Veiled in flesh the Godhead see.

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Walking along Princes Street this afternoon I felt intimidated by the crowds of shivering shoppers bearing down on me, and it seemed that everyone was going in the opposite direction to me, that I was invisible and was going to be trampled to death. And I didn’t appreciate the fake snow that was being pumped out into the path of the prevailing winds - so obviously fake. What made me really feel cold was the sight of men in skirts, parading their Scottishness for all to see. At some of the establishments beyond my financial reach, patrons were greeted by a kilted doorman which looked just silly to me. But in among all the cold and the kilts I caught the strains of a Salvation Army band playing ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’. It caught me off guard, and as I sang the words in my head (I don’t sing aloud in cold, windy streets amidst bekilted men as a general rule) I got a little tearful. The tuneful expression of solid, reliable theology in such a lyrical manner cut through the nonsense of this festival of stuff that we have come to call Christmas, and disarmed me. A warmth worked its way through me, putting things right once more, and I proceeded on my way content to let drop the vexed conundrum of men wearing kilts.