Epektasis

Today, on the Nativity of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, the anticipation and journey of Advent find their fulfillment. Over the past several days, I have been sharing a series of seven poems on social media, each a reflection on the slow, patient, and attentive movement of creation, humanity, and the holy family toward the cave in Bethlehem.

For this special day, I bring them together here as a single meditation, a rhythm of waiting, obedience, and encounter. These poems continue the journey we have traced together in the first four posts: from the threshold of the feast, through hidden faithfulness, patience in waiting, and the road toward the Church and the Liturgy, to the very moment of Incarnation itself.

As with the earlier posts, each movement is accompanied by the voice of the Fathers, grounding the meditation in Orthodox reflection and showing that these are not simply poems, but prayers in rhythm with the Church’s understanding of God’s entrance into the world.

SEVEN MOVEMENTS TOWARD THE CAVE

I. The World Waiting

Before the Child,

before the warmth of breath and milk,

the world bent low.

Mountains stooped beneath their age,

remembering Eden without its name.

Fields lay open to frost,

their roots listening for mercy.

The world bent low toward coming Light.

Time slowed its turning,

afraid to pass Him by.

Seas hushed their unrest—

not stilled, not raging—

holding the ache of what was made

and not yet healed.

The world, already wounded, bent toward coming Light.

Every creature bore the mark of waiting:

meaning held in the body,

a sentence drawn long across the centuries.

Dust remembered hands.

Stars leaned inward.

The world learned to bend toward coming Light.

Adam’s exile lingered in the wind.

Eve’s sorrow passed from womb to womb.

Every road curved without knowing why,

toward a small and sleeping town.

O Bethlehem,

you lay unnamed in the dark

while the world learned its longing—

not for fire,

not for thunder,

but for a nearness

that would not consume.

The world bent low toward coming Light,

not yet knowing

how low that Light would bend.

*

“All creation groans, longing to be made new.”

— St. Augustine, Sermons

II. The Prophets Speak

They rose from dust and desert,

from palaces and pastures,

bearing words heavier than themselves.

Fire passed through their mouths,

yet what they spoke was mercy.

Scrolls trembled in their hands.

Promises strained the seams of language.

They named Him in fragments—

Root, Branch, Star—

each word a window, not a face.

The prophets bent low toward coming Light.

Isaiah heard a Child

where the world demanded thunder.

Micah marked a village

too small for notice,

yet weighted with destiny.

Their voices crossed the centuries,

sometimes answered,

often refused.

Kings hardened their hearts.

The poor kept the words like coals,

hidden under ash.

The prophets, already bowed, waited for the Light.

They saw Him veiled in signs:

a virgin bearing more than she could name,

peace breaking the teeth of war,

glory clothed in meekness.

They spoke and did not understand;

they obeyed and did not possess.

Time passed them by,

but their words did not grow old.

They waited in Sheol’s silence,

trusting the promise would descend

where their voices could not go.

Prophecy itself bent low toward coming Light.

Now the air thickens with nearness.

What was written prepares to breathe.

The voice becomes a body.

The promise learns a heartbeat.

O Word long spoken,

now ready to be born—

the mouths that named You fall silent

as prophecy bows before the Light.

*

“They spoke not by human wisdom, but as moved by the Spirit of God.”

— St. Justin Martyr, First Apology

III. The Virgin Listens

She stands in the hush of her room,

hands folded, breath held,

a root planted in mystery.

Her heart opens like darkened soil,

silent and ready.

The Virgin bent low toward coming Light.

A whisper crosses her lips

before it becomes sound—

yes.

Yes to the shadow of angels,

yes to the weight of eternity

folded within her womb.

The dust of history bends to her knees.

The soil of nations leans in wonder.

Every seed waits for rain

that has already fallen.

The Virgin, consenting, bends toward the Light.

No thunder announces His coming.

No trumpet calls the world awake.

Yet in her stillness

all creation tilts toward Him—

listening, waiting,

learning to breathe.

