We are the Innkeeper

 

Sometimes I dwell upon Joseph.

His job was to provide for his young bride, to keep her safe.

Not to mention that later task of raising the Son of God.

But this foretold Son, on what we know as the first Christmas Eve, had yet to make his appearance. The holy family, on this chilly and fast-darkening evening, was made up of only two – Joseph and Mary.

And they were desperate.

Mary, nine months pregnant, tired from travel, filled with God’s promise yet seeing only dirt and doors closing and the detritus of the road. And Joseph, as protector, as provider – failing.

In this most basic of things, of securing a safe place for Mary in the precarious time of childbirth, Joseph was coming up empty. All that was asked of him was to provide that safe place. And he had not done it. It was his most important responsibility, and it had not been accomplished.

With door after door closing, I wonder what ran through his mind. Anger, inadequacy, frustration, shame – defeat even.

As I said, I dwell upon Joseph.

We know now how the story turned out, but in this unsettled moment of the evening before, Joseph did not. The air grew colder, darkness descended, certainly fear was in his young wife’s face.

And how, in the travels between the doors of the inns that to a one were turning him away, did Joseph see himself?

Perhaps he saw himself as unworthy. Unworthy of fatherhood; unworthy of God; and perhaps most of all, unworthy of Mary.

As I write this, and as you read this, there are men not so unlike Joseph. And women not so unlike his beloved. They are wandering our inner-cities, they are crossing borders, they are negotiating jungles and are fleeing war.

And what do they feel behind the immediate thoughts of food and shelter and safety?

I believe they may feel what Joseph felt.

And my heart breaks for them.

The greatest gift of our faith is love. But there is love and there is love.

There is that love we feel when those most close to us are strong and assured, a love akin to admiration. But there is that love, too, when these most close to us are afraid, or feeling pain, or exhausted with worry, or disappointed, or troubled with self-doubt – and our hearts go out to them, our hearts split in two for them.

And if I think hard about, if I try to imagine that first Christmas Eve, that is the love I feel for Joseph in those uncertain hours of not knowing where to turn, of not knowing what to do.

It’s this kind of love that drives so many of our ministries – ministries with impoverished children or isolated elderly or prisoners who have next to no human interaction. Ministries with young men and women who have had no childhood. Ministries with young men and women living in countries rife with violence and unemployment and near hopelessness.

When we, the faithful, see brothers and sisters who are hungry, the love flows from our hearts in a kind of communion. When we see children of God-given potential instead enduring ignorance and destitution, even beggary, our love flows without words. When we see innocents fleeing the horrors of war, our love wants to reach out a hand to bring them to safety.

A safety such as Joseph sought.

When nothing else makes sense, love makes sense. I do not understand many of the problems of the world. But I do understand love. And I do understand there are many Josephs in the world at this very moment, and many Marys. This Christmas season, as we hear the Christmas story, let’s remember all the multitudes who are not so unlike them. Let’s be Christ to them through our prayers, meditations, generosity and actions.

Through these, we are at last the innkeeper who gives them a place to rest and be safe.

Please support our work. We are on the French Guiana border sheltering those escaping human trafficking. We are in Kenya boarding children who without us would have no home. We are in Mexico delivering rice and beans. We are in California and Arizona and New England and Ohio. All of these places are far removed from Bethlehem and the two thousand years since Joseph and Mary and their long and anxious evening. And yet – and yet – we are beside them as in that very moment.

May God bless you and your family, and all families, in this most holy of seasons.

Sincerely,

 

 

Kathleen Harmon, SNDdeN
Provincial