So I've been cheating on Advent, I've been sneaking into Christmas music and I'm going to boast about it. So if you are one of those few who successfully waits to put up the tree until Dec. 24th, you might want to save this post for later. This year, in addition to my favorite Sufjan Stevens Christmas albums and The McGarrigle Christmas Hour, I now get to be filled with cheer by Tori Amos and Sting as well. I am especially fond of Tori's "Star of Wonder." Why she couldn't have launched that album at Grace Cathedral I don't know, the Men & Boy's Choir would have provided amazing backup vocals.
This early step into Christmas is partly due to planning Incarnate, an adventure of sorts for St. Cyprian's where we've invited a few rockabilly musicians to play some seasonal tunes and other folks to share poetry. You can join us on the next two Thursday nights at 8 p.m. The poem that gets me most serious about the meaning of Christmas, isn't a carol or a hymn but a poem by San Francisco Beat poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Christ Climbed Down.
Christ climbed down from His bare Tree this year and ran away to where there were no rootless Christmas trees hung with candycanes and breakable stars Christ climbed down from His bare Tree this year and ran away to where there were no gilded Christmas trees and no tinsel Christmas trees and no tinfoil Christmas trees and no pink plastic Christmas trees and no gold Christmas trees and no black Christmas trees and no powderblue Christmas trees hung with electric candles and encircled by tin electric trains and clever cornball relatives Christ climbed down from His bare Tree this year and ran away to where no intrepid Bible salesmen covered the territory in two-tone cadillacs and where no Sears Roebuck creches complete with plastic babe in manger arrived by parcel post the babe by special delivery and where no televised Wise Men praised the Lord Calvert Whiskey Christ climbed down from His bare Tree this year and ran away to where no fat handshaking stranger in a red flannel suit and a fake white beard went around passing himself off as some sort of North Pole saint crossing the desert to Bethlehem Pennsylvania in a Volkswagen sled drawn by rollicking Adirondack reindeer and German names and bearing sacks of Humble Gifts from Saks Fifth Avenue for everybody's imagined Christ child Christ climbed down from His bare Tree this year and ran away to where no Bing Crosby carollers groaned of a tight Christmas and where no Radio City angels iceskated wingless thru a winter wonderland into a jinglebell heaven daily at 8:30 with Midnight Mass matinees Christ climbed down from His bare Tree this year and softly stole away into some anonymous Mary's womb again where in the darkest night of everybody's anonymous soul He awaits again an unimaginable and impossibly Immaculate Reconception the very craziest of Second Comings