There is Always Room Somewhere

Bethlehem means “House of Bread”. I am going to come back to this later, but it is a thing you need to know from the start. From the Hebrew, “Beit” (house) and “lehem” (bread), the little community had that name for more than a thousand years before Jesus. 

Next fun fact: when Luke tells us about the place where there was no room, he uses the Greek word kataluma. We have become used to the idea of “no room in the inn”, like a Motel 6 or the Lazy J putting out a “no vacancy” sign. A kataluma, however, was not a roadside inn or shelter. Luke had a different word for that kind of establishment, pandocheion, which is the word used in the story of the Samaritan who stopped. This is a place where you could pay someone for a room and board. 

Since we know Luke has a word for a commercial inn and he chooses not to use it here, we need to ask what a kataluma is. It is the same word used later when Jesus sends the disciples to find a "guest room" to celebrate the Passover.

Picture this: in the time of Jesus’ birth, most houses in Bethlehem were built into hillsides or over caves. The main room of the house was the heart of the home—the place where cooking, family activity, and sleeping happened. The cave portion or a slightly lower level was the space where the family animals were brought in for the night—maybe a milk cow or a few sheep or goats to keep them safe and provide warmth.

This type of house would have had a kataluma or guest room, usually attached to the side or prepared on the roof. In a culture that emphasized hospitality as a sacred duty, people naturally had space for travelers. The fact that there was no room in the kataluma means the houses all around were already full of family and other travelers who were there for the same reason as Mary and Joseph—the census.

Thus, when the time came for Mary to give birth, the only space available was the dugout space or cave area where the family animals would have normally stayed. Jesus was born into a crowded home. Mary likely had the support of other women for the birth. And there were probably other men around to give Joseph something to do or at least to help him through his own worries. 

Jesus born in this way moves us from imagining the Holy Family being turned away by a cold innkeeper. Instead, we see the Son of God coming into crowded lives. Full houses. Limited space. People already stretched thin by census demands, obligations, traditions, and expectations. And into that very relatable human fullness, God arrived in the flesh.

By the early 300s, Christians were already venerating a specific cave in Bethlehem as Jesus’ birthplace. When Emperor Constantine made Christianity the religion of the Roman Empire, he built the Church of the Nativity directly over that cave, which is still there today. Eastern forms of Christianity have preserved this tradition, and their nativity sets show the birth of our Lord happening in a cave or grotto.

In the Christianity that grew in western and northern Europe, animals were usually kept in a separate building from the main house. This gave rise to the interpretation of Jesus being born in a stable. After all, we usually picture what we know. Since he was born in a place apart from the house, the space where there was no room was no longer imagined as a guest room, but rather as a commercial inn.

Why am I telling you all this? Even if you find it interesting, why does it matter? 

Stay with me. 

This fall, a Savior born in the House of Bread became a stumbling block for me. For the first time in my adult life, I was in a church service with other Lutherans and I couldn’t take communion. One of the discoveries of myriad medical tests I underwent this fall was that I have celiac disease. My body cannot process wheat, barley, or rye. It’s a bummer. 

In November, I was at a gathering with fellow Lutheran clergy. More than thirty of us were gathered for conversation and our time together closed with Holy Communion. I noticed there was only one type of wafer. When I quietly asked the hosting pastor if the bread was gluten-free, which is hard to request, he didn’t know for sure. We were also dipping, or intincting, the wafers into the chalice of wine, so I couldn’t drink that either. I stood in the circle as we prayed together, and everyone communed but me. 

I didn’t feel particularly left out because I knew what was happening and I have great trust in God’s inclusive love. I did think a lot, however, about people who would have felt left out or forgotten. For whom a failure to include would feel like specific exclusion. 

I thought about what it feels like to not be able to participate in the meal of the table of our Savior who was born in the “House of Bread”. 

And this is why the truth about the kataluma matters. 

Sometimes the space we’ve made as human beings just doesn’t have enough room for everyone. Even our best intentions go awry. And, let’s face it, sometimes we don’t even have the best intentions. The most faithful of us, the most knowledgeable, the most experienced in life can still come to a place where there is no room for us in the kataluma, in the space that we’re supposed to be able to count on. 

But God’s work goes beyond intention. God doesn’t intend to… God does. 

When Jesus is born in an unexpected place, surrounded by people who might have had other plans for the day, found by shepherds who were otherwise occupied, in an empire obsessed with its own power (like they all are) – when all of this occurs, God is at work.

