Christmas

Christmas is a time for stories, since the birth of God is the greatest
story of all.

I like the story of the father who is giving his reason for not going to
Midnight Mass. His wife and children went, but he stayed home.

As he was thinking how foolish it was to celebrate Christmas he suddenly
heard a loud thumping on the window. In the swirling, snowy storm outside a
flock of birds was trying to get into the light and warmth of the house.
They fluttered and bumped against the window in vain.

He thought of the barn. They could be safe and warm. He bundled up and
rushed out to open the barn doors. He even tried to shoo the birds in, but
they circled around and came back to beat senselessly on the windows of the
house. The man thought to himself: "If only I were on of them. If I were a
bird, I could lead them in some way, show them how to save themselves and
escape the storm"

Then it dawned on him; the story of Christ was no fairy tale. It was the
most reasonable thing in the world. The One who created and cares for every
human being knew there was only one way to lead mankind to safety. God
Himself had to become a man, much as only another bird could lead that
anxious flock of birds to safety in his barn. When his family returned they
heard another sermon--the experience of the head of the house.

Another story shows us that the Christmas story does not always happen
amidst chanting angels and falling snow. This one comes from Rev. Richard
Rice. He says:

It was Friday, December 16, 1960, and I was preparing for my first Christmas
as a pastor of Grace Methodist Church in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I was on the
telephone with the superintendent of the Sunday School program. Suddenly, at
10:16 AM our call was interrupted by a tremendous thud: the building shook
and a bright orange glow lit up the stained glass windows of the study.

I ran upstairs to the third floor of the parsonage and looked out the window
just as my wife, Nancy arrived. Seventy-five feet from the parsonage the
intersection of Sterling Place and Seventh Avenue was filled with fire and
black smoke. Nancy said, "It's an airplane. Look, it says United." I could
just make out the shape of the tail of a plane amidst the flames and smoke.

Then out of the blazing inferno we saw a little boy come running towards our
house. His clothes were on fire. He collapsed in a snow bank right in front
of our door. I ran down the stairs, grabbing an afghan from the couch. By
the time I reached the boy, a passing salesman had already covered him with
his overcoat to smother the flames. A neighbor, who had just shoveled her
car out from the heavy snow, drove him to the closest hospital. This boy was
the sole survivor of the crash, and he only lived for 24 more hours.

It wasn't until 12 hours later that we found out what had happened. Two
planes had collided over Staten Island, one crashing there, and the larger
jet crashing right next to us in Brooklyn. In the meantime, though, I
realized there would be need for space. I went back to the church and
unlocked the doors. A young man, whom I had never met before, came in and
asked if there was anything he could do. I gave him $20 (a lot of money in
1960) and told him to get ingredients for sandwiches.

I wondered whether I would ever see him again. But in a little while he was
back with the supplies. Thanks to the generosity of the nearby deli owner
there was far more than $20 worth of food. The young man began to organize
the kitchen as I tried to respond to the many people who were coming into
the church.

The church became the emergency hospital, the dressing station for the fire
department. Thousands of sandwiches were made in the kitchen . Hundreds of
volunteers handed them out. Beds were brought in by the Red Cross for people
whose apartments had been destroyed and for the exhausted firemen. In the
early hours after the accident some of the firemen had stretched out on the
carpeted stage to rest, their huge boots sticking up among the camels, sheep
and wise men.

On Christmas Eve the disaster center was closed. I rushed around the cor- to
Flatbush Avenue to get a present for Nancy. Then we had our service. The
figures of the nativity scene were back in their traditional position. The
horrible smell of burning flesh was replaced by the thoughts of the incense
brought to the Christ child by the three wisemen. The sound of siren was
replaced by the music of angels. It was a Christmas I will never forget
There was room at the inn."

Using the church to minister to the wounded amidst the figures of the
Christmas crib scene show us the real meaning of Christmas: love.

"There was room at the inn," says this pastor. The word inn used in the
original scriptural text comes from the Greek and means "guest room."

In the typical Mid-Eastern home, scholar Kenneth Bailey tells us, there is a
designated room for overnight visitors. It would be unthinkable, according
to the dictates of Eastern hospitality, for out-of- town relatives to be
sent to an inn by their own family. Mary and Joseph were among relatives.
They were back in Bethlehem because Joseph was 'of the house and lineage of
David." The problem was, there were undoubtedly many relatives back for the
government's enrollment.

By the time Mary and Joseph arrived, the guest room was filled and so they
had to be placed in the next best place in the family home, which, Bailey
says, would have been the outer room where the family's animals were brought
in for safe keeping during the night. Especially in cold weather, the family
live stock was brought in to this outer room where they stayed the night,
then they were led away at morning, the room was swept, and used for other
family activity. That's where the manger was, the feed trough for the
animals, in the outer room. (Kenneth Bailey, Poet and Peasant [Grand Rapids,
MI: W.B. Eerdmans, 1976].)

Some of you who are home for Christmas will sleep tonight on the sofa in the
living room, or curled in a sleeping bag elsewhere, because there is no
"appropriate place" for you in the guest room. Uncle Oscar from Hoboken
commandeered that room before you got here. Well, that's probably the case
for Mary, Joseph, and Jesus. Rather than send you to the Holiday Inn,
because the family loves you so much and is so delighted to have everyone
home for Christmas, they are giving you the honor of sleeping on the floor
in the play room.

Finally, I like this last story because it brings us up to date on how the
Nativity might have played out today.

William Felmeth, a Presbyterian minister, once preached a Christmas sermon
by telling his congregation an imaginary story of a young Puerto Rican
couple who found themselves stranded on Christmas Eve. They had taken the
train from Spanish Harlem to spend the holidays with a cousin in a rural
town. Maureen was almost due with a baby, but they wanted to get out of the
city. Confused by the language, they got off at the wrong train stop and
began walking through the countryside when suddenly her labor pains began.
They tried to get help at a brightly lit home. But a Christmas party was
going on and the man who answered the door was too drunk to take them
seriously. Besides, he couldn't understand the way they talked, their heavy
accent. At another door child came and screamed, "Have you got a present for
me?" Then he slammed the door. They tried two other places with no more
luck; at one, people didn't even answer the door--perhaps they were afraid
of strangers. Finally in desperation they piled up hay in a barn and the
child was born there.

Eventually, of course, the police came, and all sorts of "good people"
responded, and even saw a certain similarity to events on another Christmas
Eve long ago. An imaginary story? Perhaps not.

I leave you to choose which story you like the best. Actually, on this
Christmas eve, or day, you write your own Christmas story. What will it be
like?

1) Msgr. Arthur Tonne, Five-Minute Homilies on the Gospels of Cycles A, B,
C (Hillsboro, Kansas 67063: Multi Business Press, 1977), pg. 64.
2) Richard J. Rice. The Living Pulpit, October-December 1995, as quoted in
Pulpit Resources 27 (4): 53-54 (Logos Productions Inc., 6160 Carmen Ave. E.,
Inver Grove Heights MN 55076-4422), Oct., Nov., Dec. 1999
3) WilliamWillimon, "Proclaiming the text," Pulpit Resource 27 (4): 52
(Logos Productions Inc., 6160 Carmen Ave. E., Inver Grove Heights MN
55076-4422), Oct., Nov., Dec. 1999
4) "Preaching commentary," Good News 26 (12): 445(Liturgical Publications
Inc., 2875 South James Drive, New Berlin WI 53151), Dec. 1999.

Jerry

Fr. Gerard Fuller, o.m.i.
St. William Parish
P.O. Box 367
Gainesville MO 65655
Tel.: 1-417-679-4804