It was a dark and stormy night. As always, I hid under the blanket with an apple, a copy of the Encyclopædia Britannica and a tiny flashlight.
On this occasion, I was engrossed with the sixth volume (Châtelet to Constantine), namely the entry on Christmas. I needed to prepare my arguments for next week’s theology club dispute. And I considered it a ‘dispute’ because rarely was the debate civil. It tended to be more like a wrestling smackdown of biblical proportions.
According to the text, the body of gospel tradition began not with the birth, but the baptism. And Herod the Great ordered the ‘massacre of the innocents’ which was news to me. Hm. Were there really three wise men? Mum and Dad never said anything to me about a census either. And why were the dates listed vague at best?
Anxious, I stared at the holes in my hands. There was no way I was going to win with such lame argumentation. In frustration, I bit my flashlight instead of the apple. Everything plunged into darkness.
But then I pulled myself together. No, those who’d believe would… well, simply believe. I adjusted the light of my halo over the page and read on.
if theirs was the path not followed
then how could we have ever known
of their hopes veiled, atwist in shame
yet now we know departing eden saved our lives
from the tyrant we thought we knew
meta alpha spitting swords of flame
pious choirs cleaved to the throne
he churned their psalms into a voice of ruin
his shadow sloped through every heartland
so now we know
that whenever he swore to bury us
each variance of will collapsed their brains
they tore themselves on the teeth that hound
we truly blest have truly moved on
presuming to carry gentle our selves
’til we wake to say the soft parts loud
it’s all we know
that if you’re enough then i am too
so will you be my hello for the last time
and tell everyone i love them