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Earlier
this December, a preacher from "way up north" was
traveling "way down south," when he stopped for
lunch at an out-of-the-way diner. Mounting a stool at the
counter, and anticipating his first forkful of ham and redeye
gravy, he summoned the waitress and asked if she could answer
a question about the nativity set out front ... which, he
said, was lovely ... just lovely ... save for one small thing.
"What's that?" she said (rocking back on her heels).
"Well," he began, "I just found myself wondering
why your wise men ... which look splendid on their camels,
don't you know ... are all wearing firemen's hats."
"That's
because the wise men were firemen," she answered.
"Were
not," he said.
"Were
so," she responded.
"Prove
it," he challenged.
"I
will," she countered.
Whereupon
she took a well-thumbed Bible from under the counter ... muttered
something about "Yankees knowing nothing about the Word
of God" ... thumbed until she came to the second chapter
of Matthew ... announced, "It says so right here"
... and proceeded to read: "And in those days, three
wise men came from afar."
Well,
maybe they did. The Bible doesn't say where their trip originated.
From the East, says the book. From the Orient, says the carol.
From Persia, says modern scholarship (meaning Iraq ... according
to today's atlas ... and, if true, isn't that just shot through
and dripping with irony).
I once
had a friend who said (concerning the three kings) that they
came in a Honda ... because the Bible says that "they
were of one accord." But when I looked it up, it was
the disciples who were "of one accord" (Acts 1:14)
... meaning that it was they who traveled by Honda, if anybody
traveled by Honda.
But I
find myself less interested in where the kings (wise men,
magi, Iraqi astrologers, whatever) came from, as where they
went. Meaning Bethlehem. Or, more to the point, to a barn
in Bethlehem ... at least a place with animals in Bethlehem.
Like I
said a few weeks ago, I know next-to-nothing about animals,
and (therefore) next-to-nothing about barns. But I do remember
my father asking me, from time to time, if I was born in one.
I figured if anybody should know, he should know. I mean,
he was there, wasn't he?
I wasn't
far into my childhood before I learned that when my father
said, "Were you born in a barn," he wasn't referring
to the place I was delivered, so much as the door I'd left
opened. Which is why his rebuke, voiced in its entirety, read:
"Shut the door. Were you born in a barn?"
Just so
you will know, I wasn't. And Jesus probably wasn't either.
Biblical scholar, Kenneth Bailey, points out that the word
in our Bible translated as "inn," is (in the original
Greek) "kataluma." Which does not mean "inn"
... or "hotel" ... so much as it means "guest
room." In the typical Mid-Eastern home, there is a room
designated for out-of-town visitors ... the "kataluma"
... or the "guest room." So the place where Mary
and Joseph took respite probably wasn't an inn at all, but
a private home (perhaps even the home of a relative).
But with
the "kataluma" (guest room) already filled ... by
Uncle Oscar and Aunt Mildred from Dubuque, most likely ...
Mary and Joseph were given the next best place in the house
to stay, which was probably the outer room (front room) of
the house. It was to this room that livestock were brought
on winter nights, only to be ushered out in the morning so
as to allow for other family activities. Those of you who
go to sleep, this Christmas Eve, on somebody's hide-a-bed
... because Uncle Oscar and Aunt Mildred beat you to the queen-sized
bed in the kataluma ... will know whereof I speak.
But if
there were animals there, it probably felt like a barn. So
a barn, we'll let it be. Why? Because it will preach better
that way. That's why.
If this
child is a gift from God ... and if this child (in ways you
can't begin to imagine and I can't begin to explain) somehow
is God ... I suppose it can be said that God was born in a
barn. Which sounds appropriate, given that God's first appearance
to humankind was in a garden. Now, 1200 pages later, God's
come indoors.
And could
it be that God ... growing out of his desire to tinker with
creation on a daily basis ... might be more at home in a barn
than anyplace else? For God is more farmer than field general
... more farmer than watchmaker ... more farmer than (say)
artist, architect, or even astrophysicist ... more farmer
(certainly) than Supreme Court judge or slum landlord.
For
what does a farmer do?
He
does his chores, that's what he does.
And when
does a farmer do them?
He
does them daily, that's when he does them.
And
what happens when the farmer misses a few days?
Things
go to hell in a hand basket, that's what happens.
