divine, vol. 1, 296.
34. The four weeks of Advent in ancient symbolism stood for the four comings of God’s Son: the first in the earthly body, the second in the hearts of believers, the third at the resurrection of the dead, and the fourth at the day of judgment.
35. The length of the Saturnalia varied from three days to seven, depending on the edicts of the emperors, who sometimes tried to shorten the time in which courts and commerce were closed.
36. Lucian, “Saturnalia,” 2, in The Works of Lucian, vol. 4, 108.
37. Chrysostom, In Kalendas, Patrologia Graeca, 48:953–62. For a comparison of the perspectives of John and Libanius, see Graf, “Fights about Festivals,” 175–86.
38. Mather, Grace Defended, 20.
39. Ibid.
40. Nissenbaum, Battle for Christmas, 261–2.
41. August Hermann Franke, “Rules for the Protection of Conscience and for Good Order in Conversation or in Society,” in Erb, ed., Pietists, 111–12.
42. Clement, Paedagogus 2.5.
43. Ibid.
44. Severus, Vita S. Martini 27.1.
45. Saint Benedict’s Rule 4.8. Benedict teaches “not to be given to empty laughter on every least occasion because: ‘A fool’s voice is forever raised in laughter’ (Sirach 21:23),” 7.17.
46. Aquinas, Summa Theologiae 2.2, q. 168, a. 3. So says Moses Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, book 1.2, cited by Thomas: “A man shall not be full of laughter and mockery, nor sad and mournful, but joyful. Thus the wise men said: ‘Laughter and levity bring about illicit sexual conduct.’ They commanded that a man not be unrestrained in laughter, nor sad and mournful, but that he receive every man with a cheerful demeanor.”
47. Chesterton, Orthodoxy, 125.
48. Translated by F. Douce and quoted in Miles, Christmas in Ritual and Tradition, 36.
49. Ibid., 47.
50. Quoted from Nissenbaum, Battle for Christmas, 9.
51. Jacobs, Incidents in the Life, 180. Cited in Nissenbaum, Battle for Christmas, 289. See also Restad, Christmas in America, 75–91.
The Breath of Heaven
The story of Christmas does not begin in Bethlehem with songs of angels, shepherds, and wise men. We must at least go back to the conception of our Lord in the womb of Mary months earlier. As we learn, this event occurs during the sixth month of Elizabeth’s pregnancy with the baby John, Jesus’ cousin. And so, it is a story of conception within a story of pregnancy. One effect of this narrative setting is to remind us of the human dimension. The reader feels pulled down from the lofty heights of heaven and into the nursery. We find to our surprise and delight that the nursery is replete with theological mystery and spiritual truth. The enigma of the incarnation begins with the fact that for nine months the eternal and omnipotent Son of the living God curled up and gestated in the watery silence of the womb. In absolute helplessness and vulnerability he remained inside Mary and so identified with the tender beginnings of every human being on earth.
In addition to that, his beginning anticipates his end. As he was wrapped in the warm darkness of Mary’s womb, so he would eventually be wrapped in the cold emptiness of Joseph of Arimathea’s tomb. As he submitted to the fragility of the fetus, so he submitted to the destitution of death. As he laid in the quiet heartbeat rhythm of gestation, so his wrung-out body was laid on a slab of stone. And so, the Son emptied himself twice over: once to life and once to lifelessness, once to the helplessness of infanthood and once to the defenselessness of death.
For now, we return to the grand gesture by which the Word of Life submits to the womb of Mary. But first, Mary must say Yes.
The One They Call Mary
Our chapter opens on the famous scene known as the annunciation when the archangel Gabriel drops softly from the clouds before the unwed girl Mary to announce the child in her womb. The scene is rich with aesthetics, meanings, and deep pools of reflection. I want to consider the moment just after Gabriel has made his pronouncement “you will conceive” but before Mary has consented to it. I’m referring to the blank space between verse 37 and 38, between Gabriel’s calm reminder that “with God nothing shall be impossible” (Luke 1:37, KJV) and Mary’s resolution, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word” (Luke 1:38, KJV). The faithful archangel delivers his message concerning the child to be born and answers Mary’s worried questions about how this could be since she is a virgin. And then there is a moment, just a brief pause in time, when everything hangs in the balance, frozen, as we await the girl’s reply. This act of God will not be forced upon her. She must choose it, will it, acknowledge it, give her assent to it.
There is so much we would like to know about the setting and unfolding of this dramatic scene, and yet so much is left unsaid in the text. Does the annunciation take place at night, at daybreak, or in the afternoon? Does Gabriel appear to Mary in an open field or in the cramped quarters of her home? Does he stand straight-backed with wings outstretched or does he kneel before her with head bowed? Does his voice sound like the cracking of rock or like the combing of a brush through hair? Does Mary look upon her celestial visitor with calm curiosity or avert her eyes in fear? Does she answer immediately or does she take a moment of silence to weigh her response?
For me, at least, the moment of Mary’s decision is captured by the perfect grace of Leonardo da Vinci’s brush in his translucently painted annunciation on display at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. Painted in oil and tempera on a wood panel when he was still a young apprentice, the work radiates the budding genius of da Vinci (1452–1519). The viewer feels less like someone looking at a picture and more like someone who has just stepped inside an internally lit diorama. In da Vinci’s painting, the angel, who has just alighted from heaven and landed silently onto a flowery lawn, lifts his eyes from his kneeling bow to meet those of the girl. He raises his right hand in the sign of peace and poses the question. Mary, one finger holding a page of text that she seems to have been reading, pulls her other hand back in surprise. But her face does not show open-mouthed shock. Neither is it giddy or girlish. She expresses wonder and composed resolution.
Bernard of Clairvaux narrates the dramatic moment:
The angel awaits your reply, for it is time that he should return
