Room at the Inn
Preacher: Reverend Andrea Abbott
¬¬I am writing this surrounded by boxes of wrapping paper and ornaments, lists for presents yet to get, appeals from various charities, catalogs of things that a desperate and late gift giver such as myself might buy since they promise delivery by Dec. 24th, presumably by Santa sleigh, lists of things yet to do some of which, like cookies and poinsettias, I imagine are on other people’s lists here, this on top of the general and habitual clutter that is my house on a good day. There are telephone calls to return, Christmas cards from my annoyingly organized friends are already here, social events to attend (Be there or be Scrooge) and that’s on top of a life that I thought was already sufficiently full. Bah! Humbug! Indeed. And now I’m going to tell you, my long suffering friends, that we have to make more room in our lives. Really? And just how would I be in a position to tell you that?
This sermon started because I thought about the inn keeper, a person not actually mentioned in the original story but I presume there must have been one. There must have been someone to put out the No Vacancy sign when Joseph and Mary clopped up on their donkey. Actually, we don’t even know that they came by donkey. Just like a lot of the details in the Christmas story, it’s sturdy old traditions that provide our information. The exact words in Luke 2:7 are: 7 and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them. That’s it. No donkey, no innkeeper.
When the story of Jesus’ birth was first told, the inn keeper and the manger served a far different purpose. It was a plot device, a way to explain why a baby from Galilee was born in Bethlehem and in a manger. The location was important because this story fulfilled prophecies about the Messiah. Therefore, the invention of a census that didn’t happen in that year, the requirement to return to the place of one’s ancestry, and the too full in which required relocation to the barn. All plot devices to get Jesus born in the right place and in the right circumstances to establish his bona fides as the Messiah. To ancient people, historical truth was different from our idea of historical truth and not as important as the life of myth, not because they were habitual liars but because our minds work differently in a very different context.
I say this, but in many ways we are as shaped by myth as were our remote ancestors. We, too, fashion stories in order to make sense of the world. Stories work in ways that facts do not, to change us, to mover our hearts. People like a good story and a good story has to have good characters. And so the legend of the cold-hearted innkeeper began to take on a life of its own. We, too, create characters that help us live, characters that live down through the centuries because they touch something deep inside us. These characters mean different things in different ages, but their outlines are present in a variety of ways. And so the unmentioned innkeeper was born.
He has been the subject of books, plays, poetry and song. He is sometimes portrayed as simply overwhelmed and distracted but often as greedy or unfeeling or otherwise malevolent. In that guise, I would argue, he is also the prototype for Scrooge who is himself the prototype for the Grinch and any number of spinoffs on the idea that those who turn away the Christmas ideals of generosity and kindness, those who are imprisoned in their own ego centricity are freed by the intervention of Christmas itself.
I think why this story has endured and has gone on to spawn thousands of copies of it is because, at heart, we are all a little anxious about being able to fulfill the demands of Christmas. Even if we don’t celebrate this particular festival, even if we overtly reject the Christmas story as ahistorical and irrational, as commercial and self-serving, the underlying message is trumpeted in our ears a thousand times a day, a message that emphasizes giving, though, of course, it’s a possible to be just a little cynical when the message is delivered by Macy’s or Wal-Mart. But other messages are there as well and one of them is about the size of the inn, the size of our hearts. Can we heed the call to give, not just to our nearest and dearest but to total strangers? And what form is that giving to take? Is giving always about presents? Is it always about charity? What other ways are we asked to open the rooms in our inns, to show not only hospitality but love? And why do we often find this so hard? Is it because, like the Grinch, our hearts are too small? Or is it, as is implied in the backstory of Scrooge, because we have suffered rejection and so, in turn, we find it hard to trust, to open the door to the stranger and the needy? Or, are we just overwhelmed and tired, trying to stay afloat emotionally, even perhaps more than financially, in a world that seems to press its demands on us from all sides, every day, not just Christmas?
When we are confronted with the story of the innkeeper we say we would never behave that way. We would find room somewhere for a woman giving birth. And if we were faced with that situation, we probably would. But what happens when the situation involves not one but potentially hundreds of pregnant women and children? What happens when the situation has not already been mapped out for us and we are left to try to figure out what to do? What happens when we feel afraid and out of our depth? Do we then see the stranger asking for shelter as a victim of circumstance or do we see him or her as a threat, a trick, a trap?
And what leads us, yes, sometimes even us, to close the door, to walk away? What leads others to become Scrooges or Grinches? Is it because they are flawed from birth, as is implied when we talk about the Grinch’s small heart or, as we learn about Scrooge, is it because early experience has turned him into the miserly recluse he became, unable or unwilling to open his purse, let alone his door or his heart.
