Innkeeper Christmas

Luke 2:1-20

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?

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.

Merry Christmas!