It was different than we were used to. Traditionally the Christmas tableaux takes place in the church, bending the rules about a crowd of people on the chancel, and slamming doors. But this week a hundred good souls coordinated their heartfelt efforts to create an outdoor enactment of the events two thousand years ago. 

 

As we rounded the curve beside a field, we saw a flock of sheep, with shepherds huddled around a campfire. We drove up the hill and saw the bright bevy of angels who clearly had something to sing about. The line of cars trailed through the trees, where we glimpsed Mary and Jospeh curled protectively over her newborn.

 

Thankfully there were a few seconds to let the peacefulness sink into my bones as we drove around the bend and came upon a trio of wise men, also being warmed by a blaze, their tent pitched to one side and their camel grazing on the other. 

 

As we crested the hill, and drove into a grove we saw the blackness beaten back by a man dressed in white and red, his arms outstretched above the Word. Which is the One part of the Story that we can still hold in our hands. 

 

We ended up in the skirt of the Cathedral, where the music poured out as honey in a hurting world, the combined voices of people who never left their own living rooms. How is it that we can be thus united, unfettered by distance and fear? Two centuries ago the power of Herod hovered like a nimbus, and yet the enduring message is that light does overpower bleakness, and the choir of people who cannot keep silent is more than enough.