During a recent Advent retreat at our parish, our small group was discussing the gritty reality of the birth of our Lord. One woman noted that we tend to sentimentalize the birth of Jesus, taking for granted that everything was as neat and clean for the Holy Family as it is in our replica nativity scenes we set up every year in our own (relatively clean) homes.
This same woman mentioned that she had been thinking about the smell that must have permeated the stable as Mary gave birth that holy night. She was particularly struck by this reality because she currently had a newborn calf residing in her living room.
The calf had been born on their farm quite late in the season during a sudden cold snap and almost froze to death until the woman and her husband brought it into their warm home and nursed it back to health. The situation, she said a bit wryly, was really helping her imagine what it must have been like in the real nativity scene on Christmas night.
While we tend to associate Christmas with comfort and warmth, in reality it was quite the opposite experience for Mary and Joseph. The trek to Bethlehem from Nazareth would have been harrowing enough, let alone the inability to find a suitable inn for a woman who was clearly about to give birth.
But we can easily see that Christ enters the world the way he leaves it: travelling on a dirty, well-worn path, culminating in resting on equally dirty pieces of wood, first in the form of an animal’s eating trough, and later in the form of a crucifix.
Christ comes willingly into our dirtiness, doesn’t he? Isn’t that what his humble birth teaches us? And what is messier than our human hearts?
When I was a child of about 9 or 10, I remember my dad teaching me a simple prayer during Advent: “Sweet Babe of Bethlehem, come and take birth in my heart, amen.” It seemed a bit childish to me, even though I was still a child at the time. But, ironically, as I age, I find myself relying on that prayer more often, especially during the Advent and Christmas seasons.
If our hearts are messy and dirty, maybe even a little stinky, like the first nativity scene was, that’s OK. Jesus will feel right at home. In fact, he will bring all the light and grace we need to make our hearts clean again.
The key, like the words of the simple prayer my dad taught me, is to actually invite Christ into our hearts. We will never be able to make them perfect on our own, only Jesus can do that, and it likely won’t happen in this life. But if we let him, he will perfect us so we can live with him in eternity, which is the whole reason he came to be born on this earth.
Perhaps it would be a good idea to set the scene a little more realistically this Christmas. As we gather around the decorated Christmas tree and gaze upon that manger scene, let’s talk about the stark reality of that night more than 2,000 years ago that changed the world forever.
Talk with your kids about the stinky animals, the cobwebs, the hay, the feeding trough-turned-crib, the chill in the night desert air, the general lack of anything we would associate with comfort. And let us recognize that our Lord and Savior came to meet us all in that meagre environment.
Think about the times when you have encountered Christ in the dirtiness of life. I remember one time when I was on a youth mission trip in the Bahamas, and we went to a nursing home to help clean for the day.
Before we entered the small, extremely modest building, our leaders tried to prepare us for the situations, and, more specifically, the smells we would encounter. They told us to take a couple of big, deep breaths as soon as we walked in the door, that it would help us deal with the unpleasant aromas. Then they reminded us that we would also encounter Jesus in every single resident we met that day. We certainly did, and it was an experience of Christ’s humility that I will never forget.
The humble conditions into which our Saviour was born should be of great consolation to us. We have a God who has come among us in every way possible, experiencing firsthand the grittiness of life. In his discomfort, we can find comfort in him who is truly Emmanuel, God with us.
Lazzuri writes from Nova Scotia, where she lives with her husband, three of her six children, and her mom. She can be reached at clarelazzuri@gmail.com.
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