No Room

Years ago, a church where I worked began to observe Las Posadas, the traditional Latin American devotional practice of moving Mary and Joseph from one home to another each night leading up to Christmas. Usually for nine days but in our case for the whole of Advent, different households in the parish took turns accepting the responsibility of housing Jesus’ parents, who, according to the Christmas story of Luke 2, were forced to lay their newborn child in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn. The practice is a way for a parish community to prepare for and participate in the annual celebration of Jesus’ birth by making space in their home and in their lives for the homeless travelers.

Instead of real people, we used two-feet-tall plastic stand-ins for the Holy Family, and households in the parish were encouraged to take Mary, in her traditional soft blue outfit, and Joseph, in his traditional bright pink robe, with them wherever they went. Families shared pictures of their outings with the expectant couple all over town—at the movies, at the ice-skating rink, and at the mall. When it was our turn, our family took the large plastic figures to Starbucks. We buckled them into the back seat of our car. We carried them in with us in our arms. We sat them in chairs at our table in the corner, and, after getting our coffee and hot chocolate—none for them—we sat down.

Before long, however, an employee came over and asked us to leave. He politely informed us that it was company policy not to allow any religious proclamation on the premises. I was genuinely surprised by the encounter and asked him to repeat himself. He did, and I tried to explain that we were not there to make any sort of statement, that we were not intending to proclaim anything to anyone, and that we just wanted to have a hot beverage with our overnight guests. He was not convinced, so we left. I was incensed. 

Like many people who share a similar background, I had the privilege of getting angry about it. Unaware of it at the time, I vividly remember drafting a hubris-fueled letter to the editor of the local paper about how my rights, my traditions, and my faith had been attacked. Before I sent the letter, though, something changed within me. Overnight, my whole perspective shifted. Where anger had been, a strange sort of calmness sank in—not something I had pursued on my own but a gift from God.

When I woke up, I knew my letter needed a rewrite. By the time I sent in the finished product, my letter was as much a confession as a retelling of the previous day’s events. I had been too caught up in myself to realize that the plastic figures we carried with us represented a couple who themselves had been turned away, forced into makeshift accommodation. As familiar as the Christmas story was to me, I still almost missed my chance to participate in it. I almost lost the chance to embrace the ones in whose poverty the Christ child was born.

This year, there is no room in our church for a congregation. Usually on Christmas Eve, our largest congregation of the year comes to church. In addition to many familiar faces, we welcome into our church dozens of people whom we do not see any other time of the year. This is the one occasion when they want to be in church, and this year, because of the pandemic, we are going to turn them away. For so many of us, there is nothing more that we want for Christmas than to be together at St. Paul’s, but that will not happen. And that breaks my heart, and it makes me angry, too.

We could push back against those authorities who ask us not to gather in church. We could get angry at the Governor or the Bishop. We could refuse to follow their advice and insist on filling the church to sing our favorite carols and celebrate our beloved traditions. But, in doing so, we would have missed the chance to find the Holy Family where they gather this year—not in the beautiful church where we expect them to be but in that quiet, tucked-away corner where we normally would never think to look.

This year, none of us is able to celebrate Christmas the way we want to. For most of us, that is a source of sadness and frustration, if not anger. But how we respond to this disappointment must be a reflection of the miracle we seek to commemorate. This is the birth of Jesus, the Son of God, the Incarnate Word. In the Christ child, God becomes flesh not in power and strength but in vulnerability and weakness. This holy birth takes place not in the protection of a hospital or the comfort of an inn but in whatever shelter Mary and Joseph were able to find. If we want to celebrate our savior’s birth, we cannot ignore the vulnerable among us—those whose lives would be threatened by our carelessness. If we want to find Jesus, we must seek first the needs of those around us and trust that where they are he will be too.

Yours Faithfully,

Evan