Merry Christmas on this the second day of twelve days of feasting and rejoicing! Today is also the Feast of St. Stephen, one of the first deacons of the Church and the first martyr for the Christian faith. Trinity is blessed with a beautiful window depicting St. Stephen in the staircase leading to the north transept balcony. Take a moment to appreciate it this coming Sunday. Remember, on this First Sunday after Christmas there is only one service at 10:00 a.m. We return to our full schedule on the twelfth day of (and Second Sunday after) Christmas, January 5!

Things are quiet at Trinity during the Twelve Days of Christmas as our staff and volunteers enjoy a time of celebration and rest with their families and friends. We are so grateful for all those who made our glorious Christmas celebrations possible on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Thank you, and thank you to all who worshipped with us on the Feast of the Incarnation!

For my Dispatch today, I wish to share three poems with you. One is a well-known carol that begins with a mention of this day–the Feast of Stephen. While it is otherwise unrelated to the day itself and really tells the story of the title character, King Wenceslas of Bohemia, it is notable that Stephen’s ministry as a deacon involved caring for poor and hungry folks just as Wenceslas does. We know the first stanza and the tune, but the whole carol is a powerful call to generosity and charity, especially at this holy time.

The second poem was written by the English Jesuit priest Robert Southwell on the Incarnation of Christ. I was glad to share it with the Men of Trinity Tuesday Bible study before Christmas, and I thought others might appreciate its delightful paradoxes and profound Eucharistic reflection.

The final poem today is by Sir John Betjeman, a 20th-century poet with a particular love and appreciation for Victorian architecture and English parish churches, who offers his own profound Eucharistic reflection in the words below.

God bless you, and Merry Christmas!

“Good King Wenceslas”

Good King Wenceslas looked out,
on the Feast of Stephen,
when the snow lay round about,
deep and crisp and even.
Brightly shone the moon that night,
though the frost was cruel,
when a poor man came in sight
gathering winter fuel.

“Hither, page, and stand by me,
if thou know’st it, telling:
yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?”
“Sire, he lives a good league hence,
underneath the mountain
right against the forest fence
by Saint Agnes fountain.”

“Bring me flesh and bring me wine,
bring me pine logs hither.
Thou and I shall see him dine
when we bear them thither.”
Page and monarch, forth they went,
forth they went together.
Through the rude winds’ wild lament
and the bitter weather.

“Sire, the night is darker now
and the wind blows stronger.
Fails my heart, I know not how!
I can go no longer.”
“Mark my footsteps, good my page,
tread thou in them boldly.
Thou shalt find the winter’s rager
freeze thy blood less coldly.”

In his master’s steps he trod,
where the snow lay dinted.
Heat was in the very sod
which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure–
wealth or rank possessing–
ye who now will bless the poor
shall yourselves find blessing.

The Nativity of Christ, by Robert Southwell

Behold the father is his daughter’s son,
The bird that built the nest is hatch’d therein,
The old of years an hour hath not outrun,
Eternal life to live doth now begin,
The word is dumb, the mirth of heaven doth weep,
Might feeble is, and force doth faintly creep.

O dying souls! behold your living spring!
O dazzled eyes! behold your sun of grace!
Dull ears, attend what word this word doth bring!
Up, heavy hearts, with joy your joy embrace!
From death, from dark, from deafness, from despairs,
This life, this light, this word, this joy repairs.

Gift better than Himself God doth not know,
Gift better than his God no man can see;
This gift doth here the giver given bestow,
Gift to this gift let each receiver be:
God is my gift, Himself He freely gave me,
God’s gift am I, and none but God shall have me.

Man alter’d was by sin from man to beast;
Beast’s food is hay, hay is all mortal flesh;
Now God is flesh, and lies in manger press’d,
As hay the brutest sinner to refresh:
Oh happy field wherein this fodder grew,
Whose taste doth us from beasts to men renew!

Christmas, by Sir John Betjeman

The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that the villagers can say
‘The church looks nice’ on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze,
Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze,
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says ‘Merry Christmas to you all’.

And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children’s hearts are glad.
And Christmas-morning bells say ‘Come!’
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true?  And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue,
A Baby in an ox’s stall ?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me ?

And is it true?  For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare–
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.

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