Farmers
not only sow it and reap it, farmers also have to keep after
it, stay on top of it, and seldom (if ever) get to leave it....especially
if the "it" is not corn and carrots, but cows and
chickens. Farming is daily work. Barns are symbols of where
such work is done. Chores are the nature of that work. And
we are God's chores.
As for
barn doors being open, I suppose that such is a good thing.
For it means that anybody can come there. And it means that
everybody belongs there. Which includes both shepherds and
kings ... who can be readily distinguished by their feet.
That's because kings ride about the "stuff" of earth,
while shepherds walk through it. But it doesn't matter in
a barn. Because everything smells a little bit in a barn.
Sort of like in here ... if the unperfumed truth be told.
In this
December's issue of New York Magazine, there is a half-page
ad for Marble Collegiate Church ... Norman Vincent Peale's
old church ... .where (as they proclaim) "good things
happen." And what do they say in their Christmas Eve
ad? They say, in big block letters:
"WE DON'T ASK IF YOU'VE BEEN NAUGHTY OR NICE." Well,
neither do I. Because I already know, don't you see. I already
know.
And God
doesn't care. At least for tonight.
Marilyn
Monroe has become a pop icon of our time. Arthur Miller, in
his autobiography Timebends, tells of his marriage
to her. During the filming of The Misfits, Miller watched
Marilyn descend into the depths of depression and despair.
Fearing for her life, he watched her estrangement, her paranoia
and her increasing dependence on barbiturates. One evening,
after a doctor had been persuaded to give Marilyn yet another
shot, she was sleeping. Arthur Miller stood watching her,
reflecting:
I found
myself straining to imagine miracles. What if she were to
wake and I were able to say: "God loves you, darling."
And what if she were able to believe it? How I wish I still
had my religion and she, hers.
I don't
know what brought you here tonight ... or how you got from
home to church. I only hope that you are "straining to
imagine miracles." For it is nothing less than the miracle
Arthur wanted for Marilyn that I proclaim to you in the midst
of the Christmas Eve darkness.
Remember
the kid who was afraid to go from the house to the barn at
night because, as he put it, "it was so dark." So
his daddy handed him a lantern. But the kid said: "Even
with this light in my hand, I can't see the barn." So
his daddy said: "You don't have to see the barn right
now. Just walk to the end of your light."
Well,
you've come to the barn. And we've handed you a light. Maybe
not all the light you wanted. But all the light you need.
And maybe
you don't need much. Maybe you are among those who swallowed
a Franklin Planner for breakfast and have the next 20 years
of your life all planned out. Hey, that's great ... smart
... and very resourceful.
But maybe
you are here tonight, not knowing where you are going to be
20 months, 20 days or 20 hours from now ... not knowing whether
you're going to have a job, a spouse, a happy home, or any
home (for that matter). Things change so fast, don't you know.
At 7:30 this morning, I was in line for croissants and brioche
at the Petit Prince Bakery. The lady in front of me spotted
a lady in back of me. "It's been forever since I've seen
you," she said. "How are you?" "I'm homeless,"
said her friend. "I've been out of my house since December
7 when a tree fell on our roof." Now I know there is
a mild incongruity between "being homeless" and
standing in line at the most expensive French bakery in Birmingham.
Still, on the morning of December 7, there was no entry in
her Franklin Planner that said: "Roof caves in."
Nor in
yours. So what I want you to do this night is take as much
light as you can grab ... from this old barn of a place ...
and from this old farmer of a God ... and then walk to the
end of it. Knowing that it will be enough ... even more than
enough ... for the living of your days.
*
* * * *
Christmas
Eve, 1998 ... "chilling the body, but not the soul."
For along about 1:00 this morning, the house waits ... the
fire waits ... the lobster bisque waits ... the chilled shrimp
waits ... the presents wait ... the peace waits ... and two
wonderful women wait.
Life is
not meager. Love is not wanting. Friends are not scarce. Memories
are still mixed (most of them sweet, but some of them, incredibly
sad ... given that a full table does not always disguise an
empty chair).
But you
still come. Words still come. The Word still comes. And with
it, the fire.
For I
was born in a barn, don't you see? And I have yet to reach
the end of its light. So Merry Christmas. And peace to all
who are within the house.
Note:
Let me share my appreciation with Lloyd Heussner for passing
along the ad from New York Magazine featuring Marble
Collegiate Church.
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