"No Room" given 12/24/17

 Quite a few years ago, I had the opportunity to take a gag quiz, the topic of which was "How much do you know about the Christmas story?" Answers were strictly based on the Scriptures. Everyone taking the test that night was either a United Methodist clergy-person, or spouse-- including by the way, our Bishop at the time. One of the questions was "Who told Joseph and Mary that there was no room in the Inn?"

Well of course, everyone in the room answered "The Innkeeper". That answer was wrong. No, it wasn't the Innkeeper's spouse, or the desk clerk, or the night manager either. According to the Scripture accounts, nobody actually says to Joseph and Mary, "Sorry folks, all filled up. Try the Motel 6 down the road."

The Gospels simply inform us that there was no room. The Innkeeper and his or her partner never appear in the story. Well of course, that's a trick question. You may use it to amuse and amaze your friends with my permission. Of course, nobody concerned with the running of that first Century fleabag motel ran out and lit the "No Vacancy" sign. So of course, somebody actually had to tell Joseph and Mary face to face that the joint was full. Whoever that was just didn't get a mention in the Bible.

We have no idea if the Innkeeper or partner, or desk clerk, or night manager, or bell-person was a man or a woman, young or old, gay or straight, pink, tan or brown skinned. We don't know if he or she was Jewish, Palestinian, Greek, Samaritan, Roman, Nubian, Arab, Persian, Iraqi, Iranian, Bosnian or even Russian. The only thing that we do know is that whoever was running the Inn that night-- whether it was really full or they just wanted to get rid of this homeless couple who didn't look as if they had the price of a single room without running water-- did in fact say the equivalent of "no room" to Mary and Joseph and by extension, to the Baby Jesus.

I don't know if there literally will be pearly gates, or clouds, or something a bit more essentially indescribable. I don't know if St. Peter has a big book with everybody's name it, like in all the cartoons and jokes, or the celestial equivalent of a main-frame computer. I don't even know if you and I find out our Eternal destination immediately after our deaths, or if everybody goes on hold until the end of the world, when God will decide to judge all of humanity. I really don't know what the after-life is going to be like.

But one thing I do know. I know that I sure wouldn't want to have to explain that yes, I was the same one who told Joseph and Mary that there was no room in the Inn. Whew! I'm sure glad I'm not in that person's shoes. Aren't you?

Of course, in many ways, you and I are in that poor Innkeeper's shoes. "No Room". We've all said that to Mary and Joseph and Jesus more than once in our lives. Sorry folks, I can see that you're homeless, but there's no room for you in my house. No room on the floor of my church. Sorry pal, no spare change. I got a family to support. No room in my budget for charity for you.

Sorry, there's no room in my mind for any new ideas. Sorry my dear, there's no room in my head for consideration of your feelings. Besides, it's much more fun to talk about you behind your back. Sorry, but there's no room in my heart for the forgiveness you’re asking of me. Sorry, I can’t even find room in my heart to forgive myself.

Sorry, there's no room in my feelings and desires for me to think of you as a person with feelings and desires of your own. Sorry, no room for consideration of the consequences of my actions on your family. Besides you knew I was married.

Sorry, no room in my ideology for consideration of the legitimate aspirations of people from other lands. Sorry, no room in my politics for human rights issues. Sorry, no room in my agenda for the environment. Sorry, no room in my busy life for church attendance. Sorry, no room in my pocketbook for a pledge. Sorry, no room in our church's program for feeding the hungry or sheltering the homeless or standing up for right--we're busy saving our own souls.

Sorry Mary, no room in our national budget for health care for poor and undocu indigent people-- go have your baby in a barn. Sorry Joseph, no entitlement programs for undocumented people. Sorry bro, no room for people of your color in my town. Sorry amigo, no room in the good old USA for any more people from your country. Sorry sister, no room for gay people in my family. Sorry, no room in my Christmas for charity, or caring, or anyone outside the tight little boundaries of my family and friends.

Sorry Baby Jesus, there's no room in my life for a foster child. Sorry Baby Jesus, there's no room for any concern at all about unwanted and abused and neglected and molested and missing children in our society's agenda. Tell you what though, we can put your picture on a milk carton. How'd that be?

Sorry Jesus, there's no room in my life to work for peace. Sorry Jesus, there's no room in my home, no room in my community, no room in my church, no room in my heart. Sorry Jesus. I guess there's just no room for you in my life.

And Jesus, according to Scriptures at least, will reply,

"I was hungry and you didn't feed me, homeless and you failed to shelter me, naked and you didn't clothe me, ill and infirm and you ignored me, powerless and exploited and oppressed and imprisoned and you washed your hands of me and said there was no room."

