An unknown writer tells the story:

I could hardly believe my eyes. I pulled the car over to the side of the road and got out to take a closer look. No. I wasn't seeing things. It was real.

It was the Advent season. To celebrate that season most of us put lights up inside our house and outside. But I had never seen lights here before.

You see, there's a graveyard in a field close to where my wife's parents live. Some of their ancestors are buried there and some of the graves pre-date the War Between the States. But many years ago someone planted evergreen trees all around that graveyard. I had been in this cemetery several times. I remembered how lovely the trees were and the pleasantness of their fresh smell. They filled the air that night with that sweet scent of evergreen.

But that night, there was something new and wonderful about that place. Someone had come out and put up beautiful white lights all over those trees. That place of death was circled and illuminated by Christmas lights!

I remember saying out loud, "What a strange place for Christmas lights." But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense to me. And Christmas began to take on a whole new meaning.

I think I understand what the person who put up those lights was trying to say. Christmas means that light has come into every part this dark world, even into the darkness of death. Christmas changes everything! In the Christ Child light and life are given that darkness and death cannot take away!

Usually we think of this theme at Easter. But without Christmas, there would be no Easter! That's what the Christmas lights on the cemetery trees proclaimed to me. "What a strange place for Christmas lights." No. Not at all.

[Ex. 13:2] "Consecrate to me every firstborn male. The first offspring of every womb among the Israelites belongs to me, whether man or animal."

“These are the regulations for the woman who gives birth to a boy or a girl. [8] If she cannot afford a lamb, she is to bring two doves or two young pigeons, one for a burnt offering and the other for a sin offering. In this way the priest will make atonement for her, and she will be clean.' " [Lev. 12:7b-8]

It was what the law required. No more, no less. This child, born to Mary, guarded by angels, announced by shepherds, and visited by Magi, was to receive no dispensation, no special treatment. Like all first born, he was to be redeemed: redeemed so he could redeem others.

As the offerings were made, a stranger approached the young parents. His name was Simeon, and we know very little about him. We do know he LK 2:25 was righteous and devout. (And that) He was waiting for the consolation of Israel" The Holy Spirit had revealed to him that he would not die before he had seen the Lord's Christ. As soon as Simeon took the child in his arms, he knew. He knew that the promise had been fulfilled, that this child in his arms was the Messiah, the promised one. After thanking God for the fulfilment of the promise, the old man blessed the child and spoke a chilling prophecy: [Luke 2:34] "This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, [35] so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too." A prophecy that would come all too true.

I wonder if Mary remembered those words when the scribes and Pharisees accused her son of being in league with Beelzebub, Satan. I wonder if Mary remembered those words the day she stood in a crowd and called out to him, only to hear renounce her with the words: [MK 3:33] "Who are my mother and my brothers?"

To say that Mary’s soul would be pierced was, perhaps, an understatement. Yet what parent here has not had their own soul pierced? Perhaps you have. like the Prodigal Father, waited, prayerfully, day after day, for the return of your wayward child.

An unknown mother writes: When I was in my twenties, I stood in a hospital corridor waiting for doctors to put a few stitches in my son's head. I asked, "When do you stop worrying?" The nurse said, "When they get out of the accident stage." My mother just smiled faintly and said nothing.

When I was in my thirties, I sat on a little chair in a classroom and heard how one of my children talked incessantly, disrupted the class, and was headed for a career making license plates. As if to read my mind, a teacher said, "Don't worry. They all go through this stage and then you can sit back, relax and enjoy them." My mother listened and said nothing.

When I was in my forties, I spent a lifetime waiting for the phone to ring, the cars to come home, the front door to open. A friend said, "They're trying to find themselves. Don't worry in a few years, you can stop worrying. They'll be adults."

By the time I was 50, I was sick & tired of being vulnerable. I was still worrying over my children, but there was a new wrinkle. There was nothing I could do about it. I continued to anguish over their failures, be tormented by their frustrations and absorbed in their disappointments. My friends said that when my kids got married I could stop worrying and lead my own life. I wanted to believe that, but I was haunted by my mother's wan smile and her occasional, "You look pale. Are you all right? Call me the minute you get home. Are you depressed about something?"

