The Nativity Mystery Revisited
As I packed up the children’s nativity scene recently, I was reminded of the unexpected “mystery” it had created last year. Joshua was CERTAIN that we were missing one very important piece. Never mind the shepherds, the wisemen, Mary, Joseph, and the precious baby Jesus- our stable scene had come without a farmer, and my John Deere boy was distressed.
I know I’ve told this story before, but some tales are worth repeating, especially the ones that challenge us to spot our Savior more clearly. So, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve pulled this post from the archives and dusted it off for a second look. My four year old is no longer bothered by the idea of a missing Bethlehem farmer, but his mommy, who daily experiences her own version of census chaos, is still bothered by the idea of missing the Savior in her midst.
From January 14, 2010…
December twenty-fifth may seem long gone to most, but my three–year–old continues to be puzzled by what appears to be a missing link in the Christmas story. His confusion began when we set up the children’s nativity scene last month and has not subsided with a mere flip of the calendar page. While the rest of the world may have relegated Christmas to the clearance aisle, Joshua continues to mull the day of Christ’s birth and ask one nagging question: “Where is baby Jesus’ farmer?”
The inquiry first surfaced when we erected the Fisher Price nativity scene. As a tinny version of “Away in a Manger” chimed from the star atop the barn, Joshua investigated the entire cast of pudgy characters. He placed the smiling shepherds with their snow-white sheep, introduced the three wise men to the friendly camel, and plopped baby Jesus into the synthetic manger. He staged Mary and Joseph front and center, then stepped back to study the scene.
“Where is baby Jesus’ farmer?” Josh asked and rummaged through the box for the piece in question.
“Who?” I murmured as I draped greenery in the entryway.
“The farmer for this barn.” My befuddled preschooler pointed emphatically to the Bethlehem stable.
The presence of the Divine in a humble stable doesn’t bewilder my budding agrarian. A persistent proponent of filling his little sister’s crib with hay so she can be “like baby Jesus,” Joshua is actually enamored by the idea of a bona fide barn birth. (He occasionally pleads for just one sheep to keep him warm at night). However, in Joshua’s mind, a barn begets a farmer. Someone had to own all those cattle that were lowing when the “poor baby woke.” And the absence of that character disturbs my young son.
Jesus’ farmer was most likely the owner of the filled–to–capacity inn mentioned in the gospel of Luke. Though his absence at Christ’s birth implies indifference, the unnamed proprietor may have simply been distracted. Consumed by census chaos, he may have fed hungry guests, listened to traveling woes and managed his business accounts without realizing that his humble stable housed the very feet of God.
Our new year’s nativity mystery may never be solved, but my son’s unusual question has challenged me to pose one of my own. Do I, like the absent “farmer,” miss Jesus when He is right beneath my roof? I don’t need to own a stable in order to relate to the missing character in the Christmas scene. I simply need to acknowledge the “census chaos” of my own life—dishes and diapers, crying and carpet stains— and I can easily understand how the demands of earth can keep me from enjoying the footprints of Heaven. This year, I’m setting just two New Year’s resolutions. For starters, I’m going to box up those outdoor Christmas lights before Valentine’s Day arrives. And then, I’m going to look for evidence of Jesus in the midst of my daily routine (in the mud puddle jumping and minivan singing, the grocery getting and laundry sorting), because I don’t want live like an unnamed “farmer” unaware of Majesty in my midst.
The Overflow: While they were there, the time came for her to give birth. She gave birth to a son, her firstborn. She wrapped him in a blanket and laid him in a manger, because there was no room in the inn. Luke 2: 6-7