God’s presence in our world doesn’t happen remotely or accidentally, apart from daily life. It doesn’t happen in a sterile place, perfectly set up. It rarely happens in the expected way or the planned for way. 

The birth of Jesus happens where there was no way, no space, and not even expectation for how it would happen. Yet, in spite of all that, God’s love is born into the world in the middle of all the things, everything all at once. It draws in and welcomes everyone, even the ones who hang back. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you shepherds, you unexpected parents, you with households full of chaos. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who feel left out, you with big questions, you with broken and grieving hearts. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who believe Jesus was born in a stable, you who celebrate a Savior born in a cave, you who have never given it that much thought. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who are aching in body, you with a divided family, you who no longer believe. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who must eat gluten free, you who are struggling with addiction, you who are still seeking a diagnosis. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you whose house is not perfect, you whose gift will come late, you who just want me to wrap this up and bring it all home. 

Unto us, in the House of Bread, is born a Savior. Born into a busy world of people full of their own concerns. Born to remove the fear of being separated from God. Born to love and show love, to grant mercy, to heal, and to give hope to all. 

Unto us, in the House of Bread, is born a Savior. In stable, in a cave, in the manger of our hearts. 

And where he is, there is the bread of life, born, broken, and given at a table with room for us all. 

Merry Christmas. 

 

Born that We No More May Die

I’m having trouble sleeping these days. Part of it is the late stage of being pregnant, but the other part is the pictures that keep running through my mind.

Not a picture of my friend

The first is picture of a friend of mine, her significant other and their baby, a baby who was stillborn last week, just before full-term. In the picture, she is clutching the baby, wrapped up, close to her chest and her SO is leaned over them both, his head touching hers and his eyes on the baby. It is a nativity to behold. 

The second image is the Pietà, Michaelangelo’s to be specific. I keep thinking of this image in connection with the violent deaths of the children of Sandy Hook, Connecticut. It is likely that most of those parents were not able to cradle the bodies of their babies- stopped from doing so because of the cause of death and the condition of the bodies. Thus, I think of that image of Mary cradling the grown Jesus and remembering in her mind how she held him so many times before. I know those parents are remembering every moment they held their children. The other thoughts that are probably running through their minds are too hard for me to imagine. Not impossible to imagine, but too hard for me to consider and still let go of my own toddler and refuse to live in fear.

These images are not only interfering with my sleep, but they are marching into the forefront of my mind as I try to prepare for Christmas. One of the things that I wrestle with all the time, theologically and personally, is the connection between Christmas and Easter. More specifically, the connection between Christmas and Good Friday. I do not accept that Jesus was born, destined for the cross. I am not resigned to the idea that betrayal and crucifixion were inevitable. My faith is anchored, beyond the veil, in the trust that God is bigger than all things, was revealing that power before Jesus, and that the Messiah came into the world to be the clear sign of that power and a clear revelation of God’s expectations of creation.

Death, violent or otherwise, was never a part of God’s intentions for creation. With our scientific minds (and I love science), we understand a cycle of birth, decay, and death. Yet, our faith teaches that this is not preordained. We are not born to die. We are born for life. We are gifted with faith for abundant life. Somehow, in some way, the Christmas story is the heart of this truth- that God came into the world in an expected way, so that we might believe and live. When death tries to trump that truth, life wins. Love wins. Joseph does not stone Mary. The childhood illnesses that could have claimed Jesus’ life do not succeed. The devil’s temptations do not stand. The threats of detractors do not hold water. The cross and tomb are not the final word. Incarnation leads to not to crucifixion, but to resurrection. Life wins.

In this season of grieving, personal and public, for my friends, for people I do not know, for our world, I do believe that life wins. The story of God’s entrance into the world as one of us is not the beginning of that theme, but the powerful plot twist that no one expected and that surprises us still.

Every death, every stillbirth, every child, every 110-year-old, is a death that is too soon when it precedes God’s final renewal of heaven and earth. Yet these deaths are not the final word. That Word is God’s. The Word that has always been with God, indeed the Word that is God, is life. Life.

There comes a point where I don’t have anything else to say and so I have to stop talking. The grief is too real. The pain is too sharp. The explanations are weak or non-existent.

And still hope flickers.

And still we say, “Come, Lord Jesus.”

And still Life shines through the darkness. And the darkness cannot overcome it.