Can it be that parents are sentenced to a lifetime of worry? A lifetime of having our souls pierced?

The life and death of Jesus certainly pierced Mary’s soul. Certainly this didn’t seem like what the angel Gabriel promised: that "He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, [33] and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end." Yet nothing about Jesus, nothing about Christmas, is quite what it seems. The expectation of a great king is answered with a peasant baby, born in a barn. The expectation of a great military leader is met with a child who grows into a man of peace, a man who counsels: [39] But I tell you, Do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. [40] And if someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. [41] If someone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. The expectation of a savior was met with a cross.

For Mary, Simeon’s prophecy of what was to come was just the beginning. For us, Christmas, and the new year that follows, mark another beginning: another opportunity to claim the Savior as our own; another chance to draw near to the God who loves us and claims us; another chance at discipleship. As Howard Thurmond puts it:

When the song of the angels is silent
When the star in the sky is gone
When the kings and princes are home
When the shepherds are again tending their sheep
When the manger is darkened and still
The work of Christmas begins --
To find the lost
To heal the broken
To feed the hungry
To rebuild the nations
To bring peace among people
To befriend the lonely
To release the prisoner
To make music in the heart.

It will surely pierce our souls, but the presence of the Christmas child, in whose name we act, brings light to the dankness of our world. As you begin the work of Christmas, may that light shine upon you, bringing healing, wholeness, and peace. Merry Christmas.

AMEN.

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Harriet Richie wrote that after wonderful, candlelit late night Christmas Eve service, her husband announced that he was hungry for breakfast. "There must be some place open". So the whole family piled in the car and headed out to the interstate junction and the truck stop that they knew would even be open on Christmas Eve. A few big diesels rumbled outside at the far end of the parking lot. Inside a few trucker types sat at the counter eating and drinking, a jukebox was playing some country and western song. On the big window were a few multicolored blinking lights, giving a faint Christmassy spirit to the place. It smelled like bacon grease and stale cigarette smoke. A one-armed man stood behind the counter drinking a Pepsi.

The family squeezed into a booth, because they wanted to sit near the lights. A thin waitress named Rita sauntered over. She looked like you'd expect any waitress to look like who was unlucky enough to draw the late shift on Christmas Eve. She managed a weary smile and handed out the menus like a poker hand.

Harriet says she looked around, feeling a bit snobbish and out of place. She, after all, had a family who had all just come from the Christmas Eve service, and would end up in their lovely home for the night. There was a fleeting thought that years from now she might say with a laugh, "Remember that Christmas we ate breakfast in that awful truck stop with the country music and tacky lights?" They would all snicker.

She was staring out the window when an old Volkswagen van with Texas plates drove up. This was some years ago, a bearded young man in jeans got out. He walked around and opened the door for a young woman who was holding a baby. They hurried inside, protecting the baby from the cold with her poncho, and took a booth nearby.

Someone asked where they were headed, but Harriet couldn't hear the answers. She wondered, "Were their grandparents anxiously waiting to see their new grandchild for the first time?" Somehow she didn't think so.

When Rita took their order the baby began to cry. The father shifted the baby around, tried him on his shoulder, but nothing seemed to help. The mother tried rocking the baby in her arms. Nothing worked. The baby was just plain hungry. The mother picked up the diaper bag and started to leave, holding the baby against her neck as if to stifle the noise of his crying.

A baby crying in a place where crying babies aren’t welcome. Not an unusual occurrence, one almost any mother here has experienced. But what if it’s not just the crying, but the baby, the parents, the entire family, who is unwelcome? That must have been the way Joseph felt some two thousand years ago as he threaded his way through the streets of Bethlehem, looking for a place to stay.

