Die Geboorte deur ʼn ander bril

Die Kersverhaal is so eenvoudig, opreg eerlik, maar ook wonderbaarlik intens en ingewikkeld. Na meer as 2 000 jaar bring dit steeds hoop en verander lewens; laat geen mens onaangeraak nie. Die Christusverhaal is heilig, simbolies van rou liefde vir ’n stukkende wêreld. ʼn Wêreld wat twee millennia terug reeds op die rand van hooploos gedartel het en maar steeds met die een voet uitgelate en salig onbewus oor die afgrond rinkink.

Die Groot Geboorte was ʼn historiese keerpunt, het letterlik die geskiedenis in twee geskeur.

Kerskaartjies, -liedere en -tonele skep ’n prentjie van vrede en heiligheid, die toneel in die stal byna gesellig en knus. G’n teken van die benoude gesoek na verblyfplek en die eerste geboortepyne nie. Selfs die Evangelies noem slegs die basiese feite en laat na om die leser selfs ’n vlugtige blik op die ruwer detail rondom die gebeure te gee.

Dalk is dit broodnodig om die Geboorte van ons Here uit ’n ander hoek te bekyk. In 1927 skryf T.S. Eliot ’n aangrypende gedig waar die geskiedkundige gebeure vanuit die oë van die drie Wyses uit die Ooste beskryf word:

‘A cold coming we had of it,

Just the worst time of the year

For a journey, and such a long journey:

The ways deep and the weather sharp,

The very dead of winter.’

And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,

Lying down in the melting snow.

There were times we regretted

The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,

And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camel men cursing and grumbling

And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,

And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,

And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly

And the villages dirty and charging high prices:

A hard time we had of it.

At the end we preferred to travel all night,

Sleeping in snatches,

With the voices singing in our ears, saying

That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,

Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;

With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,

And three trees on the low sky,

And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.

Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,

Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,

And feet kicking the empty wine-skins,

But there was no information, and so we continued

And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon

Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,

And I would do it again, but set down

This set down

This: were we led all that way for

Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,

We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,

But had thought they were different; this Birth was

Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.

We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,

But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,

With an alien people clutching their gods.

I should be glad of another death.

Hierdie gedig beskryf die bitter moeilike omstandighede waarin die Verlosser gebore is en ook die daaropvolgende vervolging en verwerping waarmee Hy sy hele lewe lank op aarde gekonfronteer is.

Here, gee dat ek in die Kerstyd wat kom deur ’n splinternuwe bril na die Geboorte sal kyk. Plant in my die sade van nuwe waardering vir die laaste lewende offer, die Groot Genade.