This event we are about to celebrate we believe to be genuine — a historic moment in time filled with real people and exact places (even if we cannot pinpoint those exact places 2,000 years later). This story of Bethlehem, we believe, is authentic, as filled with truth as it is with the pungent smells of a stable. But why this moment in this time? How and why could this be? The Christmas story is both human and divine, and the divine lies in the “why” of the story. If we cannot fully understand the why, perhaps we can at least kneel in its presence, recognizing the holy — somehow — when we see it.
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“Who’s there?” he calls out, hearing me trip on a loose stone at the side of the stable.
I step into the light of the fire the man has made. They both look at me and smile, for I am just a child and no threat. I am speechless.
“Come closer,” she says, “and see my baby. Have you ever seen a new-born baby?”
I nod. “My little sister,” I say.
“Ah, well this one’s a boy,” the man says. “Just like you. You were like this once.”
I come closer, and as the flames of the fire flicker and dart across their faces, I see the child, his eyes still wet, glistening and open wide, seemingly taking me in just as I am taking him in. He holds my gaze, and I have this sense of connection, as if I know him or need to, even though that makes no sense even to my 12-year-old sense of reason. I can’t move or speak. The old folks in the temple speak of awe, and I realize this might be what they’re talking about.
It’s like watching the sun set over the hills on the outside of town where I tend the sheep with my father and uncles. I don’t know where it goes every night but I know it will rise again in the morning, and I am strangely moved by its beauty, by its ever-different colors and movement. It’s like the splash of cold water on my face or down my throat, more refreshing and life giving than I could ever imagine when I thirst for it. There’s something beyond the ordinary and obvious here.
It’s just the sun. Just a cup of water. Just a baby. But I am at once both afraid and at ease, confused and clarified. I feel as if I belong to this child and he belongs to me, like there is a strand of fine thread, like a spider’s silk, that joins us — so light that it cannot be seen and so strong it can never be broken. And although I can’t say exactly why, I kneel and cry.
Ask yourself in silence: What connects you to God? To Jesus? How can you make this Christmas truly a time to reconnect?