The Virgin bears the coming Light.

*

“By her obedience, Mary became the cause of salvation for herself and for the whole human race.”

— St. Irenaeus of Lyons, Against Heresies

IV. Joseph’s Dream

He sleeps, face shadowed by doubt,

hands clenched around questions.

Dreams move like soft rivers through his mind,

and angels speak without words.

The righteous bend low toward coming Light.

Trust leads him where reason loosens its grip.

No voice commands, no map directs.

Yet every road he will walk

has already been measured in mercy,

each step held in unseen hands.

The righteous, bowed already, meet the coming Light.

He wakes to obedience—

not understanding,

not mastery,

only the courage to follow

the whisper bending night toward dawn.

The righteous learn to bend toward coming Light.

*

“Joseph learned not by seeing, but by believing.”

— St. John Chrysostom, Homilies on Matthew

V. The Road to Bethlehem

The road curves beneath weary feet.

Dust gathers in the folds of garments.

Cold settles where strength is kept.

Hills lean forward.

The night listens.

The road bends low toward coming Light.

Stars mark the way without speech.

Every step carries centuries

folded into flesh.

Breath rises in clouds

and vanishes into the vast hush

welcoming the town ahead.

The road, already bowed, receives the coming Light.

The journey becomes prayer:

movement sanctified by longing,

each mile a syllable

in the unspoken hymn of arrival.

The road bends, and leads them into Light.

*

“God does not lead us by force, but draws us by love.”

— St. Gregory of Nyssa, Life of Moses

VI. The Cave Prepared

Darkness cradles the stillness.

Earth rises to meet the coming.

Animals shift, bodies warming one another,

breath thickening the cold air.

The cave bends low toward coming Light.

Stone bears the weight of silence.

Straw leans, rough against tender skin.

Walls hold the pressure of centuries,

receiving the Word

not yet spoken,

not yet heard.

The cave, pressed low, waits for the Light.

Here, all creation pauses.

No trumpet sounds.

No king decrees.

The universe waits

in the smallness of a manger,

in the fragile hush of body and breath.

The cave bends, and does not break, before the Light.

*

“He lay in a manger, yet He held the universe together.”

— St. Ephrem the Syrian, Hymns on the Nativity

VII. The Child Appears

Before the Child,

before the first cry,

before the world knew His shape,

Light bends low.

Coming Light bends toward the world.

Dust stirs beneath tiny feet.

Roots shiver.

Soil leans closer.

Breath trembles in the hush of the cave.

The Word becomes flesh,

eternity clothed in tenderness,

and all creation kneels without sound.

Silence becomes worship.

Warmth becomes awe.

Love becomes incarnate.

Coming Light bends toward the world,

and the world is held—still trembling.

*

“The majesty took on humility, strength took on weakness, eternity took on mortality.”

— St. Leo the Great, Sermon on the Nativity

Author’s Reflection

As I share these seven movements today, I am reminded that the journey toward Christ is never merely about arrival—it is about attentive waiting, faithful obedience, and the openness of heart to receive Him. Just as creation leaned toward the Light long before the Child appeared, we, too, are invited to bend toward Him in our lives, in our work, in our joys and in our struggles.

This Nativity, I offer these poems as both prayer and witness: that even in our imperfection, in our longings, in the ordinary paths we walk, Christ comes to meet us. The cave is humble, the journey is long, and yet the Light bends toward us still.

May this Word, made flesh, dwell in our hearts and transform the ordinary moments of our lives into places of encounter with the Divine.

Closing Prayer

O Lord Jesus Christ,

You who took on our human flesh and entered the world in humility,

grant that we may bend low in love and attentiveness,

as creation bent toward You long before Your birth.

Teach us to wait with patience, to walk in obedience,

and to see Your presence in the hidden, the small, and the ordinary.

Bless our journeys, our homes, and our hearts,

that we may recognize You in all things

and receive You with joy, faith, and gratitude.

Amen.