A Christmas Sermon
Mist mantles of purple enfolded the bare shoulders of Judean hills.
The steady tinkle of camel bells that had passed in unbroken procession since early morning was punctuated now by ever-increasing silences as belated caravans topped the hill and hastened to gain entrance at the gates of Bethlehem.
Since Dawn's silver-tipped scepter had scattered the dreams of darkness from the eastern mountains, the village had teemed with strangers who had come to be taxed in answer to the decree of Caesar Augustus. It had been the busiest day Bethlehem had ever known.
But now, raucous voices which had vied with screeching vendors for attention and shekels were stilled as twilight touched their lips with quieting fingers. The weird wailing of the flute of the snakecharmer who sat cross-legged at the curb faded into faint echoes.
All day long the innkeeper had smiled and bowed and rubbed his hands. A steady stream of sandaled feet had shuffled over the threshold, and rivulets of clinking coin had poured into his bulging purse.
He was a careful innkeeper and had lodged his guests to their liking. Some guests were not of his choosing, perhaps, but they had influence and money, and one who served the public could not afford to exercise too many scruples.
There was, for instance, Greed! Something in his manner disturbed the innkeeper. But he was a close friend of Wealth, who occupied the jewel-lighted room looking down over the Valley of Desire. So, he was placed in an adjoining chamber. His demands were many and unreasonable, sometimes infringing on the rights of other guests, but he had to be cared for. Envy and Jealousy were brothers, and although they were not so congenial, still one was seldom seen without the other. Their only demand was that they be placed apart from the other guests, many of whom they considered most undesirable.
Conceit was not so particular, but somehow the other guests didn't seem to appreciate his friendliness.
Deceit was much more popular, and was constantly visiting the more influential people. He really was quite a splendid entertainer.
Revelry, who came in rather late, had a reservation, but the innkeeper failed to recognize him at first.
"Worldliness' is the name," he explained "explained Revelry. "But the truth of the matter is, I have changed my name. Folks used to call me 'Pleasure', but since I've joined the crowd who frequent the 'Sign of the White Poppy', that name doesn't seem to express my personality, and so, instead, I have more recently come to be known as Revelry."
Sin came early and paid an exorbitant price. The innkeeper had known him, too, but Sin held a mortgage on the Inn and was the master, not only of the innkeeper, but most of the guests as well. He was in an unusually dark mood that night—his taxes were heavy, and he went early to his room to sleep.
The innkeeper knew Sin would only miss it up as he had never been known to sleep. By and by Remorse crept up and kept him company.
He wanted the room of Forgetfulness but, as usual, he had failed to get it! It was always in demand. Forgiveness, he could not have because it was in the annex, not yet completed—the Cross was still lacking—so he had to be content with Conscience!
True, the hours had been pleasant and profitable. A festival of lights and music followed the civil obligations of the day. Peals of laughter interspersed the heavier talk of land values and taxes, but the innkeeper felt uneasy. In his heart he had always hoped a King might pass that way.
For a long time he had kept the chamber of Hope lighted. Faith had occupied it once, but she had found it impossible to live among the other guests who frequented the Inn and now she was gone. Tonight, Indifference slept within Hope's darkened walls.
And so the chill of an early winter night closed in.
As the innkeeper closed the last window, he paused and looked uneasily out into the darkness. There was the usual sameness in the elements.
But what was that perfume? A fragrance like that of a rose seemed to be borne on the breeze—a rose—on that rock hill? What nonsense!
No! Things were quite as usual. The familiar stars were in their places. In his lack of discernment he saw no stranger star! The night winds rose as always, softly caressing the hills round about the little sleeping village.
But the watching angels saw a wonderful procession.
Some four days ago a young country woman and her husband had left the town of Nazareth. Along the valley road to Jerusalem they had come, she riding wearily and he walking and leading the ass. Caesar had said that all must enroll and so Joseph, the house and lineage of David, had come to Bethlehem.
And now, the end of the journey was nigh. Sunset had fallen on Bethlehem's hills, shedding a softening haze upon the faint outline of Moab's Mountains and touching the upland wilderness. As they toiled wearily up the hillside by David's well, the hearts of those two were cheered by the thought of the warmth and little form of Mary. Bravely she rode, looking with increasing frequency, with longing expectancy, toward the shadowed lights of the Inn.
Night was at hand. The moon had risen and lighted the rocky way, making it as a shimmering ribbon of silver-rippled shadows. The village lay in a quiet of drowsy twilight, broken now by the slow clatter, clatter of the footsteps of the man and the donkey as they accommodated their steps to the needs of the drooping little form of Mary. Bravely she rode, looking with increasing frequency, with longing expectancy, toward the shadowed lights of the Inn.
Across the doorway of the inn there swung a lighted lantern on a rope. The door was closed but Joseph, smiling encouragement to his little bride, rapped on the doorpost with the staff that he had added him all day.
Rap! Rap! Rap!
The little window near the door was flung open and the sleepy innkeeper looked out.
