I’ve been thinking about Christmas. For many of us, it’s a familiar story: “And there were in the same country, shepherds abiding in the fields ….” We memorized it as children. We’ve heard about Quirinius, governor of Syria, and Herod, and Caesar Augustus. We know what the angels had to say. The same old words. The same old pictures in our heads.

Is it even possible, after two millennia, to see or hear anything new in that old story? In my stupid human way, I want to try. I want to add my voice to the chorus. I want to compose a new variation, a new Christmas oratorio, in a slightly different key.

The story begins with a young girl and an angel. The angel reminds me that there is a continuing dialogue between the divine and the human. The angel that stood before Mary, stands now before me and all humankind with an important message. God is here; God is inside you; you can give birth to the divine; you can bring the divine into this dark, conflicted world, in the same way that a young woman gives birth to new life and renews our hope.

Mary reminds me that the divine message is for everyone, even a young, unmarried Hebrew woman from the first century. It’s not just for queens and princes. It’s not reserved for the wealthy and powerful.

Mary’s elderly cousin Elizabeth reminds me that there is always hope. No matter how old or weary or used-up we feel, we can bring the divine to life within us, and we can give birth to prophecy. That gift is not only given to the young.

Joseph reminds me that there is honour and glory in forgiveness and compassion. He could have flown in anger, as the old song says. He could have rejected Mary, and taken a pass on a thankless role in the story. But he doesn’t. He keeps an open mind and an open heart. He stands by, and helps to deliver the divine into the world.

The stable reminds me that there is always room for love, even if we shut our doors and windows on the divine, and proclaim that there is no room for it in our lives. Love will find a home. There is always a place for love in the world.

The star reminds me that, even in the darkest night, there is light. A light shines out of our darkness, and that light is the light of the divine, the light of love, the light of hope.

The shepherds remind me that, when you hear a message from God, you have to drop everything. Nothing is more important than that message, and nothing should stop you from searching for and finding the divine when it becomes visible to the world.

The wise men remind me that every child is born to be sovereign of his or her own life; that every child is born to be a priest or priestess of the divine within; and that death is part of every life. They also remind me that the message of the incarnation is not only for Jews and Christians, but for every human on the face of the earth. It is a universal message.

Herod reminds me that the wealthy and powerful forces of this world are afraid of the divine. They do not seek to nurture it, but to destroy it. They do not understand the source of power, but they understand the threat that it poses to them. They are not to be trusted.

All these elements of the story – the angels, the stable, the star, the shepherds, the wise men, even Herod – that’s all window-dressing. If I could go back in time to the birth of Jesus, I bet that I wouldn’t see much that I would recognize from my Christmas manger scene. But there is one thing that would certainly be there. One person. One child. Naked, vulnerable, howling with cold and hunger. The single point around which all the other parts of the story dance.

I have a new little granddaughter. I watch in wonder as she learns to deal with her humanity. She has spent nine months in the darkness, so the light makes her blink and squint. She has to learn to suck, and to digest her food. The gas, the excrement, the urine, the milky spit-up – that must all seem like a dirty trick of incarnation. But that little girl is my hope for the future. She is the vessel of all of our love. She holds the divine within her tiny body, and one day, she will awaken to that possibility. She is born with the potential for greatness.

It’s the baby that is important. That baby, lying in a feeding trough, represents hope, joy, love, and the potential for greatness. That baby is a king; that baby is a priest; that baby is marked for death. The miracle was never that Jesus was God; the miracle is that God was inside that squalling, weak human, and that, because of him, we can begin to realize how miraculous our own lives are.

So, as I look at my beautiful china nativity scene, I recognize the many ways to approach the divine in the world, with humility and forgiveness, with precious gifts, with adoration, even with fear. I see the light that shines in the darkness of our world. Most of all, I see the miraculous new life that lies at the centre of the scene, a life which must submit to the demands of the body. It is a life that has the power to change the whole world, and to bring God into the midst of our humanity.