During Advent, a beautiful matter for meditation might be the one posed as a question in the title of the 16th-century Christmas carol, What Child Is This? The carol, set to the familiar minor-key melody of Greensleeves, expresses the mystery of the child, while stylized lyrics help us to ponder the answer. We sing of the babe, “laid to rest on Mary’s lap,” his birth greeted “with anthems sweet” by angels to shepherds who, over flocks their “watch are keeping.”

We continue, considering why this child was born in the “mean estate” of an animal shelter “where ox and ass are feeding,” even as kings suddenly enter “to bring him incense, gold and myrrh?” At last, we learn the child is of divine origin, indeed, the “the silent Word pleading,” for us, poor “sinners,” and conclude with the resounding affirmation, “This, this is Christ the King.” 

An inspired carol, certainly. But for a more comprehensive answer to the question, “What child is this?” two poems by St. John of the Cross, “The Incarnation” and “The Birth,” offer further insights for prayer and meditation. Theologically and scripturally based (i.e., John 17, Isaiah:7,14, Luke:1:26-38, Galatians 4:4), the prose is composed as a hypothetical dialogue between God the Father and God the Son, culminating in the overshadowing of God the Holy Spirit to the Virgin Mary who, by a singular and miraculous grace, conceives and gives birth to Christ — the Incarnation. 

But St. John highlights another mystery as well. For with eloquence, he reminds us that God the Son also came as our divine Bridegroom who, by his Incarnation, has wedded himself to the suffering of all humanity, his Bride, in order to redeem and to restore our once-perfect union with God, lost after the Fall from grace through sin.

John’s prose interprets this eternal plan of love.

The Father speaks:

‘Now you see, Son, that your bride 

was made in your image, 

and so far as she is like you 

she suits you well;

yet she is different, in her flesh,

which your simple being does not have.

In perfect love

this law holds:

that the lover become 

like the one he loves;

for the greater their likeness

the greater their delight.

Surely your bride’s delight

would greatly increase

were she to see you like her.

in her own flesh.”

The Son replies:

‘I will go and tell the world,

spreading the word

of your beauty and sweetness

and of your sovereignty.

I will go seek my bride

and take upon myself

her weariness and labors

in which she suffers so;

and that she may have life,

I will die for her,

and lifting her out of that deep,

I will restore her to you.’

Mary’s call, and consent:

Then he called

the archangel Gabriel

and him to

the Virgin Mary,

at whose consent 

the mystery was wrought,

in whom the Trinity

clothed the Word with flesh ...

And he who had only a Father

now had a Mother too,

but she was not like others

who conceive by man.

From her own flesh

he received his flesh,

so he is called 

Son of God and of man.

The Birth:

When the time had come

for him to be born,

he went forth like the bridegroom

from his bridal chamber,

embracing his bride,

holding her in his arms,

whom the gracious Mother

laid in a manger

among some animals

that were there at the time.

Men sang songs

and angels melodies

celebrating the marriage

of Two such as these.

But God there in the manger

cried and moaned;

and these tears were jewels 

the bride brought to the wedding.

The Mother gazed in sheer wonder

on such an exchange:

in God, Man’s weeping,

and in man, gladness,

to the one and the other

things usually so strange.

As an example of a first-hand witness to “such an exchange” of “things usually so strange,” I think of Thérèse of Lisieux who at age 13 experienced what she called “the grace of my complete conversion” after returning home from Mass on Christmas Day.

Starting at the age of 4, after losing her mother, she suffered from emotional outbursts. The smallest setback was enough to break her heart. But on this particular Christmas, as she stood upstairs with her sister, Celine, and the two overheard their father downstairs announce to others in the household that this would be the last year he would carry out Thérèse’s favorite custom of filling her slippers with little gifts, Celine was sure that tears would erupt from Thérèse’s eyes, and begged, “Please don’t go downstairs; it would cause you too much grief to look at your slippers right now!” But Thérèse, explaining the rest of the episode in her memoir, Story of a Soul, wrote, “Thérèse was no longer the same; Jesus had changed her heart! Forcing back my tears, I descended the stairs rapidly.” Then, “controlling my pounding heart,” she continued, “I took my slippers and placed them in front of Papa and withdrew all the objects joyfully.”

According to her particular circumstances, Thérèse had experienced the love of the divine Christ Child, who, as God, took upon himself her sorrow and weakness in exchange for fortitude and joy. No doubt, St. John of the Cross experienced similar moments of grace in his life as well. For, upon seeing the image of the Christ Child in the manger scene one Christmas, he lifted the tiny statue from the manger and danced with abandon, ecstatic with joy.

This Christmas, through the inspiration and intercession of St. John of the Cross, may we all come to a deeper understanding of “this child,” our Savior and Bridegroom of our souls.