Did you ever
wonder about the innkeeper?
He – or, perhaps
she – doesn’t actually appear in the gospel text at all. The innkeeper is just implied, in that
passing note that “there was no place for them in the inn.”
But some
innkeeper must have existed. Probably
more than one, in Bethlehem.
Someone had to take care of customers that busy year, and hang up the
“no vacancy” sign. And someone had to invite Mary and Joseph into that stable,
whether it was a big barn at a large inn, or a little lean-to tucked up at the
side of a house where some enterprising person rented out rooms to travelers.
So there must
have been an innkeeper.
A silent player,
but a necessary one, in the story that brings us all here tonight, the story of
one particular baby’s birth, some two thousand years ago, in Bethlehem.
The innkeeper is
a bit part, but sometimes that’s the kind of Christmas we have.
Sometimes that’s
how we ourselves relate to God, almost accidentally, almost invisible, but
still part of the miracle.
Some Christmases
glow with the brilliant, holy light of a sky full of angels singing glory, and
live in our memory as brilliant times of good news, amazing love, and glorious
surprise.
Sometimes that
happens on schedule in late December – or sometimes it’s an unexpected eruption
of God into your ordinary daily life.
But sometimes
the wonder, the surprise, the sense of holiness just don’t seem to show
up. There are Christmases when Jesus’
birth or the family celebration are just another part of daily work – busy,
sometimes frantic, and all about other people’s wants and needs.
Those are the
innkeeper Christmases.
Those are the
times when the holy seems to happen somewhere behind you, or off at the edge of
your peripheral vision, and you’re not even sure it’s there at all.
God is sneaky
that way.
That’s how Jesus
is born, honestly, when nobody is looking.
Even now, God is
more likely to slip quietly in to our homes, our work, our lives, in
unremarkable times and places, than to arrive with fanfare and trumpets, or
available on schedule, like Santa at the mall.
So the story of
Christmas reminds us to look for God’s hidden treasures.
Earlier this
month, a friend told me a story about her grandson’s Christmas wish. He’s a seven year old who has been
attending a religious school in his neighborhood, and all he wanted for
Christmas this year was an icon.
An image of God,
painted with prayer, meant to help focus your prayers. “I can’t pray without an
icon,” said the seven-year old.
Well, that right
there is enough to melt any professional religious person’s heart.
But the story
doesn’t stop there.
Because the
moment Sandi heard this, she knew just where to get one. “I pulled it out of my hall closet,”
she said, “dusted it off, wrapped it up and sent it off.”
Sandi had had Jesus
in her closet, all along.
It was an icon
she’d bought at a church fundraiser some time ago, because no one else was
interested. Generous, but the icon didn’t fit her own prayer life, so it was
put away, out of sight.
Until her seven
year old grandson asked for help with his prayers,
asked for
something to help him get closer to God,
and Jesus was
suddenly visible, and welcome, and wrapped up in Christmas glory.
That’s an
innkeeper Christmas.
The discovery
that tucked away in the hall closets, garages, sheds and barns of our home and
of our lives are miracles. Discovering that you have been entrusted, completely
unaware, with the gift that brings God close and visible into the world,
for one seven
year old,
or for
generation after generation across the globe.
Sandi’s
closet. The innkeeper’s stable.
Your life and
mine are full of hidden treasures, the real presence of God, entrusted to us
whether we know it or not.
It may come as
family stories, worn thin by repetition or barely remembered, that live in the dark
storage of your memory, but someday are light and revelation to a new
generation, or a forgetful cousin.
Or moments of
generosity - a helping hand you’ve offered in an office or along the street,
quickly forgotten, that gives God an entry into someone else’s life.
There are
accidents and obligations that put you in the path of love, forgiveness, and startling
grace. Unused talents that meet an
unexpected need.
What’s in your
closet?
Do you know?
Do you know?
God does.
God’s gifts,
even God’s self, so often slip into a corner of a closet or a barn, easy to
overlook, until a longing to be closer to God brings those gifts to light.
It’s possible,
of course, that no Bethlehem innkeeper ever realized what happened that long
ago night. Possible the busy proprietor or housewife sent Joseph and his family
quickly on their way without ever “oohing” over the baby, or recognizing grace.
But I don’t
think so.
I believe that in
the middle of the hard work and the busy time, that innkeeper did notice the excited shepherds
crowding the stable, saw the subtle signs of glory in a crumpled infant’s face,
and recognized that he had been God’s silent partner in a world-changing
miracle.
I believe that
because I know that God delights in
being with us.
God born into a
common stable, stirring up busy shepherds, eating at our tables, comforting us
in trouble and grief, celebrating with us, sitting, waiting, walking, breathing
with us, touchable and close.
God delights in
being with us, and so God would not have left the innkeeper out of the miracle.
God doesn’t want
to let you or me miss the miracle, either.
So tonight, this
Christmas, let your heart melt for the wonder of a baby asleep in the hay, but
keep your eyes and ears open for the miracles that God has entrusted to you. Miracles of God’s desire to be
close to us.
Because they are
there.
God might be in
your garage tonight.
God might be in
your closet, or in the dusty corners of your heart, sneaking into
the world, coming closer to you, and me, and all God’s beloved children, just
waiting for our longing to be close to God to bring that hidden treasure to
light.
Remember the
innkeeper, and the baby in the stable, and believe in miracles, because
miracles are what God entrusts to you and me at Christmas, here and now.
And miracles
sneak in to the most ordinary of days, just waiting to be brought to light.
