Stable Eyes
Father, it is only a small cry mingling with the young girl Mary's low moans, the anxious beating of Joseph's heart as he bends close to her, the restless pawing of perplexed animals in the soft dirt. Such a brief sound dropped in the straw, just as Heaven's veil splits open above terrified shepherds hunkered in the night fields with their docile flocks. How is a newborn's wail heard over their fearful howls and the sudden mad bleating of the sheep? How is it not silenced beneath that glorious angelic uproar filling the sky?
But You, Father, are attuned to this one squalling note among all the others. It is the cry of Your Son. It is my cry. I AM born.
The man and girl shiver with exhaustion. The long plodding journey to Bethlehem and the strain and excitement of my birth have utterly wearied them. There are tremors of relief, too. They are mumbling my name. The one I have carried from before the foundation of the world.
“Jesus, Jesus,” they murmur, “the angel's word is true. You are here.”
Father, I have come just as we planned. Already I feel the constriction of these swaddling cloths. The helplessness of infancy. Neither am I accustomed to the blackness of the night. With You I dwelt in unending light. It is this I bring into the world. Light for a people who sit in darkness. Our people.
My mother rocks me in her arms with gentle movement. My infant eyes behold her in a blur. Yet I know the contours of her face. For I have watched over Mary as carefully as she now cradles me. I stir, and a whimper escapes. Even now I am grieved by how she will suffer at the foot of my Cross. I will look upon her in a blur then, too, through swollen and bloodshot eyes. And you Father, unlike this night, will turn Your face away.
My earthly father hovers near. His calloused thumb brushes my cheek. Joseph is a fine craftsman. A just man. Tender with Mary. Kindly toward me. Though he tries to conceal it, he is mystified by my presence. He touches me to see if I am real. Not so far from now—when I have shed this confining flesh for my resurrection body—another man will demand to sink his fist in my scarred side to test if I am real. He will shout, “My Lord and my God!”
These tired animals, their rest interrupted again, rouse at the approach of pounding feet. A company of shepherds, winded and disheveled, crowds the threshold. They have come seeking me, Father. A Savior who is Christ the Lord. Suspense weights the air. My glad cry of welcome in this expectant moment is all that I can offer. It wraps itself around sweaty limbs and clings to dormant hopes. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—our Triune joy piercing the night. We are the Godhead burrowed in hay.
Father, in this cramped and holy domain, among these few—and those who will see from afar—fix their gaze. Give them stable eyes.
