The Holiest Thing

Luke 2:1-7

November 29, 2020 • Mount Pleasant UMC

Yep, I’m with you. This is not the Advent any of us planned. I think I said something similar back a few months during the season of Lent, leading up to Easter! And I’ll be very honest: I’m frustrated and a little angry that we’re online again at this time of year. Yes, we will make the best of it, and yes we will get through it, but of all the times of the year that I most want to be together with friends and family, it’s this time of the year. Of all the times I want to be in our worship center, decorated for Christmas, it’s this time of year. I imagine I am not alone in that, and so I want you to know: I understand, I get it. This is not the Advent we hoped for. This is not the Advent we wanted. But it’s the Advent we have, and at this point, we don’t know what the next four weeks will hold. It’s an uncertain Advent at best.

But then I got to thinking—or maybe it was the Holy Spirit whispering—that it really wasn’t much different in the first century when the one whose birthday we are preparing to celebrate came to earth. Those were uncertain times, uneasy times, and into that uncertainty came a baby who was and is the hope of the world. I wonder if maybe, just maybe, it might be good for us to walk a road similar to the one that Mary, Joseph and their infant son Jesus walked over two thousand years ago. This Advent, our theme (selected before the pandemic surged again) is “Making Room: Rediscovering the Joy of Community.” I think that’s ironic, of course, because we’re going to be taking about community during a time when we are physically separated from each other…again. But maybe, just maybe, community isn’t just about being physically together. Maybe community is bigger and deeper than that. So in these next four weeks we’re going to look at the stories of Christmas through the lens of community, and I believe that, even in a resurgent pandemic, the Spirit has things to teach us for these times as well as for the time when we get past all of this. So let’s dive in, shall we, to the second chapter of Luke, to a very familiar story with familiar characters.

I love the way Luke begins this chapter (though, to be fair, Luke wasn’t writing in chapters). But he begins, “In those days…” What days? What kind of days? Well, Luke actually tells us a lot about “those days.” They were days of Caesar Augustus, days when Rome was transitioning from a republic to an empire, days of upheaval when an emperor who was beginning to believe he was a god claimed the power of life and death over all the people (Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pg. 47). These were days of Rome, when little Israel was only a small province in a big empire, when they were little more than cogs in a bureaucratic machine. They were not free, and they were not safe. Those days were days of a census, when the emperor decreed and the people obeyed. This may have been one of the first times this was done, but Roman history shows a census was taken every fourteen years (Barclay, The Gospel of Luke, pg. 20). They wanted to count everyone so they could be sure to tax everyone. Rome wanted to know who you were and where you were, and so everyone went back to their hometown, to be counted. For a carpenter named Joseph, that meant going back to Bethlehem, his home, from the place he was working, a tiny little town in the Galilean hills called Nazareth. And it meant taking his pregnant wife-to-be with him on that 90-mile journey (Bock, Luke [IVP], pg. 54). Today, you can make that journey on a bus in a couple of hours. In those days, it took somewhere between three and ten days to walk there (depending on the route you took). When you’re nine months pregnant, it was probably closer to the ten than the three (Hamilton, The Journey, pg. 88). No matter how the movies dress it up, this would not have been an easy journey for either of them. And I want you to notice a detail in the story—or, actually, notice a detail that’s not there. While we have this image of Mary riding to Bethlehem on a donkey (there are even songs about said donkey), but there is no donkey in the story (cf. Bock 55). Luke says nothing about Mary riding on any kind of animal. For all we know, as poor as they were, Mary may have walked the whole way to Bethlehem.

