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...for the first time in history the baby Jesus is born in the Holiday Inn of Bethlehem, tended to lovingly by a homeless man. |
There is a story told by theologian Serene Jones. It’s about a Christmas pageant at her church in New Haven. (Anyone doing a Christmas pageant right now?) The part of the innkeeper was being played by a homeless man named Reggie. She writes: “Reggie was to stand in the center aisle and say no to the pregnant Mary and tired Joseph when they asked him for a place to spend the night. Reggie, however, grinning slightly, said, ‘Come in,’ instead. This confused Mary and Joseph, and they decided to ask again. Again, he repeated his quiet welcome to the couple. At first, people were nervous. What will we do if he doesn’t give the right response? Then, looks of recognition appeared across the congregation. Reggie was not confused about his role; he understood his part very well. Through his response, he had reminded us of the harsh reality that this was a story of homelessness—and of the surprising ‘yes’ that breaks through in its midst.” This is a time when we find ourselves doing things we’ve done every year. Some are habits, some are beautiful traditions, some are due to the stress that descends upon us at the first sign of holiday advertising. We’re used to these things. We expect them. They happen year after year, in more or less the same way. But then, every once in a while, something happens that rips a hole in
our expectations, that takes our little habits and cracks them open. Reggie
says, “Come in.” It’s not the right answer. It’s a
crack opened up in our expectation of how these things are supposed to
go. But it turns out to be more right than the right answer, and for the
first time in history the baby Jesus is born in the Holiday Inn of Bethlehem,
tended to lovingly by a homeless man. |
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The new creation is coming, but we don’t want to see the old one leave. |
When Reggie says, “Come
in,” he invites in not only Mary and Joseph but the harsh reality
of homelessness. Reggie knows how cold a December night can be. The safety,
security, and relative predictability of a Christmas pageant cracks open,
and in comes the reminder of who is outside—and the reminder that
Jesus, after all, was one of those outside, because there was no room
in the inn. In the Scripture today, we have Jesus and his apostles gathered for Passover dinner. The meal is supposed to go a particular way, and while it’s debatable whether Passover then was the same as Passover now, we can be sure this was something that group did every year and had certain expectations. There’s a way the story is supposed to go. And Jesus cracks it open. He says, right in the middle of the loveliest part of Passover dinner, “I am going to die and one of you is going to do it. This is my last meal this side of Jordan.” (Way to ruin a nice dinner, right?) He says, “The new creation is coming, and between now and then, this meal will never be the same for you.” So the safety and relative predictability of this dinner gets cracked open, and in comes the promise of the new creation and the harsh reality of the cross. Because while Jesus and his friends are gathered in the soft-focus warmth of table fellowship, outside, a cross is being constructed. The wood is being sawn, the nails are being hammered, and in the upper room it would have been so easy to ignore it. In breaking this meal open and bringing in the cross, Jesus warns us
against making this meal too much of a Norman Rockwell painting. Maybe
every meal. Because too often we enjoy our soft-focus fellowship and good
food and central heating, while outside Christ is crucified in the body
of a starving child. Outside, Christ is crucified in homeless people.
Outside, Christ is crucified in Iraqi children and people living with
AIDS and the person on your own street who eats every meal alone. Outside,
Christ is crucified in whoever it is we have to shut out in order to maintain
our illusions of safety, security, and predictability. And when we do
this we push away the new creation as hard as we can, because we are so
busy holding on to the old one. |
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This meal is a taste of the new creation. And it makes some demands on us. |
So it’s something of a miracle anytime we get these tastes of the new creation. This meal is a taste of the new creation. And it makes some demands on us. It asks us to stop holding on to the old creation with everything we’ve got, to let the old creation be cracked open, to drop our illusions and really see the pain and suffering outside, to let go of all the exclusion and violence that we seem to depend on for our own security, to lay down this world and shoulder up our cross. Because that is when Jesus can do something with us. I would like to suggest that the way Jesus invites us to this table may be very much like the way Reggie invited Mary and Joseph into the inn. It’s going to bring us face-to-face with the cross. It’s going to crack open the old creation. And it’s going to give us a taste of the heavenly feast. Because Christ’s invitation is the Yes. Christ’s invitation is the “Come in.” Jesus calls it out to those outside especially, to the highways and byways, to those who might least want to sit at table together—because that’s how it’s going to be in the new creation. Thy kingdom come, Lord.
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The Covenant Network2515 Fillmore St - San Francisco - CA - 94115 |
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Cracks
in the Old Creation