughter is sick, it's a terrible trick, and for me a bitter pill.
Your Jesus’ Name is always the same, please help me if you will,
I need that girl, she's the fairest pearl in the world; she's all I've got.
If she dies on me, oh, can't you see, I'll be in a terrible spot.
You have to heed, in my heart I bleed, I will not be deterred;
Show why your name has won such fame, just come and say the word.
My girl's possessed, she won't get dressed, she can't even say her name...."
But the Lord he walked and would not halt; he ignored the tiresome dame.
He said, "Gentile fools, they smell like mules; I don't have time for them.
To Judah I'm sent, for glory I'm bent, my grace is a priceless gem."
His disciples murmured "This woman's a bummer, of her we should be rid."
And Jesus replied, "We'll have to hide from the nanny and her kid."
They went ahead to a weathered shed, and then they stepped inside.
And Jesus said, "In this homestead is where we can abide,
A secret den for special men, our own exclusive club,
And we'll not suffer no female lover of old Beelzebub.
But she came right in, their heads did spin, she scorned their right and wrong,
With "Jesus-name is ever the same; I'll not quit singing that song."
She bent down low as her face would go, and she clasped him by the knee.
The men were shocked as her arms she locked and he cried, "Please set me free!
I will not go, nor stoop so low to throw my pearls to hogs;
God won't forgive if I should give the food of kids to dogs."
"It's true my Lord, I hear your word," the hag still claimed her cause,
"But the dogs still eat what the kids won't eat when to the floor it falls!"
Then The Man was stumped, to his feet he jumped, when he heard that woman's mot,
And he laughed out loud, and he whooped and howled, and his ruddy face did glow,
"Woman, I'm smote with a rueful note, your faith is plain to see;
You're sure not shy and that is why your girl's now sane and free."
So the woman went back, no faith she lacked, and found the girl just fine,
While Jesus sought and deeply thought to comprehend this sign.

Then he told this joke of the vicious bloke, a mean and venomous judge
Who did not care for God or prayer, who bragged he would not budge.
But a woman came, she caused him shame, harassed him night and day,
He was so distressed as her case she pressed that at last he did give way.
Then Jesus laughed at his unkind gaffe, of himself he told this jest,
For even the Lord, the Incarnate Word, was good, then better then best.

So remember this tale whenever you wail and your face is wearing a frown,
For Jesus' name is always the same, and him you can wear down.
He was born a Jew with a limited view, a child of Galilee,
As a boy he thought what his neighbors taught, he saw what they could see;
He was sometimes slow, 'cause he had to grow, but he learned at a faster pace;
He was sometimes blind but he did not mind when they stood up to his face.
His heart was good, not made of wood, then sorrow opened his eyes;
He suffered blows from dreadful foes, but them he'd not despise.
He drank the dregs, pain buckled his legs, it taught him how to care
For all the earth and each one's worth; our sadness he did share.
He's not mischievous so call on Jesus; he'll give you strength reborn.
He was given power in his final hour for those who are forlorn;
He knows your needs; your woe he heeds when you that name beseech;
So go out now, I’ve shown you how, cure one and all and each.