Moved

You ask me whether I’ve ever been moved by the baby Jesus.

Well I’ve held a newborn baby
And felt the grace and astonishment of potential, and screaming need
And I’ve looked into the eyes of a child
Pools of innocence and wonder
And wondered where I mislaid mine

Have I ever been moved by the baby Jesus?
I’ve sat in the quiet to train myself
To look at the world anew
And tried to shed the phrase “born again”
Of its dogma and doctrine
Reclaiming it for fresh eyed truth
Though it’s still but through a glass, darkly

Have I ever been moved by the baby Jesus?
I’ve heard carols almost celestial, over the radio
On crisp white Christmas Eves
And felt my spine tingle to Handel’s refrain
“Unto us a son is given”
Even as I’ve crossed my mental fingers, quibbling at the theology

Have I ever been moved by the baby Jesus?
I’ve ranted and raved about festive consumerism
Hailed the man himself with the moneylenders’ tables
And I’ve railed at the mawkish sentimentality of it all
And those little Lapland lies
And known I am right, whilst still also somehow missing the point

Have I ever been moved by the baby Jesus?
I’ve seen pictures of suffering kids on the TV
Reached into my pockets like millions of others
I’m sure the starving still don’t know it’s Christmas
And I’ve felt guilty and empty by the inadequacy of my response

Have I ever been moved by the baby Jesus?
I’ve heard the tale of the Christmas truce
Football, cigarettes, joviality
In No Man’s land
Lads barely grown
Didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to die
A brief chink of light through tragedy’s dark cloud
And something about its earthiness and futility
Conjures up those bleak words
“In this world of pain”[1]
And the knowing that every Christmas has its Friday of reckoning
And suddenly I am touched
More than by all the Power, Glory, Angels, Archangels and the whole company of heaven
And than by all the gentle Jesus, meek and mild
That unbelievable non-crying child

So, you ask me again, whether I’ve ever been moved by the baby Jesus.
Well, I’ve seen too many dolls to not tell you straight:
It doesn’t go in through my front door
There really isn’t any room at the inn
But I think there’s still a stable round the back of my heart I can put him in.

[Published in The Inquirer, 8 December 2012, no. 7808]

[1] Referring to the words of the modified version of In the Bleak Midwinter found in Hymns for Living no. 87 (additions by John Andrew Storey)