Steve Brown, a minister, remembers seeing a car one day while driving
home that was the ugliest car he had ever seen. This car wasn't just ugly – it
was ugly on top of ugly. The car’s side had a large gash; one of the doors was
held together with wire; and several other body parts were almost completely
rusted out. The car's muffler was so loose that with every bump, it hit the
street, sending sparks flying. He couldn't tell the car’s original color. Rust
had eaten away much of the paint, and so lots of the car had been painted over
with so many different colors that any one of them (or none of them) could have
been the original. Dirt and duct tape seemed to be holding the vehicle
together. The most interesting thing about the car was a bumper sticker that
read, in capital letters, "THIS IS NOT AN ABANDONED CAR."[1]
The meaning of Christmas, this year and every year, is that in the birth
of Jesus of Nazareth God sent a message of hope to an ugly, broken, hurting
world: This is not an abandoned world.
When I hear people speak of the magic of Christmas, I am both bemused
and saddened because Christmas has no magic. There are no incantations or rituals
by which a person, not even a priest or bishop, can summon angels or the Holy
Spirit to set life right, heal the hurting and broken, or bring peace to the
world.
Instead, Christmas points to a deep mystery. No matter how bad life
gets, and some of you like me, know that our individual lives can become pretty
awful, and many of us are deeply distraught because of social ills we face
daily, including wars on five continents, Ebola, house-lessness, racism,
misogyny – no matter how bad or ugly life gets, God never abandons us. In some
mysterious way, God’s love causes life to triumph over death, never abandoning
us or our world.
Peace Community Church in Rosaria, Argentina, is an intimate faith community.
Their worship center, in a repurposed neighborhood house, accommodates only 60
people.
One year, Peace Community obtained permission to close off the street on
which the church is located to produce an outdoor Christmas pageant. The
congregation arranged the worship center chairs in the street, facing the
church building. They placed a loud speaker on the roof, so people could hear
recorded music and the children’s dialogue.
Late December is summer in the southern hemisphere, and the evening of
the pageant was very pleasant and warm. Neighbors filled the seats and the
street.
Youth and children from the church – dressed as shepherds or wise men or
the innkeeper and, of course, as Mary and Joseph – were to reenact the events
of Jesus’ birth. The babe was a doll dressed in swaddling clothes. A real
donkey was to carry “Mary” to the church. The church’s front door served as the
inn. Facundo, a 12-year-old boy, played the innkeeper. He was the sexton’s son
and lived in the rear of the property. While tall for his age, he had a gentle
spirit.
Joseph, following the script, led the donkey carrying Mary, stopped in
front of the “inn,” and knocked. Facundo opened the door and stood in the
doorway. Seeing the donkey and Mary sitting on it, his eyes grew big.
Joseph asked for a room. Facundo kept staring at Mary on the donkey said
nothing. One could hear the audience’s soft, nervous laughter. A prompter behind
the church door softly repeated Facundo’s line. Finally, after what seemed like
an eternity, Facundo spoke his line, “There is no room in the inn.”
Joseph insisted. “But we have come from a long journey, and my wife is
due to have a baby.”
Facundo looked at the donkey and he looked at Mary. The prompter
whispered his line once again from the other side of the door. “There is no
room in the inn,” repeated Facundo, this time with hesitancy. He stood in the
doorway watching. Joseph insisted again. “We are so tired; do you know anywhere
we can stay?”
This was Facundo’s cue to tell them they could stay in the stable. He
looked at the donkey and at Mary and Joseph. The prompter softly said Facundo’s
line. Again, the audience murmured nervously. Again, the prompter repeated the
line.
Facundo stood still, staring at the couple. Then he blurted out, “You
can have my room!” pointing to the rear of the church property. Shocked, cast
and audience were silent. Joseph just looked at Facundo in bewilderment. It
wasn’t supposed to have gone this way. He should have sent Mary and Joseph to
the end of the sidewalk in front of the church, where a “stable” was prepared
for them.
Finally, Mary broke the ice. “Okay,” she said. “That’s really nice of
you.” She dismounted from the donkey. The caretaker led the donkey away, and
Joseph and Mary entered the door of the inn to stay in Facundo’s room.
The audience burst into applause. The children took their bows. The
pageant couldn’t have been scripted any better. Facundo stole the show and the
hearts of the neighborhood. He had captured the meaning of Christmas, because
he made room for the Christ Child in his life.[2]
What if the innkeeper had told the holy family that they could have his
room?
What if we tell the Christ to fill our hearts?
Confident that God has not abandoned the world, may we, like Facundo, enter
into the mystery of God’s loving, life-giving presence by welcoming the Christ Child
into our hearts and homes. Amen.
Sermon
preached Christmas Eve 2018, Parish of St. Clement, Honolulu, HI
[1] Adapted
from Overcoming Setbacks (Colorado Springs: Navpress, 1992), p. 62.
[2] Douglas
Ruffle, “Room
at the Inn,” Leading Ideas, December 5, 2018 at https://www.churchleadership.com/leading-ideas/room-at-the-inn/?id=li20181205.
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