With Christmas just around the corner, I thought I'd dust off this little piece, which is one of my favourite Midnight Mass sermons....

O Holy Night

It was a warm night, the earth beneath his feet was still offering up the last of the sun's heat, stored during the day.  He kicked the ground deliberately, just to watch the dust drift away into the gloaming like smoke from a fire, enjoying the sharp edges of the grit-like soil against the skin of his toes.  He liked to be able to feel things. He was a practical man, used to working with his hands, solving problems, and getting things done. Perhaps that's why he was out here. He'd been feeling particularly useless, just standing about whilst the women bustled around Mary, making sure she was as comfortable as she could be, saying the right things to her (how they knew what the right things were was beyond him).  Not all the women mind, just one or two - cousins of his no doubt, but he couldn't recall their names. They knew what they were doing, they'd seen birth before - he hadn't. So he'd stood there, occasionally poking the fire, until the sense of uselessness had become overpowering - and then he'd wandered across the courtyard, lifted the latch on the gate and come out here, onto the hills. They probably hadn't even noticed him leave.

He could have gone upstairs, of course, and joined the party; relatives from all around gathered back here for the census.  But then it would have all been smalltalk, and people pressing in on him, asking after Mary. And what he needed was space. Space to think; space to pray.  It's strange how, now it had come to this night, that he didn't know what he felt. Nine months ago he'd been angry, and then puzzled, and then proud... He'd watched Mary swell, and occasionally tried to imagine it was his, after all.  But he knew it wasn't. And over it all floated angels, and saviours, and God - things you could only talk about, and not touch. He liked to touch things, it's how he understood.

He reached out his hand to brush the bark of the tree next to him, tracing the rough grooves, and intricate patterns, the mountains, and the valleys.  He liked olive wood, it always made beautiful things. He imagined himself back home, sanding a block down, making the rough places level, the rugged places plain.  

The wind pushed it's way through his thoughts, and into the leaves above him, adding its own peculiar rustle to the gentle chirruping of the insects all around.  And then, suddenly, everything was still.

It was as if, for a moment, the curtain of the world had been torn in two to reveal the full depth of reality behind; as if, for a moment, lightning had come from the east and flashed as far as the west: the darkness of the night pierced with glorious light.  Time fell away, as a single-heartbeat encompassed forever. The whole of existence held its breath, and in the silence of that moment could be heard the worship of the angels - chords of crystal and fire soaring away into eternity.  

And then, as if it were too much to bear, the night snapped back into place, the black pouring in, as if trying to smother the dawn.  Slowly the stars reappeared. Somewhere in the distance, a donkey brayed; and, much closer, a baby cried - stretching his lungs for the first time. 

Joseph lowered his eyes from the heavens, and retraced his steps back to the stable to meet Mary's child.  It wasn't a long walk, but it took an age, and was filled from beginning to end with only one thought, 'I will be his Father, and he will be my Son.'  In the years that followed, he could never remember whose thought that was.

Eventually he was back, the sounds of merriment still leaking through the roof from upstairs.  He crossed the courtyard, eager now, and without seeing brushed past whichever cousin it was, pushing on to Mary and the baby, because nothing else mattered.

And then he found himself looking at the child.  It looked back at him, with the timeless wisdom carved into the folds and ripples of any newborn face.  He began to kneel, to see the miracle more closely, and he saw. He saw true Wisdom lurking in the depths of the child's eyes; he saw the reflection of God's glory; he saw the exact imprint of God's very being.  

And as Joseph knelt there, terrified, his hand resting against the rough wood, he watched as that innocent face, streaked with blood, opened wide and began to shout into the night.  It was a scream shared by every child, the cry of terror and confusion at having been born; and it was the scream shared by every man, the cry of anger and fear at having to die.

Without thought Joseph took the child to his breast, offering to take its suffering upon himself, absorbing it in the power of a father's love.  And held close against his chest, secure in his embrace, the baby murmured once more, and fell asleep.