There’s someone else I want you to notice—or, again, not notice. Read the story again. In every children’s Christmas pageant, in every movie, even in A Charlie Brown Christmas, there is always an innkeeper, that heartless person who turns away the Son of God. (By the way, bonus points to the first person who puts in the chat the Peanuts character who was selected to play the innkeeper.) Sermons have been written about the innkeeper and yet—where is he in the story? Luke does not mention an innkeeper (cf. Bock 55), and do you know why? Because Joseph did not take Mary to a Motel 6 or a Days Inn. Bethlehem, honestly, was much too small in those days to have such an establishment. We’ve gotten the idea of Joseph taking Mary to the local hotel and an innkeeper who turned them away from what has become an unfortunate translation in verse 7. In the 1600’s, the word “inn” meant something much different than it does now, so four hundred years ago, when verse 7 was translated “there was no room for them in the inn,” everyone understood what was meant. But it wasn’t a hotel; it was a guest room in the family home. The word is kataluma, and it generally referred to an upper room that was set aside for when family came home (cf. Hamilton 97). It was a place that was always ready, always welcoming and always available. Except when there is a Roman census. Did I mention that Mary is nine months pregnant? Because of that, they had to travel much more slowly than others, and so Joseph and Mary get to his family’s home later than everyone else. By the time they arrive, the guest room is full. The whole house is packed. There is no room in the home and there is certainly no space in the kataluma.

But that doesn’t mean they are turned away. No, you don’t turn family away—generally not now and certainly not then. So the family scrambles around to clear out a space for Joseph and his nine-month-pregnant fiancé to stay. The rules of hospitality in that culture would allow nothing else; they had to make room for anyone, especially family. The homes in those days were constructed so that under the kataluma, the upper guest room, was a stable; sometimes the home was built over a cave for that purpose (cf. Hamilton 97-99). The family’s animals were kept in this lower part, and the reason for this was twofold. One, it allowed the owners to keep an eye on their animals, to better protect them. And two, the extra body heat from the animals helped to warm the house. When I was in Austria, I learned that farmers in the Alps there still do much the same thing for the same reasons. So, the stable where Mary and Joseph came to rest was no shed out back; it was the lower level of the house, just not usually a place where people stayed. Yet, it was perfect because it allowed a certain amount of privacy for the young couple, and when the baby was born, there was a built-in cradle all ready for him. Granted, it was a feeding trough, but it worked. It was what they had. The family gave what they had so that Mary and Joseph could be safe, could have shelter, and so that the hope of the world could be born.

One definition of “hospitality” is this: doing what needs to be done for the one in need. That’s what Joseph’s family does here. They can’t give him the guest room, but they make space in the stable, with a little bit of privacy, so he and Mary can rest. And when Mary goes into labor—yeah, by the way, the very dramatic scenes in the movies of Mary going into labor and Joseph running frantically from house to house, those also aren’t in Luke’s account of Jesus’ birth (cf. Bock 55)—but when Mary goes into labor, you just know that the women of the family are there to help. They do what needs to be done for the one in need—because that’s what you do. And you don’t look for recognition or accolades. Isn’t it interesting that we don’t have a single one of Joseph’s family’s names listed here? We’re not told who helped Mary breathe or who cleaned up after the birth. We don’t know who fixed the first meal or even pulled out some “swaddling cloths” to wrap Jesus. None of that is recorded, even though, as best we can tell, Mary was one of Luke’s sources for his Gospel (Card 49). She would have known those details, so why aren’t they recorded? We live in a world where we are always running after fame and recognition, but the true heart of hospitality seeks none of those things. The heart of hospitality, of making room, is this: doing what needs to be done for the one in need. C. S. Lewis even spoke of such actions as if they are worship (because they are). He put it this way: “Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself [by which he meant communion], your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses” (qtd. in Robb, Making Room, pg. 4). The person nearest you may be the holiest thing in your life.

