CHRISTUS NATUS EST!

merry christmas and God bless us everyone!

Christ is born! Allelujah! May all of you be blessed this Christmas Day! The favorite of all days for Chesterton was Christmas. He loved Christmas because it “converted people”. He felt that even hidden in the outward celebrations performed apart from the worship of the birth of Christ there was something so incalculable that people would eventually come to realize why they were doing it.

The great majority of people will go on observing forms that cannot be explained; they will keep Christmas Day with Christmas gifts and Christmas benedictions; they will continue to do it; and some day suddenly wake up and discover why.

Each year the Chestertons celebrated Christmas with poems and plays. Frances herself, wrote a special poem each year. And there were always children at the Chesterton home even though they never had children themselves. Their home truly was a “house of Christmas”! May your home be the same!

As an update to this post, later today we came across a Facebook post by Mike Rowe of mikeroweworks.org about, you guessed it, the poem we are featuring today on Reforming the Line – The House of Christmas! I left a comment about it and included the fact that Chesterton didn’t believe in coincidences. Here, I’ll just post what I said here:

“Thank you for sharing this [post about Chesterton] Mike Rowe. I admin a Chesterton page on Facebook and MeWe. Our Christmas post today was “The House of Christmas” This is coincidental timing, but as Chesterton himself said: “Coincidences are spiritual puns”

If you want to read what Mike said about Chesterton, you’ll have to read his post on Facebook here. Enjoy!

THE HOUSE OF CHRISTMAS

by G.K. Chesterton

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay on their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.
Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost – how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky’s dome.

This world is wild as an old wives’ tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.

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