The Crowded Inn and the Unkempt Stable: A Meditation for Christmas

By BISHOP ROBERT BARRON

At Christmas, we certainly look back in time to the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem long ago, but we also are meant to examine intently the present moment when that same Jesus endeavors to be born in our hearts. After all, the whole point of the Christian life is to be able to say with St. Paul, “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.” To help us with both inquiries, I would propose a meditation for you upon two dwellings: the travelers’ inn at Bethlehem from which the Lord was excluded and the stable in which he was born.

Mary and Joseph— bedraggled, tired, more than a bit desperate—arrive at the door of a hostel in a tiny town of Judea. The owner, knowing that his establishment is at capacity and taking into consideration the troublesome nobodies who are seeking entry, brusquely sends them away. The obvious spiritual question for us is this: what do we say when Jesus seeks to be born in our hearts? Do we protest that our lives are just too busy, too full, to take him in? Are the rooms of our souls occupied by wealth, pleasure, the desire for honor, family, work, friendships, entertainment? Has an ideological secularism caused us simply to set aside any possibility of the sacred and transcendent? And as a result, do we grimace impatiently at Christ when he comes and urge him to find lodging somewhere else?

And mind you, Jesus typically comes to us now as he did then, which is to say, in a humble, even distressing, disguise. If he had appeared two thousand years ago in full divine glory, the inn-keeper would have cleared the place out in order to accommodate him, and if he appeared to us in similar splendor, we would undoubtedly let him in. But the one who said, “whatever you do to the least of my brothers and sisters you do to me,” indeed comes to us in the form of the hungry, the homeless, the annoying, the outsider. The great Christmas imperative is: when Christ comes to you, give him room! I’m sure you know that lovely image from the book of Revelation, Christ standing at the door knocking. In his divine power, he could, of course, have simply knocked down the door, but he respects our dignity and freedom sufficiently to give us the opportunity to respond in love to his entreaty. Christmas is the time to attune your ears to the sound of that invitation.

A self-complacent secularism, a crowding-out of the spiritual, might be one reason we resist the coming of Christ. Another is shame. How could the Son of God take up residence in a life as unkempt and scandalous as mine?and scandalous as mine? Dorothy Day made this remark: “I am so glad that Jesus was born in a stable. Because my soul is so much like a stable. It is so poor and in unsatisfactory condition because of guilt, falsehoods, inadequacies, and sin. Yet I believe if Jesus can be born in a stable, maybe he can also be born in me.” Far too many Christmas cards have convinced us that the Bethlehem stable was a warm, cozy, and pretty place. But let’s be realistic: a shelter for animals on the outskirts of an insignificant town in the ancient world would have been dark, malodorous, cold, and decidedly unbeautiful.

Yet, that is where Christ chose to be born. We are all indeed made in the image and likeness of God, but at the same time, all of us, spiritually speaking, are something of a mess. As G.K. Chesterton said “we’re all in the same boat, and we’re all seasick. Addiction, obsession, the inability to forgive, cruelty both latent and explicit, crippling envy, bouts of despair—all of it has rendered our souls as dingy and unpleasant as the Bethlehem stable. Nevertheless, Christ does not despise our outcast state. He is pleased to be born in the messiest of souls. Mind you, Jesus is not satisfied with our seasick condition; he’s not content to leave us in shambles. Christmas represents the beginning of his life in us, not the end. Once we allow him in, he commences, with the cooperation of our freedom, to become the Lord of every aspect of our lives, turning the stable into a palace fit for a king. So, when you permit him to be born in you, be prepared for more than a little adventure.

Perhaps you have been away from church for a long time; perhaps the regnant secularism has crowded out all consideration of the spiritual; perhaps you’re convinced that the Lord would never seek intimacy with the likes of you. Flannery O’Connor said that her stories were about “the offer of grace typically refused.” Might I suggest that this Christmas is a moment of grace. Don’t refuse it.