Dear Brothers
and Sisters,
"The time came for Mary to be delivered. And she gave birth to
her first-born son and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and
laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the
inn" (Lk 2:6f.). These words touch our hearts every time we hear
them. This was the moment that the angel had foretold at
Nazareth: "you will bear a son, and you shall call his name
Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most
High" (Lk 1:31). This was the moment that Israel had been
awaiting for centuries, through many dark hours - the moment
that all mankind was somehow awaiting, in terms as yet
ill-defined: when God would take care of us, when he would step
outside his concealment, when the world would be saved and God
would renew all things. We can imagine the kind of interior
preparation, the kind of love with which Mary approached that
hour. The brief phrase: "She wrapped him in swaddling clothes"
allows us to glimpse something of the holy joy and the silent
zeal of that preparation. The swaddling clothes were ready, so
that the child could be given a fitting welcome. Yet there is no
room at the inn. In some way, mankind is awaiting God, waiting
for him to draw near. But when the moment comes, there is no
room for him. Man is so preoccupied with himself, he has such
urgent need of all the space and all the time for his own
things, that nothing remains for others - for his neighbour, for
the poor, for God. And the richer men become, the more they fill
up all the space by themselves. And the less room there is for
others.
Saint John, in his Gospel, went to the heart of the matter,
giving added depth to Saint Luke's brief account of the
situation in Bethlehem: "He came to his own home, and his own
people received him not" (Jn 1:11). This refers first and
foremost to Bethlehem: the Son of David comes to his own city,
but has to be born in a stable, because there is no room for him
at the inn. Then it refers to Israel: the one who is sent comes
among his own, but they do not want him. And truly, it refers to
all mankind: he through whom the world was made, the primordial
Creator-Word, enters into the world, but he is not listened to,
he is not received.
These words refer ultimately to us, to each individual and to
society as a whole. Do we have time for our neighbour who is in
need of a word from us, from me, or in need of my affection? For
the sufferer who is in need of help? For the fugitive or the
refugee who is seeking asylum? Do we have time and space for
God? Can he enter into our lives? Does he find room in us, or
have we occupied all the available space in our thoughts, our
actions, our lives for ourselves?
Thank God, this negative detail is not the only one, nor the
last one that we find in the Gospel. Just as in Luke we
encounter the maternal love of Mary and the fidelity of Saint
Joseph, the vigilance of the shepherds and their great joy, just
as in Matthew we encounter the visit of the wise men, come from
afar, so too John says to us: "To all who received him, he gave
power to become children of God" (Jn 1:12). There are those who
receive him, and thus, beginning with the stable, with the
outside, there grows silently the new house, the new city, the
new world. The message of Christmas makes us recognize the
darkness of a closed world, and thereby no doubt illustrates a
reality that we see daily. Yet it also tells us that God does
not allow himself to be shut out. He finds a space, even if it
means entering through the stable; there are people who see his
light and pass it on. Through the word of the Gospel, the angel
also speaks to us, and in the sacred liturgy the light of the
Redeemer enters our lives. Whether we are shepherds or "wise
men" - the light and its message call us to set out, to leave
the narrow circle of our desires and interests, to go out to
meet the Lord and worship him. We worship him by opening the
world to truth, to good, to Christ, to the service of those who
are marginalized and in whom he awaits us.
In some Christmas scenes from the late Middle Ages and the early
modern period, the stable is depicted as a crumbling palace. It
is still possible to recognize its former splendour, but now it
has become a ruin, the walls are falling down - in fact, it has
become a stable. Although it lacks any historical basis, this
metaphorical interpretation nevertheless expresses something of
the truth that is hidden in the mystery of Christmas. David's
throne, which had been promised to last for ever, stands empty.
Others rule over the Holy Land. Joseph, the descendant of David,
is a simple artisan; the palace, in fact, has become a hovel.
