Luke 2:6-7 (KJV) And so it was, that, while they
were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. 7And she brought forth her firstborn
son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there
was no room for them in the inn.
"...no room for
them in the inn." How many sermons have been launched from those six
words? This month you’ve likely seen at least one TV special or old movie—maybe
even heard a sermon—about the Innkeeper of Bethlehem. Literature isn’t always
kind to him.
He’s usually portrayed
as insensitive and preoccupied with exploiting the tax season for huge profits.
At the other extreme he’s a kindly old man, overworked
by the crowds, yet patient and gentle in manner. Moved to compassion by this
young woman, obviously exhausted from her journey, he lets the Holy Couple stay
in his private, nice, clean, warm, comfortable stable. And the stable is so
romanticized I'm ready to check in for a weekend of R&R, myself.
Have you ever been in a stable?
Neither version is biblical. The major character isn’t even mentioned in the biblical story. For
all we know, Joseph never saw an innkeeper. He may have heard talk on the
street that the inn was full, and on his own found a cave for shelter. We don’t
know.
Still, tradition says
the innkeeper should have made special allowances because the Son of God was
about to be born.
Why didn't he give them
his room? I’ve heard
that.
But behind the
traditions are assumptions based on our memories—our
understandings. We know he was the Son of God; why couldn’t they see it? The
clear implication is, "we'd have
done it better!"
I wonder.
What might have happened had God waited until 2014 to
send Christ? How would we
receive Him?
I see a neat little shed on the lawn of the "Beth
Israel" synagogue (chosen because it's next to the Interstate. Traffic can
flow smoothly, with easy access). I can see the preparations now: neon angels
hung from a tall superstructure… risers built behind the shed... the Mormon Tabernacle
Choir arriving by charter jet from Salt Lake City, and the Philharmonic from
New York.
Then the big night comes: huge crowds; traffic backed up
for miles down the Interstate; traffic cops with long, red traffic-wands;
searchlights sweeping the clouds; the Goodyear blimp overhead...
All three networks plus CNN and FOX: Meredith Viera,
Matt Laur and Al Roker…
And headlines the next day: The New York Times: "A Savior is Born!" The Wall Street Journal would report the
Dow up.
And Jean Dixon's column
would read:
"He shall be great, and
shall be called
the Son of the Most High;
and the Lord God will give to
him
the chair of the Oval Office,
and he shall reign over the
house of Lincoln forever;
And of his kingdom there shall
be no end."
It’s not really as ridiculous as it may sound. In every
culture, in every age, there’s some kind of Messianic expectation.
Isn’t that what we’re looking for in our President and in our military
leadership in these post-9/11 days: a Messiah—some heroic savior to overthrow
the evil reign of terrorism—for us?
Victims of tyrants and dictators hope for a savior—a
charismatic, military hero—who will overthrow the bonds of their captivity.
Victims of unemployment hope for a savior in the form of
an employer or a strong labor leader.
Victims of spiraling inflation look for a savior who
will write tax reforms favoring their particular socio/economic level.
And in each case, over time, expectations become
dramatic and spectacular.
Into those same kinds of expectations Jesus was born.
Israel was a nation in chains. Rome had a chokehold on their politics and
economy, and even though Jews sat in seats of government, they were, either
paid-off defectors, or scared-stiff figureheads. Nothing was more important
than the overthrow of the "Roman dogs."
The American colonists had similar feelings toward
King George’s “taxation-without-representation."
But Israel's longing for Messiah was deepened by a memory.
There was a time when David and Solomon sat on the throne and every nation in
the world tipped its hat when it walked by. And in the center of Israel's life
was the Temple—that great edifice: gold-plated, cedar-lined, and draped with
rich tapestries.
That memory had fueled hope for fifteen generations; and
that hope carried images of shining armor, polished sword, and the thundering
hoof beats of a great white horse.
WHEN MESSIAH COMES! A hero. And the prophets fueled the
fire.
A beggar clutches his rags in some dark alley. “When
Messiah comes” there’ll be no more hunger; no more homelessness.
A young woman sobs in her pillow. “When Messiah comes”
there’ll be no more Roman soldiers raping and pillaging.
“When Messiah comes.”
And he came. And it wasn't as they expected. And so “he
was despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,"
(Isaiah 53:3 KJV) no hero, at all; because Messiah was not about their expectations.
Nor is He about ours.
I think it might happen more like this, if God had waited until
2014: Picture a middle-aged desk clerk in a small motel in a county-seat town (the "NO-TELL" motel. The
"c" is burned out in the flashing "No Va ancy" sign.)
It's about 10:45 in the evening, and the desk clerk is
watching a Jay Leno rerun. He hears gravel crunching on the driveway, and a 1957
Chevy stops outside. The left headlight’s out, and the left front fender has
patches of body putty and primer.
A man in overalls gets out to inquire about a room. He
speaks with a heavy Spanish accent (a refugee from El Salvador). He’s found
work in a nearby town, and has come to the county seat to check in with
immigration and register his new address.
His wife stays in the car. She’s obviously close to
delivering a child. Dressed in a clean, plain, faded dress, she’s exhausted
from the day's trip, and the drive back would be just too much for her; so
they’ve decided to get a room and stay overnight.
There are no rooms available; but the clerk says they
can sleep on a rollaway bed in the linen storage closet. It’s small, but clean
and warm, and there's a sink where they can wash up. They can use the toilet in
the lobby.
He quotes a price, and the young refugee pulls out a
worn wallet and counts out several bills, figuring the unfamiliar currency in
his head.
That night her baby is born. She wraps him in a motel
towel, and lays him in a laundry hamper.
Early the next morning, the clerk notices a bunch of
kids around the linen room door—delivery boys for the morning paper, all
excited about something. He runs them off, and looks in to find Maria, José,
and el niño, Jesus.
The clerk asks them to leave; afraid the health department
might hear about this and close him down. So, José fashions a bed in the back
seat of the '57 Chevy, and they drive off.
I don’t know. Maybe this image gives you problems, too.
Mary and Joseph should be more middle class and white—more like us. They'd drive at least a 2012 mini-van,
and stay at the Holiday Inn. And they'd call an ambulance and check-in to the
hospital, using their "Blue Cross" card.
And what about the shepherds and the angels and the star?
Who'd
ever notice something as obscure as that?
But, maybe that’s the point. You see, the story’s not
about our expectations; it's about the power of God: the power that can take
what, by our standards and expectations is nothing, and make out of it the
salvation of the world!
I don't find it at all curious that the innkeeper of
Bethlehem didn't pay special attention to Joseph and Mary. What amazes me—amazes me—is that ANYBODY EVER recognized
this refugee baby as the Son of God. And yet, for two millennia he has been
declared "Savior of the World;"
"Lord of the Church." For two thousand years he has reigned in
the hearts of people everywhere.
If you need a miracle, if you need a sign, if you need a
reason to follow him, what more can you ask than that?
That’s how I see it through the flawed glass that is my
world vie.
Together in the
Walk,
Jim
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