A Christmas Eve Homily: For the census, the royal family has to travel eighty-five miles. Joseph walks, while Mary, nine months pregnant, rides on a donkey, feeling every jolt, every rut, every rock in the road. By the time they arrive, the town of Bethlehem is swollen from an influx of travelers. The inn is packed, the people are happy if they were able to negotiate even a small space on the floor. It’s late, everyone is asleep, and there is no room. But fortunately, the innkeeper is not all shekels and mites. True, his stable is crowded with his guest’s animals, but if they could squeeze out a little privacy there, they were welcome to it. Joseph looks over at Mary, whose attention is concentrated on fighting a contraction. “We’ll take it,” he tells the innkeeper without hesitation. The night is still when Joseph creaks open the stable door. The oil lamp, lent to them by the innkeeper, flickers causing shadows to dance on the walls. A chorus of barn animals makes note of the intrusion. The smell is strong and damp, as there have not been enough hours in the day to tend the guests, let alone the livestock. It is a disquieting place for a woman in the throes of childbirth, far from home. Far from family. Far from what she had expected for her firstborn. Mary makes no complaint. It is a relief to finally stop travelling. She leans back against the wall, her feet swollen, and back aching, contractions growing stronger and closer together. Joseph’s eyes dart around the stable. Not a minute to lose. Quickly! A feeding trough would have to make do for a crib. Hay for the bedding. Blankets? Blankets? How could they forget that? Ah, his robe. That would have to do. And those rags hanging out to dry would also help. A gripping contraction doubles Mary over and sends him racing to hers side. The birth would not be easy, either for the mother or the child. It would be like any other, for every royal privilege for this son ended at conception. Screams from Mary knife through the calm of that silent night. Sweat pours from her face as Joseph, the default midwife kneels and coaches, and guides. The involuntary contractions are not enough, and Mary must push with all her strength, almost as if God were refusing to come into the world without her help. Joseph places a garment beneath her, and with a final push and a long sigh her labor is over. The Messiah has arrived. Through the constricting journey of a birth canal. Light skin, whose pigment would take days to surface. Mucus in his ears and nostrils. Wet and slippery. The Son of the Most High God umbilically tied to a lowly Jewish girl. The baby chokes and coughs. Joseph instinctively turns him over and clears his throat. Then he cries. She draws him close, and his helpless cries subside. His tiny head bobs around as she cradles him in her hands. This will be the first thing the infant king learns. God is being nursed in a barn. Could anything be more puzzling-or more profound? Joseph sits exhausted, silent, and full of wonder. The baby finishes and sighs, the divine Word reduced to a few unintelligible sounds. Then, for the first time, his eyes fix on his mother’s eyes. Deity is straining to focus. The light of the world, squinting. She touches his tiny hand. And hands that once sculpted the mountain ranges now can scarcely wrap around her finger. Joseph crowds closer to his wife. Together they stare in awe at the baby Jesus, whose heavy eyelids begin to close. It has been a long journey. The King is tired. And so, with barely a ripple of notice, God stepped into the cold lake of humanity. Without protocol and without pretension. And as surely as we see this child as the answer to all our ills, this day we praise him and bid him: “Sleep well.” This will be the easiest day of your brief life! Bask in the coolness of this night bright with diamonds in the sky-angels singing your praises. Sleep well, holy child for the heat of anger simmers nearby. Enjoy the silence of the crib, for the noise of confusion rumbles in your future. Savor the sweet safety of your mother’s arms, for a day is soon coming when her tender nursing will not be enough to protect you. Rest well, tiny hands. For though you belong to a king, you will touch no satin, own no gold. No, works far more precious await you: To touch a leper’s open wound. To bring sight to the blind. To wipe a widow’s weary tear, To claw the ground of Gethsemane. Your hands, oh most noble guest, are destined instead for a Roman spike. Sleep deeply, tiny eyes, Sleep while you can. For soon the blurriness will clear and you will see the mess we have made of YOUR world. You will see our nakedness, for we cannot hide from your sight. You will see our selfishness, for we cannot give to anyone but ourselves. You will see our pain, for we cannot heal. Oh eyes that will see hell’s darkest pit and witness her ugly prince…. Sleep; please sleep, while you can. Lay still, tiny mouth. Lay still mouth from which eternity will speak. Your tongue will soon silence demons, still storms and summon the dead. It will define grace, mercy, peace. You will bring a kiss of forgiveness to those who believe you, and a kiss of death to those who deny you-lay still. For one day soon, you will receive the kiss of betrayal. And tiny feet, cupped in the palm of Joseph’s wondering hand, rest. For many difficult steps lie ahead of you. You will be caked with the dust of the trails your Master will travel. You will feel the cold sea water upon which you will walk. You will recoil at the invasion of a nail You will walk the steep descent down the valley of the shadow of death into the Devil’s domain. Rest, tiny feet, rest today so that tomorrow you might walk with power. For millions will follow in your steps. And little heart… holy heart.. pumping the blood of life through the universe; how many times will we break you? Torn by the thorns of our accusations. Ravaged by the cancer of our sins. Crushed under the weight of your own sorrow. Pierced by the spear of our rejection. Rest little one whose very name: means ‘the Lord Saves.’ everything that you are and came to be, for us. To earth came the Glory of God and was made small. A gem whose brilliance and perfection is set and accentuated by the ebony foil of fallen man. He lies midst a dark pall, which bears the crimson stain of the blood of Able and his kin. Where you would have expected angels there were only flies. Where you would have expected heads of state, there were only donkeys, a few haltered cows, and a nervous ball of sheep, a tethered camel, and furtive scurry of mice. When we see this child wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger.” We are tempted to forget he is the almighty God. We cannot imagine the tender flesh of that child was born to be torn by the scourge. We are revolted by the thought of those tiny hands or head being pierced by thorn and nail. But suffer he would, Die he did, for we guilty ones. Oh wondrous child, helpless and mild, is our prophet, our priest our King, the very antithesis of the condition of man. This moment is like any other birth and it is like no other it brings the extremes of humble silence and the shouts of voices thrilled that their salvation has come! Except for Joseph, there was no one to share Mary’s pain-or her joy. Yes there were angels announcing the Savior’s arrival-but only to a band of blue-collar shepherds. Hear them sing! They know. The holy armies join in one voice to wake us from our slumber. And they shout to strike terror in the army of darkness who cowers at the words “CHRIST IS BORN!” When we hear a heavenly host of angels proclaiming him to be the Almighty God, the spirit moves us to proclaim and profess as the Angels did at his birth, and the Centurion did at this death, “Surely it can be no other than the Son of God!” Glory! Glory! Glory! Glory! To God! Joy to the world, the Lord is come! Amen.
Posted on: Tue, 30 Dec 2014 00:11:36 +0000
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