A poem by Rich Bowpitt, performed at the Oasis Church Christmas Eve Communion Service in 2019.
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Into the night, light.
A universe stirred by a word heard across the ages. Home’s life outgoing to overflowing, galaxies growing and showing the love they’ve been knowing. Big bang bursting into brilliant brightness and birthing billions of beings.
Into the night, light.
Creator crafts from cosmic chaos, home honed from formless to flawless, from empty to plenty, from mess to finesse; an extravagant excess to confess the kindness of this kind of God.
Into the night, light.
From the triune comes a garden in bloom, bride and groom with room to roam and rest and reign; just refrain from tasting that tree. Slippery serpent softly suggests the word that conferred had been misheard. Man concurred, lines blurred, fruit preferred. Judgement incurred.
Home deferred.
Out of the light, night.
Home deferred, but God undeterred. A word heard across the ages echoes again: He’s coming. He’s coming.
Look for signs that define the divine design for death’s decline through this family line.
Glimpses of the garden as, from Egypt they fled, supernaturally led, to tread on seabeds and find daily bread. Pockets of paradise in battles fought and law taught and miracles wrought as home is sought. Sights of salvation in seventh-day stops and priest’s temple props and river-giving rocks; signposts in the sand to the true promised land that his hand has planned.
Yet darkness descends and silence settles, home’s outposts always “almost”; human endeavour can never forever sever the sting of sin the serpent brought in. Night and light, light and night ensnared in despair we share; awaiting an heir to answer prayer and declare he’s repaired the everywhere-tear. Awaiting an abating of the separating thing that springs from within.
Finesse left a mess, plenty left empty, flawless left formless, the promise left pending.
Night, never ending?
He’s coming.
Into the ordinary.
On an empire’s errand, an engaged but expecting maiden’s migrating.
In distant deserts, diviners decipher age-altering astrological anomalies.
Under starry skies solitary shepherds sit alongside sleeping sheep.
Scene set.
Silence.
Into the ordinary, extraordinary.
Sky split, lit with life as legions of light take flight to fill the night, the sight causing fright til the words “it’s alright, don’t fear, come hear news of great cheer…he’s here, come, draw near.”
Into the night, light.
Angels tell of Immanuel come to dwell on this first noel, the one long-awaited, the Word incarnated, the liberator whose fate is to create a new way. He’s here. Great joy; this boy, come to destroy death, defend the oppressed, free the possessed, bring true rest, be God expressed, yet born into mess. This one who’s high above all, utterly unequalled, leaves angels enthralled, yet so, so small. The true game-changer, our salvation-arranger, sin-exchanger, asleep in a manger.
He’s here.
No fable, the God who is able, born in a stable to enable this table. On behalf of the three, he’s hung on a tree; a jubilee decree to guarantee to you and to me that we’re free. Eve’s seed bleeds to intercede, and succeeds. The rolled-away-stone declares darkness overthrown, says home can be known, that you’re never alone, for he calls you his own.
And a word heard across the ages echoes again, “everyone come, night’s undone, light has won, home’s begun”.
