Slouching,
walking, riding a donkey, we’re moving toward Bethlehem in these last weeks of
lengthening nights. We deck the halls with
garlands of evergreens and strings of lights, maybe even a little mistletoe to
celebrate that first Coming, the immense journey from Nazareth to the City of
David, from peasant child to newborn King.
But we also do it to ward off the dark until we can see the days
lengthening once again.
Bethlehem. All I have to do is hear the word or see that
sacred place name to feel the roots of my belief, my faith. It marks the time as well as the geography of
that turning point from old testament to new, the moment when some of God’s
children added the word “forgiveness” to their vocabulary.
How far is Bethlehem from Damascus,
I wonder, or from Jerusalem, for that matter? From Beirut?
Cairo, Baghdad, Istanbul? In the
Bethlehem of our hearts and minds, it is much further than miles. It is the place where “fear not” was spoken
and heard by shepherds and wise men, a plain carpenter and his child
bride. Fear not, because a new way of
living together has just been born in this stable, a new, upside-down order
where the poor will not be hungry and the rich will slink off into oblivion if
they don’t learn to share. Where the
kings of countries will not slaughter their own people, where little children
will be suffered instead of die in suffering.
Some of us are innocent bystanders
in this long, wide story. Others are
soldiers in God’s army, at least in their own eyes. Then there are the nurses and chaplains, the
generals with their strategies and the presidents with their real job, to make
peace where there is no peace, and none desired. There are the arms makers, arms sellers, arms
negotiators, arms detonators. There are
arms in the hands of innocents and sinners alike in this long, wide story, this
historic sweep. Back and forth we go,
corner to corner, dust pans in hand, removing the debris until the next
government bombing, the next terrorist attack.
Back and forth, over and over.
The sound of broomstraws is everywhere.
Bethlehem. I could not call myself a Christian if it
weren’t for the Christmas story. It
entered my heart as a child, long before I would learn about the faith, decades
before I discovered God, the Great Spirit, the Light. Images of Mary astride the unshod donkey in
the cold night, finding shelter with the animals instead of humans, the cattle
lowing in approval and welcome – those images tell me who I am in ways the
cross does not, at least not yet. The
cross is a harder lesson to learn.
But now is the season of Bethlehem,
and making that journey could be the best therapy of all. When our cities and small towns appear to
have been infiltrated by citizens of Damascus and Beirut set on keeping the
old, cold war going into eternity, let us mentally follow Joseph and Mary into
the unholy world of Herod and Caesar. Then,
following instructions, let us slip away with them unscathed, the infant safe
in our arms. Let us dig in with them for
the long haul, keeping watch over our flocks and discerning God’s direction in
the constellations, taking heart from the angels and preparing for the cross.
Bethlehem: you couldn’t have come at a better time.
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Trudy
Wischemann is a neophyte shepherdess who writes. You can send her your star and angel
sightings c/o P.O. Box 1374, Lindsay CA 93247 or leave a
comment below.