A light beyond time
The night is indeed holy. The stars in the heavens shine like lonely hearts, seemingly close and yet so so far away. It is not nearly as silent, though. The bellowing of bovines punctuates the midnight's gathering gloom. For what reason do they c...
The night is indeed holy. The stars in the heavens shine like lonely hearts, seemingly close and yet so so far away.
It is not nearly as silent, though. The bellowing of bovines punctuates the midnight's gathering gloom. For what reason do they call out? Objecting to the cold? Offering comfort to one another, in the uncertain hold of the stockman's keep?
This is a season of gifts. To the world, it is said, a gift was given. To one another, the same-and so the ages echo with each other. At this time, all the epochs are joined. A ceaseless chain, linked of charity and compassion, of pride and of power. This is the time where the master serves the slaves. It is a celebration older than you think. Lo Saturnalia, and Merry Christmas indeed.
In this time we understand, briefly and chiefly, that we are not so different after all. We understand that we who have much can give to those who have little. And those who have little can give to those who have none. And those who have none shall have plenty instead, if only a single kindly hand is offered.
There is no truth deeper than love. There is no love greater than that shared between human beings. For we are reflections of a greater form, and we are the shape of the moon on the waters. Give to one, and give to all, and let your pain stir you to purpose-not to share in suffering, but to rejoice in small comforts.
Say "I love you." Say it at least once. Say it-and mean it. We are fools to lock up our hearts, we are fools to think that our temples should be barred to those who would give offering. We have grown bitter at those who would steal from the offerings and spit upon blessings and yea, we are all of us in some manner touched by the cruel hands of those who have forgotten the face of their father.
Yet though evil may enter through an open gate, so too may virtue and so too can compassion. To live in this world is to accept the sweetness of frankincense and to bask in the luster of gold, gifts we delight in. Yet another gift is given, a bitter herb with sharp thorns, and yet it is myrrh which might dress our wounds and make us whole again.
You cannot have bliss without sorrow. This, too, is something given, for the world gives in abundance and not a single inch of it is frivolous. The pain you feel is the fertile soil in which the roots of compassion may take hold. Do not cast salt to the earth, and then bemoan that nothing will grow.
You are all more beautiful than you know. The love within you may slumber, it may stir, it may sing with a voice greater than heaven or it may rattle mournfully, locked in a cage-but it is you, within and without, unceasingly and deathless besides. Understand this, and you shall lose all fear. Understand this, and you shall bear a gift that can be forever given, renewed in a moment and lasting beyond time and space.
I love you, you know. Perhaps it goes without saying-but say it all the same. In every home, in every household. Even if you find yourself alone in a darkened room, say it, and let it fill the still air. This night, and every night, let it not be silent, for it is your power and your privilege to make it holy.
Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas! And to all, a good night.