 Jeff Nelson |
Who
Will Make Room?
Sermon:
Scripture: |
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Good
evening. My name is Nahum. I live in Bethlehem and I run one
of the local inns there.
Being an innkeeper is a good way to make a living, a
good way to make a life, really. We make enough money to keep
food on the table and a roof over our heads, not much
more—but we seem to manage just fine. The inn I
run is one of Bethlehem’s more modest. It is small and
simple with sleeping rooms for three or four families, a
common area for cooking meals, and a small stable out back for
our animals and those of our guests. Let me tell
you what I like best about being an innkeeper: all the
different people we get to meet.
Sure, we have our share of people who aren’t all that
friendly, and those who just want to keep to themselves. But
for the most part, the folks who come through our doors are
really pretty good and decent people. Over the
years, I have had the privilege of meeting people from all
over, from many different walks of life. Merchants, farmers,
government officials, Roman soldiers, lawyers, priests,
scribes, even a tax collector or two pass through our doors
each year. Most only stay a day or two. They are mainly just
passing through on the way to somewhere else. Over the years,
I think we’ve housed people from almost every walk of life
imaginable. And each of them has a story to tell. That’s one
thing I have learned. For the most part, people love to tell
their story. It’s as if they are just looking for someone to
share with, someone to listen and hear them out, someone to
appreciate where they are coming from—and being innkeeper
makes me a captive audience for those passing through. The stories they tell, of the places they’ve been and of the people who have touched their lives, paint a picture of where life’s journey can take us. People share with me their joys as well as their hardships. And often, as the night’s fire begins to fade and the silence of the night sets in, people begin to talk about their dreams. They tell me of their hopes for a better tomorrow and their dreams of a land filled with peace and justice. And, usually with a tear welling up in their eye, they tell me of the hopes they have for their children, hopes that they will live happy lives. They dream of a future for their children where they will be healthy and fulfilled, and they pray that their children will inherit a world that is a little better because of the way they, as parents, have tried to live their lives. Everyone has a story to tell. Everyone has dreams to dream. And while on the surface, the stories are all so different, at the stories’ core they all seem the same—I guess because at our core, we are all the same. So you want
to hear about that night, I guess. I am not surprised. It’s
what most folks want to talk about. Actually, I am glad you
asked. It gives me a chance to set the record straight,
because I have heard that oftentimes when you retell the story
of that night, the good ol’ innkeeper gets kind of a bad
rap. Come on now, you know what I mean. How many times have
you been to one of those Christmas pageants and seen some poor
kid wearing a bathrobe with a dishtowel draped over his head,
standing off to the side of the stage, frowning and shaking
his head at the Christmas couple, declaring, “There is no
room at the inn.” The way you tell it, every year the
disgruntled innkeeper sends the poor, pregnant pair at his
door back out into the harsh and uncaring night. So I am
always grateful for the opportunity to tell people what
happened in my little town of Bethlehem on that holy night
some two thousand years ago. It happened
during one of those censuses that Caesar Augustus was always
decreeing. Everyone was ordered to return to the land of their
birth. For what reason, you ask? For the one thing that
governments seem to always be interested in: taxes. Rome was
always finding new ways to squeeze more shekels from the
people. And as was usually the case, these policies most
impacted the poorest among us, people like that couple who
showed up at my inn that night. You see,
things were busy those weeks during the census. People were
everywhere. Our little town of Bethlehem was hopping. Extra
rooms were real scarce. Sure, we innkeepers stood to make a
few extra bucks—but the taxes, well, they hit us, too. I
remember that night well. It was turning cold and the wind
brought an unseasonable chill to the night. I was just
finishing putting out the night’s fire and preparing to get
some much-needed shut eye when the knock came at the door. I
had half a mind just to ignore it, but with the hour being so
late and the temperature so cold, I figured it must be
important. So I opened the door. There, standing in the
shadows of the night, was a man with his young wife. They
looked weary and had very little with them. They looked
overwhelmed and frightened. Before I could get a word out or
ask any questions, the man launched into his speech. It
sounded like one he had given before. He explained that they
