A Homily of Humility

As the newsbeasts wrangle over what-is-and-is-not-fake, BitCoin defies gravity and loses, and partisan politics takes all the fun out of Parties, allow me a small homily. A homilette?
Perhaps I will not wind up with egg on my face.

It has been a rough year, a tough year, a busy year of third shifting, and me without a 'Vette.

It has been a year of paucity of praise for the One with Whom we have to do. It is always better - or easier - to complain, or riot, or throw stones. We can always lose ourselves in playing THIS or binge-watching THAT, and forget what is troubling us, and forget that we are troubled by going our own way, taking our cues from Sinatra.

Mostly, we are wanted to forget that One with whom we have to do, Who did not come to us in a red suit, but came in no suit, very God made man, stripped of His splendour, born of the shunned virgin in a feedlot for sheep, a palace redolent of manure, the God-man sharing the squalor of a sin-spoiled world. An omnipotent baby, born to die.

We are in the season where it is easier to speak of Him, for how inoffensive is a baby in Bethlehem? Offensive enough to earn the murderous wrath of the king, and offensive enough to be tempted to throw His identity away for earthly fame and glory. This baby was to grow into a threat against the whole order of things on our silent planet.

So we celebrate the birth of a baby, who is born to die.
For you.
For me.

Therein is the offense. A sweet baby is permissible; a mangled, bleeding, crucified Son of God is not.
Let us therefore celebrate the birth of Jesus, as is your wont. Just be prepared to screw your courage to the sticking place, for Easter comes soon, and we must share the offense of the Cross with as much gusto as we share Silent Night, and Adeste Fidelis.

A blessed, merry Christmas to you all, with love from your humble...

The Aardvark