The following collection of short stories invites us to stand still for a while and to ponder the true meaning of Christmas before we rush off to do our Christmas shopping. What is the real meaning of Christmas? Every year, priests, teachers and theologians struggle to answer this perennial question. These heart-warming and uplifting stories hint at elements of the answer. They seek to capture the imagination of all those who are young at heart and to unmask the reality of Christmas beyond the tinsel and the turkey. They strive to help us escape for a while from the frenetic activity of Christmas today, to bring us back to the celebration of the birth, in a field, of the son of a poor carpenter who came to reveal the true meaning of life.
Santa Claus is a person of utterly selfless generosity, who gives without expecting anything in return, except the satisfaction of knowing that he has given happiness to the children of this world. Santa never judges anyone; even those children who were bold do not get rejected, but they too receive their gifts from him.
He inspires a group of little followers who work all year to get the presents ready so that children everywhere can laugh on Christmas day; they have committed themselves to the same selfless generosity as Santa himself. Even Rudolf and the other animals give him their undivided loyalty and do his bidding. Santa’s little community is focused on bringing happiness to others.
To many, Santa – in his various incarnations – is the spirit of Christmas, as every child knows. Christmas without Santa would be a Christmas without magic. And Christmas without magic would be a Christmas without meaning. The stories in this section talk of the magic that is Christmas and the smiles of the children when the magic happens.
But for some, Christmas is a time of misery and struggle. Those who are lonely experience their aloneness more acutely at Christmas time, as they think of happy families opening their presents on Christmas morning. Some parents struggle, and end up drowned in debt, to try and bring a smile to the faces of their children on Christmas morning. Christmas is a very busy time for services such as Childline, as children seek someone to whom they can express their unhappiness. The stories in this section also hint at the misery that is Christmas for some and the heroic struggles of some parents to make the magic happen for their children, against all the odds. This collection captures the whole reality of Christmas, both the wonder of Christmas and the injustice in our world that condemns so many to poverty – material and emotional.
The Man with the Turned-down Wellingtons
Mickey Dan had the type of exuberant nasal hair from which it is difficult to tear one’s gaze. The fact that he was so tall and thin, complemented by a severely lined face and enormous eyelashes, gave him the air of an ancient ascetic.
To say he was not the sort of man to make friends easily would be the understatement of the century. He was someone who seldom smiled. In fact, he seemed to have an ever-present scowl. Patsy Freyne said of him: ‘He has the sort of face that would make milk turn sour.’
Most people in the parish, though, referred to him in a more benign fashion as, ‘the man with the turned-down wellingtons’, because of his distinctive fashion statement with his footwear of choice. Not even the most senior citizen in the village could remember a time that Mickey Dan did not wear green turned-down wellingtons.
Every Friday he cycled on his Raleigh bike to the post office to collect his pension, in his belted coat, cap on the side of his head, shovel tied on the bar of the bike and a well-worn biscuit tin neatly tied with old twine on the carrier behind him. Then he went on to Monika Herok’s shop where each week he religiously bought a side of bacon, two batch loaves, a half-pound of butter, two pound of sausages; rolls of black and white pudding and his treat of choice: a packet of Kimberley biscuits. All were packed untidily on the back of the bicycle as he headed for home. On the way he never spoke to or smiled at anyone. He could peel an orange in his pocket.
When the parish council decided they would erect a Christmas tree and put up Christmas lights outside the shops, everyone was very enthusiastic except for Mickey Dan, who merely rolled his eyes when he heard the news.
With the new tree and new lights there was a real buzz in the parish about Christmas. Inspired by this development, Helmut Sundermann, the parish priest, had spent the afternoon in the churchyard giving it its annual Christmas tidy-up, even though it had been another cold, gloomy day, with clouds thick and heavy overhead. It had been windy too, and autumn leaves swirled around until they made soggy piles in corners. He had breathed in deeply, relishing the clean scent of damp vegetation. The only fly in the ointment was when he whipped around in alarm as he heard a sound close behind him, but it was only the parish secretary. This was a man who prided himself on his stealth, and he was always sneaking up on people with the clear intention of making them jump out of their skin.
The town’s forefathers had chosen an idyllic spot for their community. It was just south-west of the castle, on what was effectively an island with two arms of the river sweeping around it. It boasted a range of impressive new and old buildings, along with gardens and an orchard, although it was the church that most caught the eye. This was a wonderful creation of soft grey stone, with tiers of large windows to let in the light. Stone seats were provided for restful reposes in the adjacent park during summer, while a tinkling fountain offered an attractive centrepiece.
The cool air had smelled of wet soil and coming spring blossom, and was damp from a recent shower. A blackbird trilled a final song from the roof of the church, clear and sweet, while Helmut Sundermann sang lustily in his kitchen. Other than that, the evening was still, and he was aware of a growing sense of peace. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the sweet scents of the fading day.
The yard was full of his predecessors’ tombs, and was a dark, silent, intimate place. Inside the church, an elderly nun had been praying, although her nodding head and bowed shoulders suggested that her sleepless night was beginning to catch up with her. She turned at the sound of footsteps and heaved herself to her feet, yawning hugely as she did so.
At the back of the church there had been a man so still and poised that he might have been a statute, but then he sneezed, and spoiled his attitude of elegant piety by wiping his nose on his overcoat. He sneezed again, sniffed loudly, and this time it was his sleeve that cleaned his running nose.
The rain had passed, and the day had turned pretty, with fluffy white clouds dotting a bright blue sky and a warm sun drawing steam from the wet ground. The appetising scent of frying eggs wafted from within the home of the parish’s most beautiful woman, Judith McAdam. Handel’s Messiah blasted uplifting tones from the old radio in the parochial house.
