Shape and Substance

Not the Point

The star is not the point.
Nor is the manger nor the shepherds
nor the angelic caterwauling in the night.

The mother and father are not the point,
nor the cattle lowing while the world snores on,
nor—at the risk of heresy—the squalling newborn.

The Holy slips so softly into the world,
unnoticed in creation’s warp and weft,
the hawks laser-eyed for signs of voles
don’t see it. 

		Nor you, from tallest steeple.
It makes nary a ripple in the water
nor transubstantiates the bread and cup.
You’re bound to miss it. But know this: 

if urgency of affairs or commands of kings
would hustle you away from purported holiness—
fear not. The star is not the point.

Paul Hooker, The Longing: Poems. Eugene OR: Resource Publications, 2024, p.97. 

____

At the risk of antagonizing all my friends, I think Christmas is not about Baby Jesus or Mary and Joseph, or the shepherds and angels. They are, as the poem suggests, Not the Point. 

Once, on a hot August afternoon now more than thirty-four years ago, I waited in a long line that snaked through courtyard beside the sanctuary of the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, wound its way down stone stairs into the basement. I was waiting to see the Site of the Nativity, the place where, it was said, the manger once stood that cradled the newborn Jesus. I was, I think, vaguely hoping to capture some sense of the Holy, that rarefied Something that had brought pilgrims like me to this site for how many centuries. The line filed past an ornate grotto the size of a manorial fireplace. The space was hung with thuribles secreting incense-laden smoke that mainly contributed to the oppressive closeness and humidity of the choked and crowded passageway. At its center, bolted to the floor, was a metal star, intended, I suppose, to mark the precise location of the Incarnation. As I approached, I could sense my anticipation growing, almost against my will (I didn't and don't think this was the Actual Spot...but what if it was?), sense myself hoping for an encounter with the Holy (however unlikely). I paused before the grotto, waiting in expectation. Was it here?

'Twas not to be. A security guard hired by the Church and charged with the task of crowd management prodded me on, pointing in the direction of the long line behind me. "Close in two hours" he managed in broken English (was it that obvious I was American?), "Many people behind you. Move on please." I moved, and the Holy—if it was there at all—receded into the incense cloud and evanesced.

Out in the August sunlight again, I wondered what I had waited in line to see: a tin star riveted to a church basement floor? An over-large fireplace stuffed with the paraphernalia deposited by generations of the religious? A tourist trap? I still don't know. 

I decided to cross the square in front of the Church to a souvenir shop apparently frequented by those released from their Visit to the Manger. Suddenly, I was missing Pat, at home halfway around the world. So I bought her a malachite necklace, which she still has in her jewelry case. Every time I see it, I am back before the grotto, beclouded by incense and jostled by the crowd. Every time I see it, I am waiting again for the faintest glimpse of the robe-hem of the Holy, retreating from view. That day, I thought I had been deprived of my moment with the Numinous. But perhaps not....