One thing that has always bugged me about the Christmas story is why Joseph and Mary didn’t have a place to stay. It’s not like this was a sudden trip. The decree would have gone out months ago, and everyone would have known where and when they had to go. Surely, since this was the home town of Joseph’s clan, he would have family he could call on. When Fay and I travel, if we can, we call ahead to friends and relatives to arrange a place to stay. Are we really that much smarter than Joseph? I don’t think so. I think the reason Joseph didn’t have a place to stay is because his family wouldn’t have him.

Joseph and Mary lived in a culture where premarital pregnancy was cause for stoning. For a young girl to be found pregnant before her wedding day brought shame not only on her, but on her entire family; and for a young man to stay with such a girl brought that shame on himself and his family. The scandal of Mary’s pregnancy, and Joseph’s refusal to separate himself from her, would have made its way to family and friends in Bethlehem. In spite of the requirement to offer hospitality, they were unwilling to be associated with Joseph’s shame. Conveniently they found themselves without hospitality to offer. Then, as now, no one wanted the Baby Jesus.

And so they wandered. From one inn to the next, desperately seeking a place to rest, a place for Mary to give birth. Finally, an innkeeper who either hadn’t heard the story, or simply could not put them completely out, offered them a place. It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t even an air bed in the family room, but it was warm, dry, and quiet. It was a small, insignificant place, but it is in small, insignificant places and lives that God performs miracles.

All God needs for the miracle of the incarnation is a small corner of a barn. All God needs for the miracle of salvation to take root in you or me, is a small corner of our heart. Just as the baby Jesus, born in that barn grew to be the savior of all humankind, the Jesus who takes root in a small corner of your heart grows to walk with you, and be with you, in and through all things. Jesus didn’t need a castle 2000 years ago, and, as Harriet discovered, he doesn’t need one today. Back to her story.

Rita, the waitress, reached over and held out her arms. "Sit down and drink your coffee, hon, let me see what I can do." There was something about the way Rita took the baby in her arms that made you think that she had probably raised a half dozen of her own. She began talking and walking round the place. Rita showed the baby to a man sitting at the counter who wore a battered baseball cap, cowboy boots, and leather wallet on a chain, an authentic over-the-road trucker. He made the appropriate silly faces and high-pitched noises to the baby. Then she showed the baby the blinking Christmas lights and the gaudy colors on the jukebox. She brought him over to Harriet and her family and said, "Just look at this little darlin will ya? Mine's all big and grown."

The one-armed man took the pot of coffee and started to wait on the tables. As he finished refilling their mugs, Harriet writes, she realized there were tears in her eyes. Her husband wanted to know what was wrong.

"Nothing, just Christmas" she told him, and reached into her purse for a Kleenex and a quarter. "Go see if you can find a Christmas song on the jukebox", she told the children.

When they were gone, she looked at her husband and said, "He'd come here, wouldn't he?"

"Who?"

"Jesus. If Jesus were born in this town tonight and the choices were our neighborhood or this truck stop, it would be here, wouldn't it?"

Her husband didn't answer right away but he looked around the place, looked at the people. "Yep" he said, "Either here or at the homeless shelter."

Harriet says she thought for a while, "That's what bothers me. When we first got here I felt sorry for all these people because they didn't have houses to go home to like we do, with wreaths and candles and Christmas trees. Listening to that awful music, I thought, I bet none of these people ever even heard of Handel's Messiah. But now I think that more than any other place I've been, this is where Christmas is, and I'm not sure I belong."

As they walked to the car her husband bent close to her ear and said, "Remember, the angels did say 'I bring you good news of great joy to all people."

What do we do with the baby? Do we send him to the next place, or do we open our hearts, our arms, our lives, and let the miracle begin? Have a joyful Christmas. Amen.

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This Is My Father's World

The space for this web site has been provided courtesy of the General Board of Global Ministeries, The United Methodist Church.
The content of these pages is the responsibility of Regis Peregrin, member of Carus United Methodist Church.
Please send feeback to carus_um@gbgmchurches.gbgm-umc.org
Created November 16, 2002 ; Last updated, January 20, 2003