And when we say to Jesus, "When, Master? When were you hungry or homeless or ill or naked or infirm or exploited, oppressed, imprisoned and powerless? Gee whizz, if we'd a known it was you, we woulda had ya over for a cuppa coffee or somethin’." We all know what His reply will be, don't we?

"I tell you, whatever you did to the least of these my brothers and sisters, you also did to me."

Today is Christmas Eve, and that's not a Sunday when churchgoers usually want to hear the preacher rake them over the coals. Oh, it's expected that the Pastor should get in a friendly shot or two at the members who only come once or twice a year. The "Christmas and Easter crowd" wouldn't feel like they'd been to church unless they were mildly chided in the sermon. Any of you in that category may now consider your selves mildly chided. But for the most part, Christmas Eve is not really considered the best occasion to hear about the homeless and the hungry.

Christmas Eve is supposed to be an "up" time. We don't want to hear about No Room on Christmas Eve. We want to hear about amazing coincidences and extraordinary circumstances and stupendous serendipity and extraordinary expressions of the good inherent in the human heart. We want to hear about miracles.

We want, no, we expect a little magic in our Christmas. With all our hearts, we expect some unanticipated Santa to come tumbling down the chimney and magically right everything that's wrong with the mess we find ourselves currently occupying.

Hey, we expect those three ghosts to scare all of the badness out of that old tightwad Scrooge, so that he'll pop for Tiny Tim's operation.

We expect the Grinch to decide after all not to steal all the toys from the Whos. We expect that the good people of Bedford Falls will come forward and make up the eight thousand dollars that Uncle Billy lost so that the Bank Examiner won't send good ol' George Bailey to prison.

We just know that Cary Grant will help Bishop David Niven reclaim his integrity by turning down that humongous bequest with all the strings attached-- and by the way stop ignoring Loretta Young—who after all, is his wife.

We expect that Homer Simpson will somehow or other get miraculous help to provide Christmas for his family. (Even though any good Methodist could've told him that God wouldn't have appreciated his trying win the money by betting at the Dog Track.) We know, deep down in our bones that Tim Allen will in fact take over as Santa Claus and not lose visitation rights with his little boy, and manage to find a nice girl to marry in the sequel.

Above all, we expect, we just know that the U.S. Post Office will deliver all those letters to the Courtroom and give the judge an excuse to declare that nice old Mr. Kringle isn't nuts after all. We’re sure that John Payne will be able to show Maureen O'Hara that the best things in life don't come with price tags. We expect that she'll catch on, and marry him, and Natalie Wood will have a new step-father and get to live in a brand-new house for Christmas.

And by the way, we want with all our hearts, to believe that even though it was the Innkeeper who said "No Room", he then turned around and allowed Joseph and Mary to stay in his stable when he noticed that she was expecting. We're miracle junkies. We're media kids. Regardless of our ages, we're all movie and TV kids looking for a miracle on Christmas Eve, in the last reel, or during the last five minutes before the commercials at the end of the show.

What we don't realize is that those are all made-up, half-baked miracles. What we've forgotten is that the truest, the best miracles in this world are really collaborations. The best miracles nowadays come about when men and women and children roll up their sleeves and work in concert to better this broken world, through acts of love and mercy empowered by hearts made new through the Presence of Jesus Christ in them.

The real miracles begin when you and I stop saying "no room", and invite the Holy Child to be born in the manger of our hearts. Because the miracle is, once He's there, once the Babe lives within us, we find ourselves utterly forgiven for all of the times that we said "No Room", forgiven all of our sins and shortcomings. And, if we're truly attentive to His message of love and hope, we'll find it much harder next time, to say "No Room" to one of His brothers and sisters in need-- to those latter-day Josephs and Marys who come knocking at the door of the Inn that we call our lives.

And the punch line is, the climax of the story during the last reel is, the last and best part of the miracle is that in opening up our hearts that way, we'll find love and contentment in His service. We'll find Joy in and to the World. We'll find peace on earth, and in our hearts, and in our lives. Because, wonder of wonders, we’ll realize that we have become those men and women of good will about whom the angels sang. We'll discover the real, true, honest-to-goodness, unadulterated Christmas Miracle.

Let us pray,

O Christ, your wonderful birth is meaningless unless we are born again. Your death is meaningless unless we die to sin. Your resurrection is meaningless if only you have been raised. Bring us now to such love for you that we may enjoy you forever. For all things in the heavens and on earth are yours eternally. Amen.