Silent Night

Christmas Eve is that silent night, that holy night; with candle light we remember that night long ago when a mother, alone and far from home, gave birth to a baby. Though much of our world today comes to a stand-still to celebrate this birth, at the time this mother was poor, giving birth in the warm comfort of hay and straw since there was nowhere else for her to go. Aside from a few local sheep herders this birth didn't elicit the celebration it does today.

Now, we revere this night, this mother, this baby. But while we long to draw near to this experience we overlook the fact that it is happening in real time, in real flesh, right here, again and again. This scene is played out each day more poignantly than a Christmas pageant. I find myself wondering why we reenact the story with children in churches and costumes yet so often do not draw near to those in our midst who are living the story with their lives.

True, this baby we celebrate is believed by millions to be God Himself. The young mothers of our communities may be alone and far from home, but they are not carrying Divinity. Or are they? This celebrated baby grew up to be a person with something of a following, but never left his associations with poor, marginalize people to "trade up" for elite status. Instead, he made it a habit to scandalize the community by hanging out with the worst of riff raff, the most despised and undesirable. He insisted that his followers would be recognized as those who did the same. He went so far as to say that anytime we touched the least among us who were in need, we were in fact touching God Himself. So I wonder sometimes - should our celebration of the Nativity send us more frequently into the company of modern day Madonnas, those women who journey alone in their youth, bringing new life into the world as Mary did?

This past Christmas Eve, I had the very great honor of meeting Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus. She was young, very young. Her baby was not born that night, he was already in her arms, already part of her. But she was very alone, and she was very far from home. For a time there was nowhere for her to stay, no shelter for her child. As I looked at her, talked with her, I felt the power of this reflection, this 2000 year echo. As I held her baby I remembered the words of Jesus and my heart swelled and broke at the thought of holding God-with-us in my own arms.

Later in the night a neighbor came to our door in great distress and seeking help; his wife had traveled out of state to attend her father's sudden funeral. And while she was there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. As he stood trembling and shaking in our doorway, she was far from home, and alone, delivering their first child.

These were not warm-and-fuzzy moments. This Christmas Eve was not one of contemplation and reflection. There was urgent business, the awkwardness of drawing close to strangers, the inherent un-romance of real life interactions and stress. But was that first Christmas Eve any different? Yes, the angles sang but Mary did not hear them. She was walking the thin line between life and death, in a musty, crowded stable, far from home and community. And it is here, in all the mundane of real life, that the beauty of the miracle stuns my heart.

What a miracle, that God became man and dwelt among us. What a miracle, that his closest friends were of no material wealth, no social status, no power. What a miracle that when we offer food or friendship or shelter or aid to a person in need - we are giving these things to God Most High.

Today I am storing up all these things and pondering them in my heart.