First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Christmas Eve, 1998
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.