David himself had begun life as a shepherd. When Samuel sought
him out in order to anoint him, it seemed impossible and absurd
that a shepherd-boy such as he could become the bearer of the
promise of Israel. In the stable of Bethlehem, the very town
where it had all begun, the Davidic kingship started again in a
new way - in that child wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in
a manger. The new throne from which this David will draw the
world to himself is the Cross. The new throne - the Cross -
corresponds to the new beginning in the stable. Yet this is
exactly how the true Davidic palace, the true kingship is being
built. This new palace is so different from what people imagine
a palace and royal power ought to be like. It is the community
of those who allow themselves to be drawn by Christ's love and
so become one body with him, a new humanity. The power that
comes from the Cross, the power of self-giving goodness - this
is the true kingship. The stable becomes a palace - and setting
out from this starting-point, Jesus builds the great new
community, whose key-word the angels sing at the hour of his
birth: "Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth to those
whom he loves" - those who place their will in his, in this way
becoming men of God, new men, a new world.
Gregory of Nyssa, in his Christmas homilies, developed the same
vision setting out from the Christmas message in the Gospel of
John: "He pitched his tent among us" (Jn 1:14). Gregory applies
this passage about the tent to the tent of our body, which has
become worn out and weak, exposed everywhere to pain and
suffering. And he applies it to the whole universe, torn and
disfigured by sin. What would he say if he could see the state
of the world today, through the abuse of energy and its selfish
and reckless exploitation? Anselm of Canterbury, in an almost
prophetic way, once described a vision of what we witness today
in a polluted world whose future is at risk: "Everything was as
if dead, and had lost its dignity, having been made for the
service of those who praise God. The elements of the world were
oppressed, they had lost their splendour because of the abuse of
those who enslaved them for their idols, for whom they had not
been created" (PL 158, 955f.). Thus, according to Gregory's
vision, the stable in the Christmas message represents the
ill-treated world. What Christ rebuilds is no ordinary palace.
He came to restore beauty and dignity to creation, to the
universe: this is what began at Christmas and makes the angels
rejoice. The Earth is restored to good order by virtue of the
fact that it is opened up to God, it obtains its true light
anew, and in the harmony between human will and divine will, in
the unification of height and depth, it regains its beauty and
dignity. Thus Christmas is a feast of restored creation. It is
in this context that the Fathers interpret the song of the
angels on that holy night: it is an expression of joy over the
fact that the height and the depth, Heaven and Earth, are once
more united; that man is again united to God. According to the
Fathers, part of the angels' Christmas song is the fact that now
angels and men can sing together and in this way the beauty of
the universe is expressed in the beauty of the song of praise.
Liturgical song - still according to the Fathers - possesses its
own peculiar dignity through the fact that it is sung together
with the celestial choirs. It is the encounter with Jesus Christ
that makes us capable of hearing the song of the angels, thus
creating the real music that fades away when we lose this
singing-with and hearing-with.
In the stable at Bethlehem, Heaven and Earth meet. Heaven has
come down to Earth. For this reason, a light shines from the
stable for all times; for this reason joy is enkindled there;
for this reason song is born there. At the end of our Christmas
meditation I should like to quote a remarkable passage from
Saint Augustine. Interpreting the invocation in the Lord's
Prayer: "Our Father who art in Heaven", he asks: what is this -
Heaven? And where is Heaven? Then comes a surprising response:
"... who art in Heaven - that means: in the saints and in the
just. Yes, the heavens are the highest bodies in the universe,
but they are still bodies, which cannot exist except in a given
location. Yet if we believe that God is located in the heavens,
meaning in the highest parts of the world, then the birds would
be more fortunate than we, since they would live closer to God.
Yet it is not written: 'The Lord is close to those who dwell on
the heights or on the mountains', but rather: 'the Lord is close
to the brokenhearted' (Ps 34:18[33:19]), an expression which
refers to humility. Just as the sinner is called 'Earth', so by
contrast the just man can be called 'Heaven'" (Sermo in monte II
5, 17). Heaven does not belong to the geography of space, but to
the geography of the heart. And the heart of God, during the
Holy Night, stooped down to the stable: the humility of God is
Heaven. And if we approach this humility, then we touch Heaven.
Then the Earth too is made new. With the humility of the
shepherds, let us set out, during this Holy Night, towards the
Child in the stable! Let us touch God's humility, God's heart!
Then his joy will touch us and will make the world more radiant.
Amen.
[Original text: Italian]
© Copyright 2007 -- Libreria Editrice Vaticana
Look at the One they
Pierced!
