I went out in the Orchard this afternoon. Where the bare twigs of the apple trees were stark against the steel gray of the solstice sky.
The apple trees were empty. All the leaves gone. And at first you think they're as near dead as a living thing can be.
Except you look slightly more closely, and they're not. Next year's buds are there already. The small leaf buds, of course. But also the chubby flower buds are already there. The tiny signs, in the winter darkness, of the pink and white glories of spring, and the rich, glorious fruit of late summer and autumn.
The promises are all there.
A child is born. A bud from the branch of Jesse. An offspring of mighty David. Such a tiny thing, in such a dark world. Such a tiny, tiny thing. What is there to see, that angels sing about and Magi worship? What are the hopes of the stepson of a carpenter, the baby of a newly-wed young woman from a conquered race?
Those apple buds will go through the winter cold, to a quick glance dead. This child will go through the death of a cross until he rises in the spring. And now our old world still waits. And the buds of new life wait. And wait, till the Sun of Righteousness will shine and bring new life back into this world.
There's an old hymn that calls Jesus Christ the Apple Tree. He's the one who reverses that old curse of the fruit tree at Eden. The new Adam who faced temptation. The one on whom we feed to receive eternal life.
He came to earth and broke the power of death. He will come again to make all things new.
But for now, he's just a baby in a manger. We start our story at the beginning. And we will follow him through his life, once again.
... which led them over the house where the child lay.