Making Our Way Back to Bethlehem

"So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David." (Luke 2:4 NIV)

Yesterday, we made our way back to Bethlehem. Each December, a tiny community nestled in Texas hill country hosts a living reenactment of ancient Bethlehem. The journey is about eighty miles, only it didn’t take us days by camel. It’s actually less than a few hours by Corolla, made even more pleasant by way of a coffee stop in Blanco.

With happy red cup in hand and lovely fall colors sliding by, I thought about how costless our trek was. We spent a few dollars in gas and an evening. Joseph and Mary made the very same mileage by much more arduous means. Our trip was elective, theirs was compulsory. We went in comfort, they went in travail. We rode in joy, they journeyed in apprehension.

We arrived early, but the line already snaked across town. We waited for almost an hour with happy smiles and warm memories, quite certain of what we’d find inside the city. The holy couple would have stood in line against guarded gates, consumed with concern for Mary’s deteriorating condition. Where would they lay their weary heads that winter night?

We’d been to this Bethlehem before. A decade ago, we were last in the cue and the town grew increasingly sleepy as we lingered. By the time we rounded the final corner to the cave with the iconic scene unfolding, there was a holy hush. Wonder washed over each of us as we stood in silent awe of the Christmas story. We’ve each long-treasured the experience.

Last night was not that. Bethlehem was overcrowded. Loud. Confusing. Irreverent. It was difficult to gain one’s bearings and keep track of your people. The presence of the Roman guards was fearsome. The crush of the crowd was claustrophobic. The sharp scents and sounds of the city were overbearing. It wasn’t the Bethlehem I had hoped for.

When we finally found our way to the cave with the Savior, it felt intrusive. Joseph kept a wary eye on the crowds whilst Mary grappled with her hours-old role of mother. The shepherds worshiped, seemingly un-phased by the hundreds of people peering into what was clearly a private moment.

In the light of today, I wonder if last night’s Bethlehem wasn’t a whole lot more accurate to the original account in Luke chapter two. The tiny town would have been absolutely overwrought with tourists; the involuntary and inconvenient census may have made the entire ordeal quite grim. Throngs of people pushing about for food and lodging isn’t the Christmas imagery we are accustomed to, but it may have been the experience Joseph and Mary as they made their way to the birth of their son.

Honestly, friends, I was convicted by the whole encounter. The cost of Christmas for us is far too low. The reality of God with us has become too common. It’s too easy to get to Bethlehem, take our selfies, and make the season about something far less wondrous that the savior of the world.

How on earth do we slow down and consider it all holy again? How do we step out of consumerism and allow the adoration to consume us? How do we slip from from the crowd and find the corner where Christ is communing with His family?

I think back to that crowded locality and I realize we must intentionally take a different pace. Mary and Joseph certainly must have. The throes of labor required absolute focus. They set aside the bustling agenda of the world crashing about them and, instead, set all their hopes on the child within. This is still the right way to approach each Christmas: over and over refocusing on the tiny savior almost hidden in the hustle of the season.

"So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger." (Luke 2:16 NIV)

Lord, please forgive us. We get so easily caught up in the crowd during this season. Give us singular focus. Tug us again toward the nativity. Help us settle in at the scene of Your birth and return to it often as distractions abound. We long to fix our eyes on Your manger, allowing the weight of Your glory to center us this advent. May we wait through Dark December with wild hope in our hearts, wholly receptive to the greatest gift already given. Amen.