Speaking softly, Joseph asked that he and Mary might secure shelter for the night. "Four days we have traveled along the valley road from Nazareth," he said, "the night is chill and darkness has fallen, and the Maiden"—he paused, smiling. Why should they have to meet with refusal when such a Blessing was at the doorway? Oriental hospitality was as free and common as field flowers but—nevertheless, the innkeeper was hesitating!
"Another night you might have had warmth and shelter, but tonight my rooms are all occupied," he said at length. "It is utterly impossible. There is no room in the Inn."
The tall man with the reins in his hand glanced at the tired figure on the donkey. Hurriedly he leaned closer to the innkeeper, put his lips to his ear and whispered to him, words that softened the refusal into an apology.
"Let's see," considered the innkeeper, "there's Wealth resting in luxurious ease and he's so easily disturbed, too! Conceit and Greed are too intolerant to brook a disturbance, and Indifference is sleeping so noisily that, considerate as he is, it would be a pity to awaken him."
"No, the heart was full. All the guests had retired except Purity into the inn. 'Twould be as if a white light were turned into every dusty corner and think how it would displease the guests!"
"Even if you could make room, it would never do to bring Uneasiness, who came now and stood close by the innkeeper's side and whispered!
No, not even for the sake of having the Star Child born within the heart of the inn would the innkeeper move a single guest, turning to the woman and avoiding the questioning of her dark violet eyes, he repeated:
"There is no room in the Inn."
The weary form swayed the rude saddle. The flower-like face grew pale as a white petal in the moonlight.
Touched by the pathos in the depth of Mary's softly luminous eyes, the innkeeper offered the stable.
Unwilling to move his guests, yet loath to turn these two completely away he justified himself by offering them second place! He could not give them the rooms of Love or Service so he offered them the outhouse of Tolerance.
A poignant anxiety swept over Joseph's face as he took Mary away but he looked at her in smiling understanding as they descended the hill and entered the stable cave.
While Mary rested from her weary journey, Joseph turned away to get a light and make a fire. 'Twas then that Love worked a miracle, for when Joseph turned back a Light of Glory filled the place. Up through the bleakness had sprung a floral tower in which the Rose of Sharon was blooming!
Poor was that stable and rude and mean. It's walls were shabby and the lowly kine were its occupants. But it became the abode of the Christ, the habitation of a King. A radiant star of indescribable brilliance left the shining constellations above and wheeled its scintillating way through space to pause over a lowly stable—because He was there!
The stable became glorified with light such as had never gleamed outside heaven's portals—because He was there!
An ecstasy of melody descended from Heaven's treasury of angelic anthems in celestial harmony—because He was there!
Incense swathed in fragrance wafted her sweetness upon that manger shrine, filled it with myrrh, aloes and cassia—because He was there!
Angels singing lullabys transfigured the grimness of those fire-torn, water-rent walls—angels chanting like the morning stars of His glory in a setting of hallowed simplicity.
Wisdom, knowledge, mitred and robed in royal purple, gained entrance and bowed in obeisance before a manger—because He was there!
Riches, golden clad and jewel crowned, trailed emblazoned cloaks through the lowly entrance, shedding brilliant reflections into the furthermost corners of that stable cave—because He was there!
At the inn, the guests began to tire and go to their rooms. The Riches were emptied. The lights grew dim. The music became only a discordant medley, but the Inn of the Humble Heart continued to be alight with the Beauty of His Brilliance and to echo with the Song of the Ages. Compared to His Glory, what are all the mysteries of music, all the wonders of the stars?
Long ago, the walls of the Inn where He was rejected, the walls that shut Jesus out, have crumbled into dust. No living soul can tell where the inn was!
The Paines, Darwins, and Voltaires have shouted out their pet-theories of life and death and time and have barred the door of the inn. They have come and gone. Their words and deeds have smoothed no dying pillow nor eased the burden of any pilgrim heart. Caesars and Napoleons have pumped and strutted across the span of life and their memories long since lie mouldering upon the musty shelves of ancient history.
But the Martin Luthers, the Wesleys, the Booths—these live forever, immortalized as was that humble inn, because He dwelt there.
Again the twilight of Christmas falls.
Hark! Angelic music echoes like a Song of Remembrance upon the heart of the world. In yonder sky, God still leads us by His Star of Love.
Hark! Adown the cobblestones of this very hour comes the sound of His approaching procession.
Behold! He stands at the door and knocks! He knocks at the door of the human heart!
Will you offer Him the outhouse of formal churchmanship and alms giving, or will you share with Him the unlit rooms of Love and Praise and Service, joining those whose humble hearts have been filled with gladness because he was there?
Will the music of worldliness continue to satisfy your heart's desire or do you long to join that melody of Love which floods the hearts and lives of those who reject Him not?
Has Indifference crowded out Joy and Faith from Hope's abode?
Let the Light of the World shine in!
Find room for Him in the inn!
Though Christ, a thousand times in Bethlehem be born, If He's not born in thee, thy soul is still forlorn.