“On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity” - Christmas Midnight

John Milton was born on December 9th 1608 in London. The English poet, pamphleteer, and historian, is arguably the most significant English author after William Shakespeare. He rose to literary and also political prominence at a time when England was building towards Civil War. His best-known work is of course “Paradise Lost,” regarded by many as the greatest epic poem in the English language.

One of his earliest poems “Ode on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity” may be less well known, but it so very fitting for a Christmas meditation, and I would like to reflect on it just a little this evening, or at least the prologue to it. I have printed out a shortened version, from Malcolm Guite’s book, Waiting on the Word (Canterbury Press, 2015) just in case you might like to mediate on it further after your Christmas turkey or on Boxing Day.

Milton was a young man when he wrote this poem; twenty-one years old and still a student at Cambridge University. It has all the naïve flamboyance and idealism of youth, but it is also the work of a student of the Scriptures, who has caught hold of the power of myth and the transformative reality of mystical spiritual experience.

 This is the month, and this the happy morn,

Wherein the Son of Heav'n's eternal King,

Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,

Our great redemption from above did bring;

For so the holy sages once did sing,

That he our deadly forfeit should release,

And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

Our Christmas gospel tells this same tale in ancient prose. This is indeed a “happy morn.” This is the morning that the angel proclaimed to the humble shepherds, those working through the cold of night “good news of great joy.” They believed, and went to see for themselves this wedded Maid and Virgin Mother, this “child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” This child of a poor refugee family. And yet, as they watched, the heavens themselves burst into angelic song: “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favours!” Perpetual peace is born. Civil wars may build and burst into violent conflict, even religious conflict, but peace and hope are still to be found in this Christ Child.

See how from far upon the eastern road

The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:

O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,

And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;

Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,

And join thy voice unto the angel quire,

From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.

This fourth stanza tells of the young poet’s gift. The star-led magi, these wizards, the wise rulers who have travelled so far, they bring odours sweet, gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. But the energetic bard rushes ahead of them with his little gift. It is a poem, a humble ode, drawn from the heavenly Muse, the sacred vein, the far-beaming blaze of majesty, the light of eternal Trinity; a gift for the Infant God.

Milton brings a hymn for the Christ Child, a human offering of song. Perhaps we too bring our own humble offering of song on this night of Christmas carols, as our choir leads us in motet and stunning baroque mass setting. With the poet, we join our voices with those of the angelic choirs; together we greet our Lord as he is laid on the secret altar of the manger; by God’s grace we too are touched by the mystery of God’s holy mystic fire, the fire of the Spirit, the fire of love.

These are the gifts that really matter at Christmas time; the gifts of love, and song, and mystery, and God’s grace. They are transformative gifts. We are changed when this fire of the Holy Spirit touches us. Perhaps just in small ways at first, but over a lifetime of practicing prayer, and compassion, and forgiveness, the song of Christmas becomes incarnate in who we are as human beings and as the people of God. Not perfect, but redeemed, and perhaps again humbled from time to time.

 Yea, Truth and Justice then

Will down return to men,

Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,

Mercy will sit between,

Thron'd in celestial sheen,

With radiant feet the tissu'd clouds down steering;

And Heav'n, as at some festival,

Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.

Ours is not an easy, convenient or comfortable faith; something we can put on and off like this year’s favourite clothing. The Christ Child on is manger-altar is no less than the promised Messiah, the Judge of all. His clarion call is Truth and Justice. He is orbed in a rainbow. He is Mercy. He is the festival, opening wide the gates, inviting all people to feast at the banquet table.

As we share in Holy Communion, as we eat the bread and drink the wine of midnight Mass, we touch and are touched by an ancient mystery. As on that happy morn in Bethlehem, the mystery of the real presence of Christ is manifest in our midst. Emmanuel. God is with us. And, transformed, we are each called to be bearers of this message, this great mystery, this good news of great joy.

The Lord be with you.