In one way or another, Santa Claus and “Jingle Bells” aside, most of us are on a figurative journey to Bethlehem these days. It’s a pilgrimage that’s old, and yet ever new, one we share in ancient lore with the players in the familiar story—Mary and Joseph, shepherds, wise men—and with a great company across all lines of race, creed, nationality and language. 

As we travel, from our various stations in life, this common road, what discoveries might await us “in Bethlehem?”

Without being “preachy” or coming to you from a theological or doctrinaire point of view, let me share with you some expectations, suggested by a particularly poignant element of the story, that I think are realistic, important and relevant—at least ones that my own spirit needs to nourish and that I hope may strike a spark with yours as well.

Let me note to begin with that when the writers of the gospels—in this case, Luke and Matthew—put together the traditions handed down to them surrounding the birth of Jesus, they were looking back on these events with the perspective of his entire life at their disposal.  They drew, therefore, from the saga of Bethlehem meanings and portents that could hardly have been evident to those who played out the drama of the nativity.

We have the advantage of even greater perspective—we have made this journey many times before.  And we also can reflect on how interesting it is to discover in the infancy or childhood of some famous person an event which may be seen as a symbol and fore gleam of that person’s life.

So—apart from the many questions about Christianity and Jesus that we cannot answer—allow me to choose one incident in Luke’s account of the birth of Jesus at Bethlehem that foreshadowed so much about his life: “There was no room for them in the inn.”  As one reads the words now, there is a foreboding in them because that was to be the experience of Jesus—no room for his teachings or for his quality of spirit. The crucial difficulty of his life was something so simple, so familiar that one almost hesitates to name it—lack of hospitality. 

While there is no doubt a sermon in here somewhere, let me keep faith with my intention not to be “preachy” and settle upon this critical, moving incident in the Bethlehem story as a metaphor for how many preoccupied lives and damaged human relationships echo those ancient words, “no room.” 

I don’t mean simply that we lead practically overcrowded lives, although it’s true, of course, that many of us do. Some of the loveliest things in life that could enrich us are crowded out by preoccupying busyness. 

• Great books are not read, great music is not heard, great art is not appreciated—we’re too busy.
• Our eyes are often blind to the beauties of nature that are all around us—we’re preoccupied.
• And perhaps most sadly of all, we may miss enriching friendships and relationships of trust, love and care—we are too busy.  No room.

One famous American was once described as a “steam engine in trousers,” which clearly suggests vigor, energy, drive, strenuousness. Those are valuable qualities, but if we become nothing more than a“dressed up steam engine,” we are less than, at our best, we ought to be.  Because consider, on the contrary, how much of the fullness of our lives comes not from our outward activity but from our inward hospitality. 

Busy, active, productivity versus welcoming openness to those opportunities that enrich mind, heart and spirit.

So are we at an impasse?  Most of us cannot simply divest ourselves of those energetic elements of our lives that contribute to our career success or the demands of family. And yet we should expect some richness in our lives that mere busyness cannot provide.

For all that, I would argue that we are not trapped in an “either/or” conundrum but that, rather, we can embrace a “both/and” resolution: the busyness of our lives does not have to close our eyes or shut the door of our minds to recognition of the richness, the beauty, the supportive relationships that are within our reach.  Outward activity need not preclude inward hospitality.

To illustrate, two incidents in my own life come to mind, one from my early teenage years and another from my teaching career.

My memories of my boyhood years are filled with a lot of activity and youthful energy. But no recollection is clearer than those Sunday mornings when I rode my bicycle several miles from home to my paper route when dawn was just breaking and the city was still asleep.  I’ve never truly been a “morning person,” so despite my weekly vow to quit my paper route the next day, I remember vividly the warm spring mornings when everything was green and the dew sparkled on the grass.  I remember the crisp, cold winter mornings when the fresh snow covered the ground and hung from the trees making the streets archways of white loveliness.  For a kid of my age, those were times not of mere strenuous activity but of inward hospitality to the beauty around me.

A second indelible mark on my memory came about midway in my twenty years of full time teaching.  It was the dream of a lifetime—the opportunity to spend a summer in London with a colleague and a group of students.  It was an incredibly busy and strenuous summer—teaching classes, attending theatrical productions, exploring the museums and historical environs of London, and sharing responsibility for the well-being of twenty-five students while traveling with them to Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and Paris.  It was fun and exhilarating, of course, but it makes me tired to recall how many hours of preparation were required and how many miles we must have walked! 

But among all the busy activities, one memory stands out in refreshing relief.  The small Courtauld Gallery of the University of London, just around the corner from our residence, is a single floor filled with the most amazing collection of impressionist art you can imagine.  While I had admired impressionism from afar, I knew little about it historically, technically, or artistically and had never been exposed to any of the genre’s original works of art.  In a teacher/learner “flip,” one of the students, an art major, became my teacher and—equipped with the insights I learned—the many leisurely times of hospitality I spent, “stolen” from my busy days, in company with Monet, van Gogh, Gaugin, Cezanne, Pissarro, and Manet still fill me to overflowing.

And I hear someone ask incredulously, do you have to reach that far back to find instances of “richness” in your life?  Of course not, and I could stretch your patience to its limits regaling you with far more recent examples.  But the fact that these experiences of inner hospitality to beauty—that stand out from times of strenuous activity—are still vivid in my memory after four to almost seven decades, speaks volumes to the point I am trying to make.

Amidst the necessary busyness of our lives, we don’t have to say “no room”—our most memorable enrichments come from our hospitalities to the plentiful and precious opportunities that are available every day in our active lives.  If we look for them when they peek out at us in the beauty of music, art, nature, and human relationships, we can open the doors of our eyes, minds and hearts and say, “come in.”

Is there more that should be said about the notion of hospitality? Oh, yes!—openness to new ideas, to others’ points of view, to persons . . . the tired, the poor, the “huddled masses yearning to be free” . . . and you can expand the list yourself.  But enough for today.

And so I hope that on our journey to Bethlehem this season—whatever form that may take for us and from whatever perspective we may view it—the wonder of the story of the nativity and what we know of the man that the “babe in the manger” would become, will shine a light of goodness, of generosity, of compassion, and of moral principle on our lives . . . and in the spirit of hospitality, we will say “welcome.”