For most of us, I think it is neither of these things but, when we turn away from the needs of others it is because we feel panic, panic that we will be sucked down into a never ending tunnel of demands for our time, our money, our patience and our understanding. That panic is understandable. For most of us, the rooms of our inns are already pretty full, full with family, full with friends, full with our own needs and the needs of those closest to us. And we feel we have nothing more to give because giving seems to take something away from us and ours.
But sometimes what is asked of us is not what the innkeeper might have feared– that we have to deliver the baby and raise it and send it to an Ivy League college. Sometimes what is asked is simply to understand the person who is now in need. To understand the reasons that led that person to the plight they are in now. To take time to see the person as a person, not as a problem or someone in need of correction, just to see that person as a whole person, with reasons, both good and bad, wise and foolish, for their actions. A person like ourselves. A person who was not always in need just as we, too, may sometimes be in need ourselves.
But this is a huge demand. In some ways, it can be a lot harder than the demand to open our wallets. This kind of giving asks us to examine our understanding of ourselves, our judgments, our sense of values, all those things which are the core of who we are, and question that they are the bedrock that we think they are. They ask us to be humble, to know that our way is not the only way, that we, ourselves, might find ourselves responding very differently to life if our circumstances were different.
I am thinking in particular of a short interview with a man who represented and organization dedicated to studying radicalization, particularly of those involved in ISIS from European countries. Contrary to the picture of nihilistic or crazed fanatics, most of the youth involved in ISIS were French or Belgian citizens and had never had any religious instruction. They joined ISIS because they felt their culture, the culture of third world Arab countries, was under attack by the West. They felt a desperate need to be understood rather than stereotyped and rejected. When that was not forthcoming, they joined in the brutal and horrific attacks that we have seen. Would some respect have prevented some of the bloodshed and terror? In the same way, are we willing to understand people of our own culture who kill innocent people, such as the Planned Parenthood killer? How much hatred has been generated because people are oh too willing to believe simplistic views of other people’s lives rather than taking the time to understand those lives? In similar fashion, I think of the men at Auburn correctional and their gift to us. This is a reaching out, a cry that says we are human. Listen to our stories. They are as complex and full of meaning as your own. Hear us. Do not assume you know us until you are willing to just do that. . That is truly finding room in our inn.
Listening to painful stories can be painful in itself and we often fear that pain. We often fear the guilt, the shame, the memories of our own painful pasts of despair or rejection, that surface like the ghosts of unhappy Christmases past. We can feel very vulnerable when we listen. No wonder, then, that many find more relief in anger or in judgment and no wonder that some are able to manipulate those feelings to increase their own power. I sometimes wonder what those who are masters at manipulation of this sort fear in themselves, why they feel the need to increase hate and division rather than love in the world. I strongly suspect that they fear that they themselves will be nothing, will disappear, without the power and control they seek. I often suspect that they summon and use anger to keep themselves from the abyss.
Or, perhaps, the human heart is not built for such expansive understanding and love. Perhaps it is some sort of species-wide defect and it is not possible for people (unlike Grinches) to increase their hearts three sizes. I find that sometimes the best of people, or perhaps especially the best of people, alternate wildly between the desire to be generous and the fear that generosity will take away from what we have, whether it’s time, attention, money, or our own self-esteem. I know I can see-saw wildly in the course of a day, or even an hour, between wanting to give and wanting to hold onto everything I have. I can become a sort of Dr. Jekyll/ Mr. Hyde like creature composed of Scrooge and Santa. I am not always who I wish I could be. Also, I do not want to sentimentalize the process of being open to others. It does not always go well. People are not always grateful. People do not always behave as we would wish. Truly opening one’s heart invites disappointment and sometimes disaster. It most certainly makes us risk looking foolish, at the very least. It would be dishonest to underestimate how difficult and risky it can be to open up some more rooms at our inn.
And yet, what are our alternatives? A world of inns closed and barred, a world of constant watchfulness and fear? A world of walls and guards, weapons and war? Every person’s hand, ultimately, against every other person? And there are rewards. If we look at the stories, of Scrooge, the Grinch, and often the fictional accounts of the life of our mythical innkeeper, when we do so open ourselves up we find that new worlds, an expansion of life that returns more than was ever given, family we never knew were there. So often it is those whom we thought to redeem who provide our own redemption. And so I would like to remember this, not just at Christmas, when the stories are fresh in our minds, but at all times, to remember to open my heart, to risk at least a little, and to keep in mind that the children born in our newly expanded inn may be the children of peace and hope. Merry Christmas.