No Crib For A Bed
In my tradition, among the first hymns of Christmas learned by children is a nineteenth-century text, “Away in a Manger.’ Whether one knows the earlier melody or prefers (as I do) a later arrangement by English composer Sir David Willcocks, the lyrics and music illustrate a hauntingly iconic image of the birth of the Christ child—far from home in a manger stall meant for animals because there was no room anywhere else. There was no crib for his bed.
As a very young child just learning the meaning of home, I imagined this image by creating a manger in an old hollowed out tree stump outside our home in the mountains of Western Washington. In that soft cradle of leaves and moss and pine needles, I spent hours playing with my doll—making for her a bed and a home, a manger in a rotted stump. Even as a three-year old, there was some latent awareness of the pathos of not having a home, of no crib for a bed.
These days, it is not a stretch for us to picture fleeing families, young children and babies in tow, and yes, pregnant mothers risking their lives as they seek safety, asylum, and shelter for themselves and the people they love. Their struggle to escape unspeakable circumstances is recorded for posterity in a world where cameras and television and daily news cycles record it all, making palpable the pain and grief and fear that cannot be ignored. We see their faces and hear their voices with almost daily regularity.
Perhaps for the first time, these graphic images of refugees and immigrants—of children separated from their parents—have been seared into the collective psyche of many in our own land, poignant reminders of fear and desperation most of us cannot begin to fathom. But of course, such suffering goes beyond our own time and our own borders. Whether in Syria or Palestine or Somalia or thousands of other places around our globe where there is no crib for a bed, we are painfully aware of a world seemingly unable to provide safety, security, and a way of life everyone on this planet deserves.
For Christians, the coming of Christmas is an invitation to embrace a child without a home, without a bed. As in nearly all world religions, we are charged with shared responsibility for the vulnerable. We are asked to pay attention, to feed the hungry, care for the poor, visit those in prison, protect all who flee for their lives. Ensconced as we sometimes are in the comforts of our culture, it’s a challenge to pay attention and engage with those who have no bed. Our frenetic buying and often frivolous preparations for Christmas—together with the privilege most of us enjoy the rest of the year—have little to do with the coming of Christ.
For many living in what we sometimes rather arrogantly call the first world, our own circumstances can blind us to making room in the inn, a soft place in the hay, a shelter for all who flee oppression, persecution, and tyranny. What does it mean to make room for the Christ child? What does it look like to make room, a home, a bed for the family living on the streets? How might we become conduits of compassion and kindness, unconditional acceptance and grace? How might we become home for those with no home?
In the tradition where I find home, Christmas is a homecoming. Like many other religious celebrations, it asks us to take stock of our own broken lives and self-preoccupation by focusing on a newborn child. This child we call Jesus is on display around the world and in our own neighborhoods. This newborn without a bed and without a home contains the mystery of the Holy One, an invitation to see our own neediness and vulnerability in the faces of every broken life. This child without a bed asks us to put aside all the distracting and befuddling obsessions of our culture to make space for the mystery of God, the very presence of Christ. It asks us to make room for a crib big enough to cradle God’s love and grace for all.
Christmas is about seeing the face of God in all the forgotten faces and broken places, hearing God’s heartbeat in our own beating hearts. It’s about making space—accommodations—for strangers, those who know no home, those with no crib for a bed. Christmas is a way of coming home, finding home, being home. In Christian parlance, “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” means that God dwells in us. God makes God’s home in us.
Christ is the path and Christ is the door. Christ is the bread and welcome cup. Christ is the word and cleansing bath. Christ is the robe and Christ is the fire. Christ is the dawn and blazing sun. Christ is the light and Christ is the star. Christ is the beginning and the end. Christ is our life and Christ is our home.1
The living God is in our midst, making God’s home among us. Christ is our life and Christ is our home.
Reflection
It is not a stretch for us these days to picture fleeing families, young children and babies in tow, and yes, pregnant mothers risking their lives as they seek safety, asylum, and shelter for themselves and the people they love.
- What does it mean to make room in the inn, a soft place in the hay, shelter for all who flee oppression, persecution, tyranny?
- If we believe that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, what then might it mean that God makes God’s home in us?
- No crib for a bed has so many meanings. How might you interpret this for yourself? For others?
- How do your celebrations of holy days and holidays reflect what it means to see the face of God in all the forgotten faces and broken places?
1. Poem used with permission from author Samuel Torvend, Pacific Lutheran University.
Taken from Finding Home. Copyright 2020 by Julie K. Aageson. All rights reserved. Used with permission of the author.