This is a dispatch in the midst of the covid-19 pandemic that has made its way out of East Asia and has now gripped the West. The trajectory of the novel coronavirus travels along the flows of finance capital, with capitalism as its true carrier. It trickles down to the working class and undocumented and raciailized and queer people, who will face suffering both greater in measure and invisibility. Not all lives matter in the same way, especially not in these times.

Christmas is the celebration of a birth. But a Christmas Jesus is a clean baby wrapped up in cloths, not a sticky one emerging from Mary’s body. Why is that? Is it our discomfort with our bodies, and in particular, women’s bodies (trans or cis)? The strangeness of the incarnation, this mixing of divine and human, that we don’t want to recognize? I’m not entirely sure. But I know that this Christmas, I want to see birth. I want to see a woman’s body intermingled with the divine. I want to see a record of the pain that comes before the joy.

I often wonder what a different Christmas might be like, what Christmas in Asia -- in Persia, India, or China might have been like towards the end of the first millennium, when the early church in Asia had been active. How much of our understanding might be a relic of missionary and colonial history? How else have others understood the Incarnation in the past, and how might we broaden our horizons today?