were desperate. They had nowhere else to go. He said they had
traveled a long way, all the way from Nazareth, but that they
were a day or two away from their nearest family and his wife
had begun to have severe labor pains that night and was about
to give birth to her first child. I looked over at the girl
who was doubling over in pain. She was young, so young. He was
desperate and in need of a place to stay so that this baby
could be born. Well, here is where the story you tell gets it
right: there was no room in the inn. We were full to capacity. But here is what often gets lost in the details. While we didn’t “have” room, I knew we could “make” room. I took the frightened couple out back to the only space I had left to offer: the stable. I quickly swept it out, cleared out some of the animals, laid some hay out to make a soft place for the girl to lie down, and then ran off into the house to find a blanket or two to keep her warm. I woke my wife who then hurriedly dressed and came out to assist in the delivery. I waited outside the door in the cold night air for what seemed like an eternity. And then I heard it, the single greatest sound known to all mankind—the first cry of a newborn. In that sound is all the possibility of new life. All the hope for the future is carried in the cries of a new child, even a child who is born in a manger. After I got
the “all clear” from my wife, I went back into the stable
to see the couple. It is a scene you have seen hundreds of
times during this time of year. All those nativity sets on the
church lawn or in the public square, let me tell you, none of
them do it justice. None of them capture the absolute miracle
that unfolded before our eyes that night. This poor couple
held their child so close, and suddenly, in midst of the chaos
of the uncertain world, a calmness fell over the entire place.
It felt like it fell over the entire world in that moment.
Something happened that night that would change my life
forever. When you find room in your heart and make room in
your life, God’s miracles can be born right in front of your
eyes. Now, as the
years passed by from that night, I began to hear more and more
about this child’s miraculous story. It is a powerful story,
one that has touched and transformed my own. His is a story
that needs to be told, one that needs to be lived. I hope that
during this season you, too, can find your own story wrapped
together with his. Merry Christmas. Now you know the rest of
the story. *
* * * * That
first Christmas came into the world at a busy time. The world
was full of hustling and bustling. Everybody had someplace to
go. Everybody had people to see and places to go. Nobody
seemed to notice to notice Mary and Joseph, and if they did,
they just didn’t have time to do anything about it. Christmas
enters into our world again at a busy time. The next four
weeks will threaten to fly by so fast that Christmas might
come and go without our really noticing what is happening.
With all of the hustle and bustle of shopping, wrapping,
decorating, baking, cooking, traveling, hosting and partying,
we too might find ourselves too busy—or maybe just too
tired—to answer the knock of Christmas at the door of our
lives. That’s
why the innkeeper’s story is so important. His story reminds
us see Christmas in a different light. Just think of all the
nativity scenes you will see this season. That indelible image
might have never been possible if the innkeeper had not
“found room” in his heart and then “made room” for the
spirit of Christmas to be active in the world. His story
reminds us that the simple act of hospitality, the friendly
reception of guests and strangers, is what gives Christmas its
place to be born. In our fast-paced world, hospitality seems
like a lost virtue. This Christmas, allow yourself some space
to be hospitable. Give yourself some space to “make room.”
Take time out from the busyness that surrounds us and make
room for the things that are most important to you. Make room
to appreciate friends. Make room to just be with those you
love. Make room to be with those the world has no place for.
Make room for God. Remember the truth of the innkeeper’s
story, “When you find room in your heart and make room in
your life, miracles can be born right in front of your
eyes.” As you leave today, you will be given a key. When you stop to think about it, keys are powerful little things. With one little turn, they can open up places that have long been locked up or sealed away. The simple turn of a key can create space…new space…open space. Hopefully, tonight this key will help you find the places in your life that can be opened up for Christmas. Perhaps the key will help you to remember to unlock places in your heart for Christmas to come, to enter more fully. Perhaps it will help you both “find room” and “make room” for the power of the season we begin today. Christmas is knocking at the door. Will you make room for the miracle of God to born in your life?
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