I love Christmas -- and I love imagination and creativity. These I combined into a fictional article I wrote about fifteen years ago that paints a picture of what might have been going on in the lives of key players in the Easter drama during the season of the first Christmas. Originally printed in The Standard magazine, the article now appears as a chapter in my new compilation ebook: Pearls to Treasure: Essays, articles and devotions from 25 years of writing about God's kingdom.
I want to share this with you, because as caregivers our lives are defined, by and large, by mundane everydayness. And yet, we don't know from our limited earthbound perspective just when the eternal will break into our everyday--and take on a significance only heaven will allow us to know. Be encouraged, my exhausted friend. And be on the lookout for the eternal--it'll be there, intermingled with your caregiving duties. If you're not attuned to it, you may never even see it coming.
AND THERE WERE IN THAT SAME COUNTRY …
Once upon a time, a time not awfully different from today, in a land not very far away, there lived a good king—a perfectly good king. From his tower high above the land the king looked down to survey his dominion.
First, he focused on his capital city. His eyes swept over the dusty cityscape. He saw the place his father used to live. He saw a man who worked in his father's house. This place and this man made him sad. Not for the first time, nor the last. And this is what he saw:
The young priest Caiaphas was descending the glittering gold and snowy marble terraces surrounding the flat-topped, man-made mount that housed the place once called A House of Prayer for All Nations. (By this time it was called Herod's Temple.) Caiaphas whistled heartily while he passed the raucous barkers calling out to foreigners to exchange their money for temple money—for a small fee, of course.
As he walked down the dusty brown street that led outside the city gate past the place of the skull, a phrase his teacher had used years ago reverberated in his mind. Caiaphas had watched his first sacrifice—heard that pure lamb bleat, looked on as it bled, smelled its flesh as it burned. His teacher had said it was necessary for one lamb to die so the people wouldn't have to. That made him shudder—then and now.
But he would have none of those haunting thoughts today. Today he was on a mission. No longer a student, Caiaphas now could focus his efforts on buying the hand of the fair daughter of Annas. She was certain to cost him plenty. Actually, he cared little for the girl, scarcely knew her name. It was Annas he sought out. Annas controlled the high priesthood. And that was what Caiaphas wanted to be. High priest. With all its pomp and circumstance, power and influence. And its wealth. Definitely its wealth. Yes, he would have the daughter of Annas for his wife. And he would have the high priesthood, just you wait and see.
The good king peered into the young man's heart until he could stand it no longer. Try as he might to find a spark of love or true wisdom, he found none. He would have to use this Caiaphas in his grand plan, but the king wished it were not so. The people desperately needed a good high priest—a truly good one. And that's who they would have. Soon. As soon as the time was right.
When he looked away from the young man, the king saw an elder passing by on the street. "What about him?" the king mused.
A scroll under his arm, the elder—Nicodemus—moved swiftly, his robes swishing up a cloud of dust in his wake. He had been studying the nuances of the historic law, as it regarded the carrying of a needle in one's robe on the Sabbath day, and he was prepared to report his research results to the seventy men who sat with him on the highest council.
Passing the city's judgment gate (that led to the hill where guilty men were left to die on rough-hewn crosses), and through the shadows of the massive stone walls and pillars that dated back so many generations, he remembered a passage he had read from the scroll in the synagogue just last Sabbath: "Lift up your heads, oh you gates; be lifted up, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in. Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle."
And Nicodemus found himself wondering, "Who is he, this King of glory?"
The king sighed long. It was good to know that at least one leader of his people cared enough to wonder about him. That was hopeful.
Reassured, the king turned his attention to a well to the south and east of the city, a well where the girls of the village of Bethany had gathered to draw the morning water.
It was still cool, the sun barely up, when the little girl Mary left her house and skipped off (as well as a little girl can with a clay jug on her head) to draw her family's daily allotment of water. The other girls her age stood chattering and giggling as they balanced their water jars to minimize the inevitable splashing. By the time Mary approached, the girls had begun whispering about the hunched-up elderly woman, clay jug painfully clutched, who was approaching the well. Quickly, with many pointed fingers and sideways glances, the girls finished their work and dispersed.
Mary looked up from drawing her water and smiled. She asked whether the woman would like her to fill the jug. The woman nodded her thanks and handed the vessel to the little girl. It was almost as big as the child. But Mary handled it expertly.
For years the old woman had carried with her a small vial of wonderful-smelling spikenard. Though the vial was sealed, the ointment's magnificent aroma strayed through its walls. She had saved it for some noble purpose, not knowing what. Seeing Mary, she felt compelled to give it to this child. Perhaps it was the reflection in Mary of her own daughter, who had been taken from her many years before. Impulsive, but a good-hearted child. Perhaps it was—well, no matter. Reaching into her garments, the woman slowly removed the small rose-purple vial.
Maybe Mary would find a grand use for the fragrant ointment some day after the woman was long gone. So, she pressed it into the girl's hand. Startled by the gift, little Mary hugged her and ran off—forgetting her own water jar.
The king watched as Mary buried the treasure in a secret hiding place, and he knew one day that vial of nard would indeed serve a noble purpose. But for now he had seen enough. Enough to know now was the time he needed to visit his people. Walk with them. Eat with them. Tell stories and laugh with them. Now was the time. And he knew—as all kings do—that you can't do that when you look like a king.
So he found a home comfortable and snug in the womb of another young girl, also called Mary, who was newly pledged to a good man—a carpenter.
While this other Mary and her new husband were visiting his native city of Bethlehem (so they could be counted for the governor's taxation), the king decided to take his first breath of his country's air. The family home was bulging with relatives, the eldest of whom were staying in the guest chamber. The only quiet place found for the king (in disguise) to be born was in the cave stable on the house's first floor. It was the place where the livestock were warmed and fed during the cold season. It was part of the house—technically, but it was somehow more peaceful than the chaotic main chamber, bustling as it was with visitors and distant relatives from across his land.
And so it was that the king cried his first infant cry and made his royal entrance. His castle traded for a cave stable; his servants traded for a teenage mother and her carpenter husband; his throne and ornately majestic dais traded for a cattle trough lined with straw.
And they named him Jesus.
So the king came to his own people, but most of them did not receive him. Still, to all those who did receive him, the ones who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God (John 1:11-12). ∆
I pray for you a blessed season of preparing to celebrate Christ's incarnation.
Blessings and prayers,
Julie
© 2010, Julie-Allyson Ieron. All rights reserved. For reprint permission, email: orders@joymediaservices.com. To purchase a copy of Pearls to Treasure in ebook format, visit http://www.joymediaservices.com/. To purchase in Kindle format, visit: http://www.amazon.com/Julie-Allyson-Ieron/e/B001JS7ZKK/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0
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