In the midst of this coronavirus pandemic, we’re also facing other pandemics that, while maybe not medically threatening, are still taxing at the least and could be life-threatening. One of those pandemics is loneliness. Two years ago, Senator Ben Sasse of Nebraska observed this: “Americans are richer, more informed and [more] ‘connected’ than ever—and unhappier, more isolated and less fulfilled. There is a growing consensus that loneliness—not obesity, cancer or heart disease—is the nation’s ‘number one health crisis’” (qtd. in Robb 4). Now, of course, that was before coronavirus, and yet the virus this last year has only exacerbated the threat that loneliness has over us as we’ve endured lockdowns, shelter-in-place orders and quarantines. We take the virus seriously, as we should, but do we take the threat of loneliness as seriously? Research indicates that loneliness is as dangerous to physical health as smoking fifteen cigarettes a day. It reduces our expected lifespan twice as much as heavy drinking and three times as much as obesity—and, of course, those things are often a consequence of persistent loneliness. Sasse summed up the research this way: “We are literally dying of despair, of the failure to fill the hole millions of Americans feel in their lives.” My friends, especially for those of us in the body of Christ, the church, this ought not be. Jesus said we are to “love our neighbor” (Matthew 22:39). This is the “second greatest commandment,” but it’s really just the flip side of the first greatest commandment, which is to love God. We can’t love God if we don’t love our neighbor; John told the early church that we can’t love God if we don’t carry out his commands (1 John 2:4), and his command is to love others, love your neighbor, practice the ancient art of hospitality.

Without hospitality, Jesus would have had nowhere to be born. In the midst of a stressful and challenging time, Jesus found the welcome of Joseph’s family. We’re in a different time, and we’re unlikely to have to offer our garage to a woman in labor. And we’re told to social distance and stay home anyway this Advent season. So what does this call to hospitality mean for us in the here and now, today and in the month to come? Even with the restrictions and challenges of our time, there are still several ways we can reach out and practice hospitality, sharing the love of Jesus with those around us, with “the holiest things.” Here’s my first suggestion: have you signed up to give an Angel Tree gift this year? Angel Tree is a worldwide ministry of Prison Fellowship, matching prisoners’ families with churches who then provide Christmas gifts to the children in the name of the prisoner. We’ve participated in this ministry for a number of years, but as with everything, this year is different. Let me show you a video that will give you some of the spirit of Angel Tree. Take a listen.

Angel Tree is a wonderful opportunity for extending hospitality, for sharing the love of Jesus with a child who is without a parent. This year, we’re doing much of it remotely, as you might imagine, but if you are called to “adopt” a prisoner’s child, you can contact Melissa Sawyer; her email is on the screen. Melissa will match you with a family and give you information about what gifts are needed. Then you purchase the gifts and work with Melissa to get it to the family. This is a fantastic opportunity for practicing Advent hospitality.

Another opportunity this season is through ringing bells for the Salvation Army. We are scheduled to ring at Kroger South on December 12, all day, and there are still some prime time spots for you to volunteer. So what does ringing the bells accomplish? What good does it do? Well, for one, it’s an opportunity to share joy with those who are rushed and hurried this time of year. I love being at the bell stand and wishing people a “Merry Christmas.” You can tell by the looks on their faces that, for some, this is the only time all day, maybe all season, that anyone has been joyful toward them. I love that we get to do that, extend the love of Christ to people who are stressed out. I won’t tell you who, but I will tell you that we had a member of our church a couple of years ago who got so carried away sharing the joy of Christmas that she was told to quiet down by the store management. Isn’t that a great thing to be known for? You’re just too joyful, Mount Pleasant! I love that! And the second thing ringing bells does is it raises money for the Salvation Army, most of which stays right here in Vigo County and goes to help those in need find housing, get food, find hope. I know Sue Linden, the Envoy over at the Salvation Army, and she and her staff do an amazing job with small resources. When we can uplift their ministry, we are enabling hospitality to be shared with our neighbors, friends and others who find themselves facing challenges. Remember, your neighbor, the people around you, are the holiest things you will ever encounter.

