Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

 Come. Come to this Christmas altar. Bring any and all that have or have not been invited. Come and come again.  ... Who is knocking? Anyone you have left out and refused to embrace fully. Saying "Open your heart to me, I am your Christmas gift to yourself." I SEE!! It is Christ being born. Christ is this hand, this body, this Blood. Let that be the gift that keeps giving. The altar keeps growing. Heart opening and embracing, The True gifts of this Christmas that keep giving.

 It was still easy for her in the beginning, only when climbing she would be aware of her heavy womb, - and then she stood, breathing, on the Jewish mountains. But not the land spread about her, but her fullness; and while walking she knew: nowhere was there such fullness as hers. And she felt compelled to feel with her hand the womb of hers who was further along. Toward each other they swayingly stepped and caressed the dress and hair. Each woman was filled with sacred life and safe and at ease with the relative. And though the savior was hardly in bloom, the Baptist in the cousin's womb already jumped for joy,

  This is no time for a child to be born, With the earth betrayed by war & hate And a comet slashing the sky to warn That time runs out & the sun burns late. That was no time for a child to be born, In a land in the crushing grip of Rome; Honour & truth were trampled by scorn- Yet here did the Saviour make his home. When is the time for love to be born? The inn is full on the planet earth, And by a comet the sky is torn- Yet Love still takes the risk of birth.

That despite the roar of our day, our hearts might grow still. That glimpsing that quiet cove, we might seek you in that stillness. That resting in Your presence, our hearts might be prepared to hear You. That the Angel of God might visit the chamber of our hearts. That the Angel of God might say, 'Rejoice'. That we might hear, and truly respond in joy. That the Angel of God might say to us, 'Receive'. That the servant of God might respond, 'Let it be as You say'. That our hearts might become fertile wombs in which new life begins. That we might apprehend the infant life within. That we might embrace that infant life. That we might walk with care to bring about new birth. That we might witness the seed of of God bearing Holy Fruit.

Early morning darkness beckons. Wrapped in robe and last-quarter moonlight, I stand, pulled by a cold simplicity toward the threshold of myself - edge of starlight, edge of stable - where resounds the ancient Gloria.

If you want, the Virgin will come walking down the road pregnant with the holy, and say, "I need shelter for the night, please take me inside your heart, my time is so close." Then, under the roof of your soul, you will witness the sublime intimacy, the divine, the Christ taking birth forever, as she grasps your hand for help, for each of us is the midwife of God, each of us. Yes there, under the dome of your being does Creation come into existence eternally, through your womb dear pilgrim- the sacred womb in your soul, as God grasps our arm for help; for each of us is His beloved servant never far. If you want, the Virgin will come walking down the street pregnant with Light and singing.

Flocks feed by darkness with a noise of whispers, In the dry grass of pastures, And lull the solemn night with their weak bells. The little towns upon the rocky hills Look down as meek as children: Because They have seen come this holy time. God's glory, now, is kindled Gentler than low candlelight Under the rafters of a barn: Eternal Peace is sleeping in the hay, And Wisdom's born in Secret in a straw-roofed stable. And O! Make the holy music in the stars You happy angels. You shepherds, gather on the hill. Look up, you timid flocks, where the three kings Are coming through the wintry trees; While we unnumbered children  Of the wicked centuries Come after with our penances and prayers, And lay them down in the sweet-smelling hay Beside the wise men's golden jars.

This is no time for a child to be born, With the earth betrayed by war & hate And a comet slashing the sky to warn That time runs out & the sun burns late. That was no time for a child to be born In a land in the crushing grip of Rome: Honour and truth were trampled by scorn- Yet here did the Savior make his home. When is the time for love to be born? The inn is full on planet earth, And by a comet the sky is torn- Yet Love still takes the risk of birth.

Flocks feed by darkness with a noise of whispers, in the dry grass of pastures, and lull the solemn night with their weak bells. The little towns upon the rocky hills look down as meek as children because they have seen come this holy time. God's glory, now, is kindled gentler than the low candlelight under the rafters of a barn: eternal peace is sleeping in the hay, and wisdom's  born in secret in a straw-roofed stable. And O! make holy music in the stars, you happy angels, you shepherds,gather on the hill. Look up, you timid flocks, where three kings are coming through the wintry trees: While we unnumbered children of the wicked centuries come after with our penances and prayers, and lay then down in the sweet smelling hay beside the wise men's jars.

This is no time for a child to be born, With the earth betrayed by war & hate And a comet slashing the sky to warn That time runs out & the sun burns late. That was no time for a child to be born, In a land in the crushing grip of Rome; Honour & truth were trampled by scorn- Yet here did the Saviour make his home. When is the time for love to be born? The inn is full on planet earth, And by a comet the sky is torn- Yet Love still takes the risk of birth.