Advent Stories: So Close, Yet So Far From Christmas

Luke 2:1-7

Rev. Juvenal Cervantes, Pastor
St. John’s United Church of Christ, Greeley, Colorado
December 29, 2013
Reread by Harriett Meeker, December 11, 2022

My village had never seen anything like this, not in her 1,300-year history. Nor had I, in all my life.

It was the year 747 in the Roman calendar, 6 B.C. by yours, and the cursed Roman Emperor had issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire world. This was so he could list us all on his tax rolls. It was bad enough that he took so much of our money to fund his despicable government, but that he made us disrupt our lives to do it was even worse.

The Romans liked to organize their subjects by town of origin—it was easier for their records, you see. And so, we all had to travel back to our family hometowns, and sign up to be taxed. Imagine how you would feel if your government made you travel to your hometown, just to pay your taxes.

It was a hardship of the worst sort for everyone, except for people like me. You see, I ran the inn in Bethlehem, the city of David and the royal family. I was sure this census would make me rich. And it turned out I was right—but in ways I would never have guessed.

Today, I'd like to tell you how it all happened, and why it still matters.

Why I missed Christmas

My town lies on the edge of the Judean desert, five miles south of Jerusalem. On a rocky spur, just off the main road to Hebron and Egypt. It was really nothing more than a cluster of box-like whitewashed houses on top of a low but rather steep ridge. Only about three hundred of us lived there all year round.

But when everyone in all Israel who was descended from David was forced to come to our humble village, everything changed!

What a day. As you entered our town, past the helmeted Roman sentries standing guard, here's what you saw: the dusty square which was our town's marketplace was crowded to overflowing with people of every description, uniformed Roman soldiers and officials; wealthy Jews from Egypt, Greece, and Rome; aristocratic families from Jerusalem; peasants from rural Judea, Galilee, and Perea. All of them looking for a place to stay. And that's where I entered the picture.

You see, I had the only inn in town. We were a small village, not very important, and it was hard enough to keep one inn going. No one would have been fool enough to open another. And so, when the world came to us, they came to me. After all the houses had taken in everyone they could, I was all that was left.

My inn, sometimes called a "caravansary," stood at the edge of the town square. It had one main entrance, beneath an arched doorway. Inside you found an open courtyard, surrounded by rooms in a square. My rooms were bare, not furnished. You brought your own food; all I gave you was fodder for the animals and a fire to cook.

Usually, business was slow and most of the rooms unoccupied. But not this day. The courtyard was crowded with people unsaddling their camels and donkeys. Every room was overflowing with weary travelers. Even the flat roof was crowded with people bedding down for the night. Every cubit was taken.

This was more money than I would ever make again in my life. If your Olympics had come to Greeley and you owned the only hotel in town, you'd have had my luck. What a great day!

Well, it was late at night. I had taken care of the last traveler I could, and turned away all the rest. I put out a sign I'd never used before: "No Rooms." The animals had been fed and watered, my guests were finally settled in, and I was just getting to bed when a knock came at the door.

I couldn't believe it. Couldn't they read? There was nothing left. It wasn't my fault. They should have planned ahead, gotten here sooner. They'd wake all my paying customers!

I went to the door in anger, ready to shout them away. And there before me stood the most pitiful sight I'd seen in this entire hectic week. A rough but gentle man, from Galilee, judging by his clothing. Sheltered under his arm, a teenage girl, dark circles under her weary eyes. Her body bulging with child, obviously due soon.

They'd looked everywhere, but found nothing. And so, they came to me. And when they looked at me, there was something in their eyes I'd never seen before. A look of desperation, yes, but with it a sense of calm, peace, serenity.

I wanted to order them away as I had so many others that day, but I couldn't.

Something inside stopped me. And so, I took the girl by her hand and led them around my hotel to the stable in back. I had built my inn next to a small hill, so I could use its underground cave as a stable, something like your garages for your cars, out behind your houses.

This cave wasn't fit for people, of course. Dark, musty, low. There hung in the air the stench of camels and donkeys, still sweaty from their long journeys. No place for a mother-to-be. But they had no other shelter. All the homes in town were full, and my inn had not another inch. So, they took it.

I left them as the man was lighting a torch and gathering together what clean hay he could find for her bed. And to mine I went. A strange ending to a very profitable day. Soon these travelers would all leave, and life would return to normal.

What I missed

But no. The next day the rumor was everywhere: the Messiah had come! The One God had promised he would send to save his people had been born! Shepherds had been in nearby fields that night. They said that angels had appeared before them, announcing his birth, calling them to come and see.

People knew better than to believe shepherds—they were more famous for lies and thievery than for preaching the word of God. But there was something about their startled eyes, their urgent voices, which made people believe.

