By Brett Younger
Most of us have been through so many Christmas seasons that it has become routine. We are used to the sounds of the approaching Yuletide — jingle bells, silver bells, Salvation Army bells and the one-tolling-for-thee-shopping-bell. Santa is around more than some family members. The Miracle on 34th Street does not seem particularly miraculous any more. We are no longer inspired (if we ever were) by television specials where sad, lonely, busy people tempted to skip the whole business, are suddenly inspired to buy, bake and decorate. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire sound no better than microwave tater tots. We are used to wise men in bathrobes and angels in bed sheets. We hardly hear the constant pleas to smile, sing and buy our brother-in-law a Keurig. Most of the time it is routine.
But there are moments …
… moments when, like the Grinch, we discover that “perhaps Christmas is not something you buy in a store, Christmas is just a little bit more” and the sound of the carols becomes less bothersome;
… moments when the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future remind us that Tiny Tim lives across town, and we have more turkey than we can eat;
… moments when Clarence convinces Jimmy Stewart — and us, too — not to jump off the bridge, and we think we might have heard an angel get his wings;
… moments when we imagine God coming as a helpless child who needs his diaper changed and his nose wiped, and for a fleeting instant, God’s love overwhelms us.
As they get closer to Bethlehem, Joseph keeps saying, “It’ll be all right. We’ll stay with my relatives” — a fine idea that turns out to be. The town is crowded, with the census and Christmas coming up, so there is no room anywhere. When Joseph tries to explain that Mary is expecting a baby, the hotel clerk says, “Don’t blame me. I just work here.”
The clerk does not lie about there being no room, but if there had been a room, this couple looks so poor that he might have lied. If there had been a vacancy at the Bethlehem Best Western, they could not have afforded it.
Though no Christmas pageant has ever included them, Mary and Joseph may exchange a few cross words when they find that she is in labor with no chance of getting home:
“Whose bright idea was this trip? Why didn’t we leave early enough to find a place to stay?”
“How was I supposed to know the city would be so crowded? Why are you so emotional?”
“What are we going to do?”
Joseph is frantic to find a place to stay. Though they are surrounded by people, they never felt more alone. Joseph does the best he can. At least he gets a roof over Mary’s head. They spend the night in a stable — a first century parking garage.
Mary has her child without an epidural. She wraps him in a cloth diaper and lays him in a feed trough. The Renaissance painters portray Mary and Joseph kneeling in adoration, but they were too busy trying to figure out how to take care of a baby to do much kneeling.
The news of the long-awaited Hope was delivered not, as you might expect, to the ministerial association or the city council, but to shepherds — homeless guys who live in a field.
People who are usually left out — a teenage girl, a confused fiancé, and blue-collar workers — are the first to hear this story of God’s love.
The angel says, “I’m here bringing you good news of a great joy which will be to all people. Today your deliverer was born.”
The holly jolliness of Christmas will dissipate. We will be back to the routines soon enough, but we can for a holy moment listen carefully, with ears attuned to the sounds of Christ’s coming. Be open to the possibility of being surprised by God. Those moments of joy are not merely tugs on our hearts, but the wondrous opening of our hearts. Those holy moments, those gracious surprises, are the gifts of God.