THE PARK BENCH = Marys Christmas Miracle

A palm tree is visible at the right behind the Magi and a star is visible at the center. Adoration of the Magi from a Beuronese mural at Conception Abbey with a blue border at the top and bottom in a Beuronese pattern. Photo of the fingers of a newborn baby clutching the hands of an adult.

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Joseph, dressed in red, stands at her side. One of the beautiful murals in our Basilica of the Immaculate Conception at Conception Abbey, painted by our monks in the late 19th century.

A dove with an olive branch rendered in brilliant colors in the style of a stained glass window. The image of a sun is at the upper left and a green globe is at the lower right. The word "Peace" in gold calligraphy with acanthus leaves and a dove. There are palm trees in the foreground. Renaissance image of Madonna and child with city in background.

The moment when the young Mother of Our Lord embraces her cousin Elizabeth, whose baby leapt for joy in her womb. The christmas narrative of Saint Luke rendered in beautiful Gothic lettering with an illuminated start letter containing an illustration of an angel. Acanthus leaves surround the text with images from the nativity story and from nature. A Celtic cross in shades of green and gold, outlined in red. The background is a bright textured green.

A gold border surrounds the image. Black and white photo of a snow-covered park bench along a stone wall. Black and white photo of a jogger in a red jacket running on a snow covered road under an ornate old bridge. Maybe after years of trying to smile and say hello only to be rebuffed, people stopped trying.

Whatever the reason, no one ever sat by Joe. He wondered if there would ever be anyone who would care.

He wondered if he would live out however many days he had left sitting alone at dusk on that park bench. There may be some here tonight who have felt like Joe at some time in their lives, or who feel like Joe every day.

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There may be some here tonight who know someone like Joe, some who have passed him by, some who understand how the relentless pain of another becomes invisible. There may be some here tonight who wonder how this story will end, and some who believe they know how it will end. Tonight, on this night we have chosen to call holy, this is what I know: Our world has been like Joe, battling melancholy. The children of the world have been battered, if not by loneliness or apathy, then by poverty or violence or forces beyond their control that have made them grow up too soon.

Our world has been like Joe, going through the same routines day after day without reason or purpose. The people of the world have known what it is to live by rote, to live in that routine of work and play and rest, of work and shopping and rest, of work and shopping and entertainment, confusing shopping and entertainment with godly play and holy rest. Our world has been like Joe, desperately trying to make that park bench a little more palatable, aching to have someone simply sit down next to us.

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We have feared the stranger, the other, for so long that it seems too late to make amends for our isolating tendencies. For so long we have sat on our proverbial benches waiting for someone to come to us, never venturing off to go to someone else. That the miracle of the incarnation might be described as God coming to sit down next to us on our park bench. God cannot ignore this world that was created by deep love. God will not forsake this world so plagued by fear and greed and pride.

Ours is a visited planet, as the Bible scholar J. Ours is a visited planet, which is to say that God is no theist watchmaker kind of God, setting the world a-ticking and then moving on. She washed the altar linens. She cleaned the chapel.

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She arranged the altar, making sure everything was in place. Mary Baldassarre did everything but say the Mass. But she took a fall recently and, at 95, had to move out of the North End and in with some relatives in St. It may have been a blessing in disguise, because however much it hurt when she fell, it would hurt Mary Baldassarre a lot more to see the lights off for good in St. Kevin Cullen is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at cullen globe.

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