For Christmas Eve, 2023.
Into this world, this demented inn
in which there is absolutely no room for him at all,
Christ comes uninvited.But because he cannot be at home in it,
because he is out of place in it,
and yet he must be in it,
His place is with the others for whom
there is no room.His place is with those who do not belong,
who are rejected by power, because
they are regarded as weak,
those who are discredited,
who are denied status of persons,
who are tortured, bombed and exterminated.With those for whom there is no room,
Thomas Merton, 1915 – 1968
Christ is present in this world.
It’s an experience we’ve all had. The uninvited guest. Even if you don’t think you’ve ever had an uninvited guest, you have. Because the uninvited guest doesn’t always have to be a person showing up unannounced at our door. It could be a person showing up unannounced on the playground at school. An otherwise good friend, but because they are unannounced, because the game we are playing only calls for 4 people and we already have 4, this friend is suddenly uninvited.
It could be that brother or sister who, whenever they come to town, always wants to stay at your house. You have 3 other siblings also living in town, but it’s Christmas and you know they’re going to be calling to ask, got any room in that inn of yours? And you do. And though you really do love your brother or sister, and find true pleasure in their company, and would leave a key under the mat for them, you didn’t actually invite them to stay with you. But that’s family, and you know what they say about family—there are no guests. Which I guess means you can never be uninvited. You can only choose where to stand for the family picture.
It could also be that the uninvited guest isn’t a person at all. I heard a story from a woman this past week about how she took in a dog from a shelter recently. The shelter had to close suddenly and they needed a home for all the animals, and she, loving dogs and not being able to bear the thought of one without a home, took one in. It all happened so quickly, though; much more quickly than it normally would. She didn’t have a chance to spend much time with the dog before taking it home with her, or to learn much about its likes, dislikes, and behaviors. Does it like to play fetch? Does it enjoy swimming? Does it jump, cuddle, bark, or bite? This wasn’t a newborn puppy she was taking in. The training window was long closed for this one. What this woman was doing was akin to adopting a teenager on the eve of their 18th birthday or taking back a prodigal after they’d run away from home with everything and come back with nothing. There was no way for her to know how taking in this dog was going to go. She’d have to take a chance on the power of invitation.
A couple days later, the dog attacked and killed the woman’s cat. She was heartbroken about it, and understandably so. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that she was made to feel dumb and wrong by those who told her she should have known better. How can doing the right thing turn out so wrong? she said to me. If you can answer that question then see me after the service and I’ll give you the woman’s name and phone number, because all I could think to tell her was, Doing the right thing is never wrong. It’s just hard.
Invitation is hard. There are some who would say it’s getting harder all the time, but I think it’s always been hard. It’s hard because, try as we may, there is no way to know how it’s going to go when we open the door of our hearts, homes, schools, businesses, and churches to one another and say, come on in, and welcome. And so, we are left having to make judgments and decide early on what it might cost us to be trusting, kind, and generous.
Will doing the right thing turn out right, or will it turn out wrong?
Not knowing the answer, it is no wonder, I suppose, that we build walls at our borders and fences around our property. This way the uninvited guest won’t even reach our door, let alone knock on it, have us open it, and discover that we were wrong about them. They have come only to steal, kill, and destroy.
Not knowing the answer, it is no wonder, I suppose, that neighbors have become to each other like something even less than uninvited guests. We have become like the missiles crossing back and forth over Bethlehem even tonight. We have become like signs in the front yard, placed there only to discredit whatever the sign in the front yard next door says. We have become like objects—cold, hard, unfeeling, suspect to each other.
Will doing the right thing turn out right, or will it turn out wrong?
Who is daring enough to find out? Tonight, we celebrate One who is. Tonight, we celebrate One who comes uninvited into this world, this demented inn, where there is absolutely no room for him at all. God comes in the baby Jesus because God must be in this world.
Only you can choose what to believe about this one, but God is love, and it is always love’s way to go where love has yet to go, and there to do what love does. To fill empty virgins with life. To feed the hungry with good things. To humble the mighty with truth. To show up uninvited if only to surprise us with (with what?), with love.
I read a story not too long ago about a young boy from Anderson, South Carolina named Richard Ballenger, who on Christmas Eve in 1980 was asked by his mother to shine her shoes, because she was busy wrapping presents. Taking his mother’s shoes, little Richard did as he was asked, and then, with the proud smile that only a seven-year-old can muster, he presented them for inspection. His mother was so pleased, she gave him a quarter.
On Christmas morning as she put on the shoes to go to church, she noticed a lump in one shoe. She took it off and found a quarter wrapped in paper. Written on the paper in a child’s scrawl were the words, “I done it for love.” [1]
It very well may be, and I think it is, that God shows up again every year at Christmas in flesh and blood for one reason and one reason only: for love.
Like a long-lost friend come to remind us of our better days.
Like a gentle presence standing in the doorway of our sorrow.
Like a faithful companion who stays long after visiting hours are over.
Like a fellow soldier in the march for freedom.
Like a woman who takes in the dogs that need to be taken in.
Like a baby who does not check the invitation list to see if they are due to arrive tonight, but goes where love has yet to go, to do what love does.
Yes, on this night when the God who so loves the world sends his son to be born of Mary, let us remember, we are ones for whom Jesus comes. Uninvited as he may be, unready as we may be, as demented as our inn is, God comes for us this night. That we might be as one, great, human family to one another. And you know what they say about family—there are no guests, so you can never be uninvited. You can only choose where to stand for the family picture. But don’t worry, God says everyone will get to hold the baby.
[1] Manning, Brennan (2004). “Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas.” Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Publishing, p. 202.
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