Christmas Week take One

 

During this season of Christmas, we want to share two poems with you to stir your hearts and sit in your souls.  Poetry asks us to slow down.  You cannot rush or race your way through a poem.  Unlike a refrigerator repair manual, there is no step-by-step guide in a poem.  There is no “correct” answer to a poem.  There is only the experience of the poem.  Today, I invite you to read Billy Collins Questions About Angels.

 

Before you even read the poem, what questions do you have about angels?  If you had a chance to interview the herald angels at Jesus’ birth, what might you ask?  What have you always wondered about these messengers of God?  That is what “angel” means – a messenger.  I wonder what songs the angels sang to the shepherd?  I wonder did they sing acapella or play an instrument?  I wonder if you have ever heard an angel sing?  What messages would you like to receive right now from God?  I know I have a thousand questions I would like God to text me about concerning the virus, how we treat each other, how to share Christ’s love, who will win the Super Bowl, how should I lead a church right now when there is a thick fog over everything we seem to do and normal isn’t anywhere in sight?  And those are the questions just off the top of my head.

 

What questions do you have for the divine dancing within you? 

 

Then, slowly read the following poem.  You may wish to read the words aloud.

 

Of all the questions you might want to ask

about angels, the only one you ever hear

is how many can dance on the head of a pin.

 

No curiosity about how they pass the eternal time

besides circling the Throne chanting in Latin

or delivering a crust of bread to a hermit on earth

or guiding a boy and girl across a rickety wooden bridge.

 

Do they fly through God's body and come out singing?

Do they swing like children from the hinges

of the spirit world saying their names backwards and forwards?

Do they sit alone in little gardens changing colors?

 

What about their sleeping habits, the fabric of their robes,

their diet of unfiltered divine light?

What goes on inside their luminous heads? Is there a wall

these tall presences can look over and see hell?

 

If an angel fell off a cloud, would he leave a hole

in a river and would the hole float along endlessly

filled with the silent letters of every angelic word?

 

If an angel delivered the mail, would he arrive

in a blinding rush of wings or would he just assume

the appearance of the regular mailman and

whistle up the driveway reading the postcards?

 

No, the medieval theologians control the court.

The only question you ever hear is about

the little dance floor on the head of a pin

where halos are meant to converge and drift invisibly.

 

It is designed to make us think in millions,

billions, to make us run out of numbers and collapse

into infinity, but perhaps the answer is simply one:

one female angel dancing alone in her stocking feet,

a small jazz combo working in the background.

 

She sways like a branch in the wind, her beautiful

eyes closed, and the tall thin bassist leans over

to glance at his watch because she has been dancing

forever, and now it is very late, even for musicians.

 

May the poem/prayer above continue to help you celebrate the mystery of Christ’s birth every day this week.  Amen.