What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb.
If I were a wiseman, I would do my part.
Yet what I can I give him: give him my heart.
“In The Bleak Midwinter,” text by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Legend has it (or at least, the interwebs have it) that the poinsettia — a winter flower indigenous to Central America — came about when a young girl in Mexico who was too poor to purchase a gift to bring to Baby Jesus at the Christmas Eve service gathered a bouquet of weeds and brought the bouquet as her gift; placed humbly at the altar, the scraggly bouquet suddenly burst into bloom with beautiful red flowers.
To the celebration of an incarnate God, we come bearing merely bouquets of weeds — sermons written by stretched-too-thin ministers, carols sung lustily by barely-holding-it-together folks, hardly-controlled children’s pageants, candles held high against the dark night for but an hour. It’s not the God isn’t glorified by our meager gifts; it’s that the world’s need for miraculous life-mattering justice-blooming gifts is real and overwhelming:
#SydneySiege and #illridewithyou
Miraculous poinsettias are needed. What we have are bouquets of weeds. What we have, we offer. We offer A Blessing of the Light (Beth Richardson). We Say Yes to Love (CrustyBread). We offer Intentional Movement toward The Light of the World (An Unfinished Symphony). We invite each other to Have a Sneaky Subversive Little Christmas (Not All Who Wander Are Lost). We Ask for Help (PulpitShenanigans). We remind each other to dream of Shalom in Our Shattered Lives (Tribal Church).
Blessings to you, and peace on this Christmas Eve. If you have a bouquet of weeds to share, a bit of beauty and hope to a struggling world and stressed colleagues, please add your link in the comments.