In my Bran Buds this morning there appeared to me br an unmistakable pointillist depiction of the infant Christ. br The soft down of his newborn head, the folds in his swaddling, br the straws of hay that make up his bed, all perfectly arranged br around the white skim milk of his pure, otherworldly flesh. I am always br in awe of the impossibility, the unreality of babies, so beautiful, stupid and new! br br That evening for dinner I seared a delicious tuna steak and br ate it with asparagus and wild rice with mushrooms and br before I had taken the first bite an image of the crucified br Christ materialized-a green crucifix from the intersection br of two sprigs of asparagus, the grease from the brown, buttered br mushrooms his bleeding stigmata, his bowed head weeping br beneath a crown of thorns in the tuna steak and both Marys br perfectly distinguished in their respective and exquisitely br individuated agony in the rice. br br I thought of vegetarians. Lately they have stopped trying to br convert the rest of us. They are like Christ, I thought: they suffer br in solitude, deny their own flesh, for the whole world's sake. br The sin-adoring, self-devouring rest of the world, which br includes you and me, in Jesus' name we pray. Amen.br br P.N.