The Word is Very Near You: Feasts and Festivals. John Pridmore

he was going’. So it was for all those who looked for Christ’s day but who did not live to see it. So it is for us who, surrounded by these witnesses, try to follow their example. Whatever our address, we are a people with no permanent home. That ‘homelessness’, so far from depriving us of our humanity, constitutes it. We may be on the road for a long time yet, so we must ‘lay aside every weight’ (Hebrews 12.1) – surely a text for the day in the year when we put so much more weight on.

      When we read that ‘the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head’ (Luke 9.58) we may feel sorry for him. If so, we miss the point. (As does the weepy carol, ‘Thou didst leave thy throne and thy kingly crown when thou camest to earth for me.’) The famous text is not there to arouse our pity. Beneath Luke’s haunting words is the same Christmas truth taught by John, that the boy born in a byre shares the essential vulnerability and insecurity of our human condition, however swanky are the houses we like to think are ours. In two miraculous lines Henry Vaughan goes to the heart of the Christmas story:

      He travels to be born, and then

      Is born to travel more again.

      (‘The Nativity’)

      An unnecessary footnote. To recognize that, wherever we live, we have ‘no fixed abode’ is no reason for refusing shelter to the homeless. Nor is it a reason to ignore the plight of those, massed in their thousands in our planet’s countless refugee camps, whose ‘tents’ are plastic sheets on sticks.

      2. THE STRANGLED TOWN OF BETHLEHEM

      What we make of the Bible depends on where we read or hear it. Take the words with which the Prologue of St John’s Gospel comes to its tremendous climax – ‘The Word became flesh and dwelt among us’ (John 1.14). Supposing we hear these words in an English parish church, as the Gospel at Midnight Mass or as the final reading at a service of lessons and carols. The words may well move us deeply yet still say very little. It is not that they are too familiar. It is that they don’t connect. The great text hangs in the air, echoing high in the nave like the last notes of one of the carols we’ve been singing, but without engaging with the world beyond the church walls. But supposing this Christmas – this Christmas – we go to Bethlehem, to that ‘strangled’ little town as it has been called. Supposing we hear those climactic words in a town now encircled by walls and fences which threaten its very survival as a community. If we stop off in Bethlehem to hear John’s account of the conditions under which our gentle Lord consented to be born, we’ll make the necessary connection. (Online assistance is available for such imaginative journeys. Visit www.openbethlehem.org.)

      Bethlehem is suffering what Christ suffered. Charles Wesley – his words more often cited than sung these days – talks of ‘Our God contracted to a span’. For George Herbert, the true light coming into the world was ‘glorious yet contracted light’ (‘Christmas’). It’s all about confinement and contractions. The resonances of such imagery when we’re celebrating the birth of a baby are inescapable. But for the poets, as for John, the emphasis is on the constraints of the incarnation in all its aspects. The Word made flesh is the poet Crashaw’s ‘Eternity shut in a span’ (‘In the Holy Nativity of Our Lord’).

      Bethlehem too is ‘shut in a span’. Its imprisonment is iniquitous, but grimly apposite to the events over which our writer broods. The Word becomes flesh. Becoming flesh, he becomes all flesh is heir to. Pious tourists used to tut-tut about the tat marketed in Bethlehem’s Manger Square. They objected to the commercialization of a holy place. But that’s flesh for you. And in the likeness of such ‘sinful flesh’ (Romans 8.3) love came down.

      Now the tourists and the tat are almost gone and we redirect our anger. We protest rightly that Bethlehem is being throttled, that the life of a once thriving community is being slowly extinguished. But that too – what stranglers inflict and the strangled suffer – is flesh, the flesh our Lord makes his own. Bethlehem struggles to breathe. It was asphyxia, the commentators tell us, that killed Jesus. The beleaguered little town proves a fitting birthplace for the one who bears the worst about us.

      The last time I went there was by local bus. We were turned off the bus at gun-point and lined along the side while they checked our papers. That’s flesh too. The space where the Word ‘pitches his tent’, his ‘pad’ as one theologian has recently called it, is a pitifully narrow enclosure. Such are the conditions – those they know about in Bethlehem – which Christ endures. Yet, according to John, it is these most unpropitious conditions which allow his glory to be seen. John delights in such contradictions. The contrasting strands are woven through his Gospel – light and darkness, life and death, truth and falsehood.

      Glory suffuses this Gospel. Here a baby’s flesh is bathed in it. But for John that glory will be at its most radiant when, so the other Gospels say, the sky turned black.

      ‘The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.’ What we make of the text depends on where we are. For too many of us where we are is in front of a computer screen. ‘The Word’ for us is ‘Word for Windows’. Not the word of wisdom, not the word which addresses us personally and establishes a relationship. Not the word incarnated but the word digitized. An imaginative leap greater than that which takes us to Bethlehem is needed to return to a time when the supreme purpose of words was to let us talk to each other face to face.

      The Prologue to John’s Gospel harks back to the account of creation at the start of the Bible. That story too begins with a spoken word. The repeated ‘God said . . .’ is a command. God said – and it was done. But it is above all a bidding inviting a response. The invitation is to conversation and companionship. ‘Let’s be friends.’ That is what words are for and that is what the Word is for. The Word become flesh embodies the invitation made to Adam, to walk and talk with God.

      3. THE BORN OUTSIDER

      Jesus is born outside, just as he dies outside. The door of the inn closes on the one about to be born, just as the gates of the city close on the one about to die. The opposition of ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ is present throughout the Gospel story. Jesus is never found ‘inside’, where it’s safe and comfortable. He is neither Pharisee nor Sadducee, neither Essene nor Zealot. There is no party to protect him or to promote his cause. Those who go to him must ‘go out’ to him, forfeiting the security which ordinary human associations – including families – provide. Some households briefly shelter him. Perhaps they try to hold him ‘inside’, to curb his compulsion always to be on his way somewhere else. But the one who, as on this day, ‘pitched his tent’ among us (John 1.14) can never make anywhere his permanent home. The Son of Man, with nowhere to lay his head, is always ‘outside’.

      This polarity of outside and inside is starkest in the accounts of his passion, where ‘Christ outside’ stands over against the scheming inner-circles around Caiaphas, Pilate and Herod. Finally he perishes ‘outside the camp’, in that waste land where, abandoning all transitory securities, we are summoned to follow him (Hebrews 13.12–13).

      This tension between ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ is acute in the story of the birth of Jesus. He is born outside, with the despised and rejected; outside, where all must go who are not wanted. The ones inside Luke’s inhospitable inn, those described by John as Christ’s ‘own’ (John 1.11), do not receive him. No doubt it’s warm inside, but Mary and Joseph are left out in the cold. Christians, at least in the West, have always taken it that Christ was born in winter. In fact we have no idea at what time of the year he was born. But that he was born ‘in the bleak mid-winter’ is a truth about the nature of Christ’s coming, whatever the date of the first Christmas. It was cold outside, whatever the temperature. R. S. Thomas comments, ‘The very word Christ has that thin crisp sound so suggestive of frost and snow and the small sheets of ice that crack and splinter under our feet, even as the host is broken in the priest’s fingers’ (Selected Prose, Welsh Poetry Press, 1983). In a late poem, Thomas says of Christmas, ‘Love knocks with such frosted fingers’ (‘Blind Noel’, in No Truce with the Furies, Bloodaxe Books, 1995).

      It’s cold outside. It’s dark too. We’re told that the shepherds, like Nicodemus, come to Jesus by night, but we do not know whether it was