Conceived by the Holy Spirit, Born of the Virgin Mary (Creed)

Conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, the infinite, breathes into the finite, spirit hovering again, as in the beginning, but now over a young woman's yes, no temple, no throne, only the quiet chamber of a womb.

Theotokos, god-bearer, her consent becomes creation's hinge, Divinity curls into the smallness of a zygote, cells dividing, hands wander to touch the untouchable, forming in the dark.

The spirit overshadows her, not with splendour but with tenderness.

The word becomes flesh, in secret, in silence, in the warmth of blood and heartbeat.

Nine months of holy hiddenness.

He grows, veins shimmering like constellations beneath translucent skin.

Bones hardening, lungs waiting to breathe the dust of the world.

And then the pain begins.

The waters break.

The body opens to mystery, making space for God and Mary, cries out and God gasps.

He whom the angels worship, God-man word made flesh, journeys through the birth canal, blood and breath into the arms of the world.

The first breath, a cry, a sound between life and need.

The spirit who hovered now fills those tiny lungs.

The world tilts towards mercy.

He is laid upon a chest rooted to her warmth.

Milk flows.

Miracles slow.

The creator of the cosmos feeds at a human breast.

Here, omnipotence learns to depend.

Here, eternity suckles time.

Here, the creator sleeps held in the arms of his creation.

And I believe that the kingdom begins in vulnerability, that holiness wears flesh, that heaven entered through the body of a woman.

The spirit still hovers.

Mary still sings.

And the word still becomes flesh in those who dare to say yes.