The beginning of the Advent story has nothing to do with Joseph or Mary or stables lit by starlight. Rather it centres around a childless woman weeping because what God has not given her.
Sure, the Gospel of Luke tells of a prophecy of a child to come called John who would be a joy and delight to his aged parents. But that was years down the line. She did not know. Her husband did not believe it possible.
There was just emptiness. Barren emptiness.
They say every flapping scrap of life is
A brand new miracle
– I see them all in the street
Displayed there by their miracle makers
For the rest of us to worship
But I am earth
I am dry desert soil
Blown around in the ordinary wind
I am empty
And can never be full
What use have I with all this holiness
If I am never whole?
Meanwhile in the temple