“And the Word became flesh,” your flesh, our flesh,
and our flesh at each moment of ever-presenting presence,
the divine breaking forth in the listening heart,
in the spirit open to the transreal transformation
breaking in without destroying or binding.
“And Mary kept all these things in her heart,”
pondering, reflecting, thinking about what unfolded
and was enfolding her in unseen mystery—
Mary in the darkness of faith-filled love,
not in the certainty of so-called knowledge.
And Joseph, long kept in the darkness of a story,
a man of action, wordless father of the incarnate word,
father not father in the storied sense,
silent in the shadows of unenquiring minds,
speaking through and in the son obscured.
Joseph and Mary, most vividly seen to wondering eyes
not in themselves, their storied characters,
but in their son, their mysterious son,
whose words and deeds bespeak the wisdom of Israel,
and the loving parenting he richly received.
Mary our mother in the darkness of faith,
Joseph our father in the obedience of faith,
both together in the word still becoming flesh,
our flesh, at each moment of ever-presenting presence:
the Word becoming flesh this very day.
