Last Sunday in church, our pastor encouraged us to re-vision the Christmas story, to see the old familiar tale from a new angle. I’ve been thinking about it. Thinking and reading. And I came across a poem I wish I had written. It’s by the British poet U. A. Fanthorpe, from her collection, Safe as Houses (Peterloo Poets, 1995). Here it is.

The Wicked Fairy at the Manger
by U.A. Fanthorpe

My gift for the child:

No wife, kids, home;
No money sense. Unemployable.
Friends, yes. But the wrong sort—
The workshy, women, wogs,
Petty infringers of the law, persons
With notifiable diseases,
Poll tax collectors, tarts;
The bottom rung.
His end?
I think we’ll make it
Public, prolonged, painful.

Right, said the baby. That was roughly
What we had in mind.

May your Christmas holy days be filled with the presence of Jesus.