Let’s face it: for all its grim-faced cheer and goodwill, Christmas is a bloody awe-full season.
Before the box of torn, discarded wrapping paper has made it out to the recycling bin, we’ve moved from Christmas Day straight into St Stephen’s Day: the remembrance of the first person whose decision to follow the Christmas-babe-grown-up cost him his own life; stoned to death, his crimson blood slowly congealing, mixed with the dusty ground.
And then, just days later, Holy Innocents’ Day: the remembrance of the baby boys of
And what of us? What of me?
Am I willing to take the risk of being a combatant; or will I settle for the risk of being a non-combatant?
Am I willing to be a combatant only in as far as my children are somewhere safe; or am I wise enough to know that nowhere is safe, and that I do my children no favours to pretend otherwise, to fail to train them in the way of combat?
This is the story the season of Christmas asks me to join in. This is the story the season of Christmas sustains me in as I respond.
Have a bloody awe-full Christmas…and a re-invigorated journey into the New Year.