At the end of the Christmas season and on Epiphany (January 6, which marks the visit of the Magi and God's light to all people), I think about the continuing, unusual draw of unlikely people to an unlikely place in the heart—Bethlehem—and I offer the following poem:
First, census-responding throngs
swell the local populace,
burgeoning homes and hostels
with not-so-welcome guests.
Then, a man and pregnant young woman
arrive, seeking vainly for a room.
Bedding down in a stable,
their boy is born among livestock.
Later in the night, gnarled shepherds
traipse in, finding their way
to the mangered newborn,
just as an angel had told them.
How much later we do not know, Magi
come with gracious gifts,
following a star that draws them
from beyond any traceable map.
And later still, from the four corners
of earth and time, we make our trek.
Are we the last to arrive
at the gathering in
Years from now, until the end of ages,
more will be drawn and find the One
whose birth angels once proclaimed
and so shall forevermore.