Advent 1 - Incarnation

In the beginning of John's Gospel we are told that the Word became Flesh and dwelled amongst us. What does that mean for us? How to we engage this Incarnate one? Dare we see others as images of the Incarnate amongst us, prompting us towards compassion and justice? Do we loose sight of following the One who came in Flesh a midst all the doctrinal statements we want to make about the Incarnate One and the Divine One who sent the Incarnation into the world?
I find these good Advent questions as we start our Advent journey, and appreciate the Reverend Dr. Philip Hewett for exposing me to the work of Edwin Muir, a Scottish poet.When reading Muir's Incarnate One (below) pay attention to the line: "The Word made flesh here is made word again".

Blessed Be,

Joel

The Incarnate One

The windless northern surge, the sea-gull's scream,

And Calvin's kirk crowning the barren brae.

I think of Giotto the Tuscan shepherd's dream,

Christ, man and creature in their inner day.

How could our race betray

The Image, and the Incarnate One unmake

Who chose this form and fashion for our sake? 

The Word made flesh here is made word again
A word made word in flourish and arrogant crook.
See there King Calvin with his iron pen,
And God three angry letters in a book,
And there the logical hook
On which the Mystery is impaled and bent
Into an ideological argument.

There's better gospel in man's natural tongue,
And truer sight was theirs outside the Law
Who saw the far side of the Cross among
The archaic peoples in their ancient awe,
In ignorant wonder saw
The wooden cross-tree on the bare hillside,
Not knowing that there a God suffered and died.

The fleshless word, growing, will bring us down,
Pagan and Christian man alike will fall,
The auguries say, the white and black and brown,
The merry and the sad, theorist, lover, all
Invisibly will fall:
Abstract calamity, save for those who can
Build their cold empire on the abstract man.

A soft breeze stirs and all my thoughts are blown
Far out to sea and lost. Yet I know well
The bloodless word will battle for its own
Invisibly in brain and nerve and cell.
The generations tell
Their personal tale: the One has far to go
Past the mirages and the murdering snow.
Edwin Muir