The Burning Babe, Still On Fire… For Love of Mankind – December 24th, 2013 2:08 pm

Bethlehem.  It means, “House of Bread”.

Long before the Bread of Life Discourse in the sixth chapter of the Gospel of St. John, this Jesus of Nazareth, this… Living Bread come down from Heaven gave true meaning to bread as a babe… in relative obscurity.  In material poverty.  In an eating trough for animals.

St. Gregory of Neocaesarea, who lived from 213 to 270, had this to say in his homily on the Annunciation:

In the board from which cattle eat was laid the heavenly Bread, in order that He might provide participation in spiritual sustenance for men who live like the beasts of the earth.

The Blessed Sacrament, the Holy Eucharist, is referred to in Our Lord’s Prayer as “our daily bread”.  The Greek “epiousios” translates to “super-substantial”.  This communion host isn’t only bread.  It’s not only substantial bread.  But it is daily, super-substantial bread!

And to think of what kind of oven baked this bread, but the womb of the Blessed Virgin Mary.  The fire of Love burned within her from the very moment of her “yes” to God’s plan.  And then, to think of Love’s fire burning within the womb of St. Anne upon the conception of this most perfect Lady.

So, what do we have here?  We’ve got bread, in its super-substantive nature.  We’ve got the Baby Jesus… we’ve got baking… burning.  We’ve got Bethlehem.

And we’ve got “men’s defile’d souls”.  What a gift Christmas is, huh?

And what a gift The Saints are to us, wretched sinners.  I am sure you will well up with tears of joy upon reading this poem by St. Robert Southwell, “The Burning Babe”.  It is so deep and so beautiful, you’ll want to read it again and again.  As a bonus, I’ve included Sting’s homage to this most heart-warming poem.

To all of my family, my friends, my acquaintances, my detractors… to even those who might go so far as to hate me… permit me to state that I love you, I will pray for you, I wish you a very Merry Christmas, and I yearn that we all open our hearts to the majesty of the tiny child Jesus, laying bound in strips of cloth, with His adoring parents Mary and Joseph gazing at Him, and the Word Made Flesh loving ALL of humanity with a love that is more than just enough, but with a love that is super-substantial.

As I in hoary winter’s night stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow ;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear ;
Who, scorchëd with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed
As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.
Alas, quoth he, but newly born in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I !
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns ;
The fuel justice layeth on, and mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are men’s defilëd souls,
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.
With this he vanished out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I callëd unto mind that it was Christmas day.