And so, they came to me, to my inn. I was too busy cleaning up after all the people and animals to be out in town. But soon the first knock came to my door, a breathless boy from the village, shouting to me, "Where is he?" "Who?" I asked, irritated at the intrusion. "The Messiah!" he said. "What Messiah? What are you talking about?" "The baby born in your stable last night—he's God's Chosen One! The shepherds have seen him—they say it's all true!"

I pointed the boy around back. By this time dozens of others had started to arrive, all wanting to see the same thing. And so, I threw down my broom and joined them.

And sure enough, there in my stable was the man and girl from the night before, now with a beautiful baby boy in her arms. "Jesus," they had named him.

I could see where the man had shoved the hay out of the stone feed trough I'd made in the cave wall, and made a crib for the baby. Nothing like this had ever happened in my inn before. A baby born, right here!

But the Messiah? How could it be? How could God's Anointed One be born in an animal cave? Why not the palace? The governor's mansion? Surely this tiny baby, the son of such peasants, could not be our Savior. It was too incredible to believe.

And so, soon enough, the peasants went off, with their baby in their arms. As the weeks passed, we forgot all about them.

The years went by—eleven of them, each marked by the annual Passover in Jerusalem. But then came the Passover I'll not forget. The crowd was all abuzz about this young man who had come for his first Passover and astounded the religious authorities. He knew more than our greatest scholars. He could answer all their questions, and they could answer none of his. Who was he?

They said his name was "Jesus," and that he had been born in Bethlehem twelve years earlier. They said that shepherds had seen him, and called him Messiah. It couldn't be!

Not the baby in my stable! I drew closer to him. Maybe it really was him. Something about his eyes seemed so familiar. Maybe what the shepherds had said really was true. But once again life returned to normal. Passovers came and went, many years slipped by. Then came the man who shocked our nation. A wild man from the wilderness, preaching a fiery message of repentance and baptizing people in the river. I went down to the Jordan River one day just to see what the commotion was all about. And there, in the crowd of people—it was him!

That boy I'd seen in Jerusalem, now a man. Wading out in the water to the strange preacher. The preacher stared at him, wide-eyed in astonishment. And when he baptized him, something like a dove lit on him and a voice, believe it or not, came from the sky!

"This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased," it shouted. Never before had we seen anything like this! And now I knew that the boy born in my stable was someone special.

The months ahead confirmed it. The stories were everywhere—how he healed the lepers, fed crowds of hungry people, called the dead out of their tombs. How he taught with an authority we'd never heard before. And more and more people were saying what those shepherds had shouted on that first morning at my inn: he is the Messiah! God's Savior, sent for us!

Could it really be true? Would this one drive out the hated Romans, and rebuild our nation, and save us from our sins?

What happened next

Then came the day that dashed all our hopes. Our chief priests were threatened by this man's popularity, and the Romans by all this talk of a Messiah. And so, they snuffed out his life, and our dreams with him. Nailed him to a cross. Just like that, it was over.

But it wasn't. Soon word began to spread—he was alive again! The One who had raised the dead had himself been raised from the dead. His followers had seen him, they said. It was true.

They went to his tomb, and said it was empty. The authorities tried to tell us that his followers had stolen his body, but we knew they could never have defeated Roman guards to do it. What explanation could there be but that he had come back from the grave?

Soon his followers were telling everyone that this man had died to pay for our sins, and had risen from the grave to prove that he was the Messiah. Groups began springing up everywhere, worshipping him and following his teachings.

And so, one morning I went to one of their groups. It was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. Such love, and forgiveness, and joy. I wanted what these people had. When they sang their hymns of praise, and preached that Jesus was the Messiah and Son of God, suddenly I believed in my heart that it was all true. Then and there I wanted to bow my knee and confess that Jesus Christ is my life. And I did. And it was true. Jesus heard my prayer. Somehow, he became real for me, in me.

That baby born in my stable was born again in my heart, as my Savior and my Lord!

Conclusion

And I had missed his birth. It was right there, in my own backyard. Behind my hotel, and I missed it! I was so busy with guests, and arrangements, and work, that I missed it.

The greatest birth in all of human history, and I could have come, and I didn't. But I didn't know who he was. I didn't know!

If only I'd known who that baby was. That he was God's Son, that he would die on a cross and rise from the dead, all for me. That he was the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

If I'd known who he was, I would never have allowed my busyness and work to distract me from him. Nothing could have kept me from worshipping him that first Christmas. I would have spent the night at his side. I would have left everything and focused just on him. I would have joined those shepherds and angels in worshipping him. I would have given him my heart and life. I would have told the story to everyone I could. He would have been at the center of that Christmas celebration, and of my life.

If only I'd known who he was. If only I'd known. Wouldn't anyone?