Another Christmas. The long trip to my elderly mother's flat in Dee Why. The customary nuts and sweets. The traditional English lunch, followed by plum pudding. Presents exchanged and photos taken. Much talk about family, the past. A realisation of the gradual dimming of the festival, the winnowing of its significance in modern Australia. But still, there is much to be grateful for.

Unlike many families, we don't have any horror stories about Christmas Day. At worst it is occasionally disappointing, but most of the time it hits the mark. Family. Apart from Christ, that is what it is about in the main.

I have made a big u-turn this year. Back to the realm of faith, to a reinstatement of real meaning, genuine hope. Surely the insertion of the Divine into human history is a big talking point? A showstopper? We should be rushing to buy tickets. Alas we live in sceptical times and I suspect, many people are not very happy.

Christina Rosetti, whom I have mentioned quite often recently, wrote a lot of devotional poetry. That is not everyone's cup of tea, I grant you. But she does write other stuff too. It was a hot day in Sydney today, but the title of the poem I am quoting from is In the bleak midwinter. Another hemishere entirely.

"The earth stood hard as iron/Water like a stone" sets the emotional tone in the opening stanza. How could there be joy or life in such a place, "snow on snow on snow." And yet God cannot be held by mere heaven and will break though on Earth, even in a humble stable. Angels are gathered to adore him but the infant will have a "Breastful of milk/and a mangerful of hay." He is worshipped, adored and yet, paradoxically, helpless.

Rosetti concludes,

"What can I give Him, poor as I am?

 If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;

 If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;

 Yet what I can give Him: give my heart."

Merry Christmas. Peace on Earth.