And that leads me to a practice even closer to home. I’ve challenged you for several years now to get to know your neighbors—the people who physically live right around you. We ought to be people who know them well enough to know if and when there’s a need. Now, I know in this coronavirus era, we don’t do much visiting, we don’t share many meals and when we do, we have to do it at a distance. Thanksgiving for all of us was so very different this year, I’m aware. We crave human contact, but until we get back to that point, we can remind people we are thinking about them, loving them. You can drop some sweets on someone’s doorstep along with a card. You can even leave a meal for them on their porch. Make sure it’s a porch they use, though. At our first parsonage, our front door was on the opposite side of the house from the garage, and we rarely went in or out of that door. One day I found a package out there and I had no idea how long it had been there—I would hate for that to happen to a plate of cookies or a pan of macaroni and cheese! Can you imagine finding that sometime in the spring? So, yeah, make sure it’s the door they use or call or text them to tell them it’s there. Or if you know someone who is facing financial challenges, a card with a gift or a gift card might be just what is needed. When we were in seminary, there were a couple of times when we had too much month at the end of our money, and every time, an envelope appeared in my mailbox with no name on it, just the right amount of money we needed. God prompted someone to help us and we were grateful. Maybe you can bless someone this Advent season with a gift that extends hospitality.

Of course, this might mean we have to not do something else. Honestly, Advent this year is going to be different, and maybe doing all the same things is not going to work. That’s okay. By giving up some things, we might be able to create new traditions, take on new activities that will mean more in the long run. Don’t you think that Joseph and Mary’s arrival at the family home in Bethlehem caused disruption? There was no way for them to call ahead or notify Joseph’s family that they were on the way. They just showed up! Actually, this whole census was disruptive. Whatever the family had planned was thrown out the window. And then a baby came! Mary went into labor and they had to take care of that disruption! I’m going to guess that some things went undone; some things had to be put to the side so that Mary and Joseph and the newborn baby Jesus could be taken care of, so that hospitality could be extended. They had to make room—in their home, in their lives, in their schedules. And so will we. Some things might have to go so that something better can take their place. Will Christmas still be Christmas even if we don’t get every favorite dish cooked? Will Christmas still be Christmas even if we don’t get cards sent out? Is it possible that our focus at Christmas is on the wrong things? Is it possible that we get too—pardon the pun—wrapped up in the gift giving and the present buying and the wassail and the lights and the decorations and the Charlie Brown Christmas special that we forget what this season is all about? It’s about a baby, a baby who came to give his life for you and me and our neighbors. It’s about a God who loved us so much he came to welcome us into his family, a God who made room for us in his kingdom, and if that isn’t the ultimate hospitality, I don’t know what is.

Hospitality is about doing what needs to be done for the one in need. It’s about making room in a stable when there is no guest room available. It’s about making room in your life for a young couple who are alone and need community. Or it was, for us, in 1989. Cathy and I were newlyweds, spending our first Christmas far away from home in Wilmore, Kentucky, and because of Cathy’s job we were unable to go back to Indiana for the holidays. Let me tell you, the seminary community cleared out when Christmas came. It felt like we were the only people still in the married student housing, maybe on the whole campus; at least we were the only people we saw hanging around. Since it was just the two of us, we decided we would splurge and go into Lexington for Christmas dinner on Christmas Day. Well, you know what happened. We drove in and nothing was open. Absolutely nothing. So we came back to our tiny apartment and I don’t remember what we had to eat, but I do know we were pretty lonely. That evening, a car came down the road. It was Terry and Judy, who had just gotten back from Nebraska. They lived at the other end of our building, but when they saw us home, they came down to say hi. We must have told them our sad, sad story, because the next thing I know, we were all getting in their car to go grab some dinner. “But,” I protested, “we looked everywhere. Everything’s closed.” Terry assured me he knew somewhere that was open—and you know what’s coming next. Yep, it was A Christmas Story all over again—we ended up having Christmas dinner at the Chinese restaurant. But you know what I remember, thirty years later, about that night? Not the food. I suppose it was okay, I really don’t recall. What I remember is that Terry and Judy, after driving all day from Nebraska to the eastern side of Kentucky, cared enough about two newlyweds far from home to welcome us into their family, to extend hospitality, and to show us the love of Christ through an egg roll…or two. “Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses.” How will you love your neighbor well this Advent season? Let’s pray.