One day a woodsman came and looked up at the tree and cut it down, making it into neither a beautiful chest nor a mighty ship, but a feed box for the animals. He placed it a barn and filled it with hay. The tree was very sad, because he would never be great nor powerful.
Then one day, a man and woman came to the barn. She gave birth and placed her baby in the feed box, because there was no place for them in the inn. But then a strange thing happened, as the whole manger seemed to fill with light, and there were angels and a star above the baby’s crib, and shepherds and wise men came to worship the child, not like a baby in a crib, but like a King upon the finest royal throne.
But soon they all left and the memory of that wondrous night began to fade, and over the years the barn grew old and the crib grew rickety, until it was sold for scrap to some Roman soldiers and carted off to Jerusalem, where it was made into a Cross for the execution of criminals.
That was the cross they placed on the shoulders of a man who was made to carry it, a man who who seemed to glow with the same light as the baby so long ago in Bethlehem. The man fell three times and was finally affixed to the wood with nails which dug deeply. The people jeered at him and mocked him, while only his mother and a younger man stood weeping at his feet, until the man looked to heaven, prayed and breathed his last.
And three days later, when the sun rose, so did the man rise from the dead, and the tree stood taller and prouder than he had since he lived in the forest, for he knew now that now he was, indeed, great and powerful, having been made little and weak. He had never been a chest for earthly treasures nor a ship for powerful princes, but he had been a throne for the Son of God, as his crib and his cross.
And what about us? Do we want to be rich and powerful? Do we want the whole world to acclaim our beauty and our strength? Sure we do.
In fact, especially at Christmas we expect that everything is going to be perfect. It’s that idea of Christmas that people my age got from the Cleaver family in the 1950’s. Everyone sitting around a beautifully decorated Christmas Tree with a perfectly constructed fire burns in the fireplace, decorated with overflowing Christmss stockings with the name of each child neatly inscribed on each.
And everyone is singing Christmas carols as they smile at each other with understanding and love. There’s grandma in the rocking chair sharing her wisdom with all who sit in rapt attention, while mom and dad look lovingly on, holding hands with the trace of a tear in their eyes. Meanwhile, each child asks permission to open their next gift and giggles with joy at each lovely surprise. Soon they will leave for Church as snow gently falls from the sky and dad leads them in Christmas carols until they genuflect and kneel in their pews dressed in their new Sunday clothes….
At Christmas time we expect everything to be perfect, but most of the time it is not. Many of you lost someone you loved this year, and they are not here this Christmas because they have died. Some who hear my voice fought about some stupid little thing all the way to Church and are not particularly looking forward to going home in the same car. Some worry about what the doctor said or about the people at work who already got laid off or about their son who did not come home from school this year. Some worry about addiction or that one who drinks too much, or about how hard it is to pray or even to sleep.
But the great good news of this night is that you do not have to be powerful or perfect. The great good news of this night is that, like the tree on the top of the hill, you need only be little enough to be a throne for the Son of the Living God. Little enough to make your hands into a throne to receive his incarnate flesh…Little enough to prepare your heart to be a crib where the incarnate Son of God might rest this night…with his healing, his love and his hope.
God does not expect from us perfection or power. We are not made for that. God waits for us to make ourselves as little as the Babe of Bethlehem, that we might receive him this night and he might rest in our hearts.