Then disaster. Two weeks before Christmas, there was a huge storm which blew a huge hole in the roof of the church. The poor parish priest was so upset by this development that he had a mini-stroke. For the first time ever, there was no Mass in the parish on Sunday.
A week passed. There was a lot of talking, speculation and complaining, but nobody did anything. For the second Sunday in a row there was no parish Mass during a lazy wind that did not go around anyone – it just went through people.
At this stage, an air of crisis had fallen in every corner of the community. The social high point of the year was in the parish hall after Midnight Mass when everyone gathered for mince pies and punch and, to finish, a hush descended when the choir sang ‘And So This Is Christmas’ – though it was universally recognised that this year nothing was going to match Lisa Dobey’s wedding on the eighth of June. But if there was no Midnight Mass, there would be no parish social. And if there was no parish social would it really be Christmas? Of course would it be Christmas even without Midnight Mass when there was not enough space in the church to roll a sweet in anybody’s mouth. But what was the alternative? There was just two days left to the big day.
On the twenty-third, at a quarter past ten, Mickey Dan pulled up outside the church with his Massey Ferguson 35 tractor, which to put it at its very kindest, had seen better days. His big trailer, though, was filled with all kinds of building materials. Slowly and methodically, Mickey Dan began to unpack the trailer and to erect a simple scaffolding on the side of the church. News of this sensational development spread like wildfire through the parish. By lunchtime, Mickey Dan was up on the roof. The sound of his hammer in action spread a strange music around the church. The village gossips went into a state of frenzy.
Paddy Joe Burke suddenly shut down his barber shop and speedily strode to the church with a hammer in his hand and he joined Mickey Dan on the roof. The two men nodded to each other, but not a word passed between them. Within minutes the terrifically talented teacher, Noel McManamly, emerged to complete the parish’s answer to the Holy Trinity. Within the hour every able-bodied man in the parish had gathered at the church. They all worked like men possessed but still nobody said anything.
A few hours later, the two kindest women in the parish, Patricia Seery and Trish O’Brien, came with flasks of hot chicken soup and trays of sandwiches. Mickey Dan said a quiet word of thanks to the two women and all the men followed suit.
After twenty minutes for silent but restorative refreshments, Mickey Dan led the troop of men back to work. As they climbed back up the scaffolding, Mickey Dan asked Paddy Joe if he remembered the county final they had won together. All the men were shocked to hear Mickey Dan speak in this way. The older men remembered that he had been a brilliant footballer in his youth. He had even been spoken of as ‘the new Dermot Earley’. When he was just nineteen he sustained a serious injury on the playing fields, but there was no money to give him the treatment he required to restore his silken skills. Within moments, the church roof was a hive of activity and conversation.
As somebody shared the story of the time when a stray cat broke into Tony Lee’s shed on Christmas Eve and ate his lovely goose hanging on the back door, Mickey Dan burst into laughter. Like a volcano that had been waiting to erupt for years, his laughter seemed to go on and on like a transatlantic ocean-liner.
Just as darkness fell, the roof was finally finished. With all hands on deck, the scaffolding was soon dismantled and carefully placed back on the trailer. Then Mickey Dan did the unthinkable. He gave Paddy Joe a hug. Soon all the men in the parish were hugging each other without embarrassment.
On a car radio the velvety voice of David Essex was crooning about a winter’s tale.
At Midnight Mass, everyone’s favourite priest Fr. John unexpectedly did the honours. The parish church had been packed to overflowing and the atmosphere was slightly tense, as people jockeyed for the best places. The Reverend Mother’s face was pale and waxy. She spoke in a voice that a peculiarly booming quality. She was clutching her arm almost desperately, but she was more interested in nodding greetings to the people she knew as she came out of the church. Sr. Mary, though, had that special knack of making everyone feel better about themselves as she shook everyone’s hand.
The clear consensus was that it was the nicest Mass ever. Then it was time for the Christmas fundraiser: for Deirdre Lynch’s wonderful ‘Not So Different’ charity which was bigger and better than ever, not least because Yvonne O’Rourke had a slice of her celebrated Christmas cake for everyone. She could do a miracle with marzipan and icing. As a consequence, each mouthful tasted like the eighth wonder of the world.
As always, Mickey Dan was the last to enter the parish hall. But this time was different. Everyone gave him a standing ovation. Somebody shouted out that Mickey Dan had had a lovely singing voice in school. A hush descended when he was prevailed on to sing. The entire gathering stood in wonder as he sang a rendition of ‘When a Child Is Born’ that even Johnny Mathis himself would have been proud of. The applause for him afterwards was louder than for the winner of the Eurovision Song Contest.
That was the last time anyone ever described him as ‘the man with the turned-down wellingtons’. That night Mickey Dan cycled home happily whistling, ‘Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go?’
From that day to his last day, Mickey was known as ‘the man who saved Christmas’.
The Little Drummer Boy
Once upon a time about two thousand years ago there was a couple who were very much in love. The man’s name was Joseph and his wife was Mary.
They travelled from Nazareth to Bethlehem for the census. It was a difficult journey made all the more challenging because Mary was nine months pregnant and was due to give birth at any moment. When they got to Bethlehem, there was no room for them in the inn so they had to seek shelter in a damp, dusty street corner. It was not long before Mary fell into a deep sleep. Joseph took the opportunity to slip out into the night air. On the way to the stable he had noticed Bethlehem’s only shop. It was run by Katy Kindheart, who was known as the kindest woman in the kingdom. When Katy heard that Mary and Joseph had no room in the inn she offered them her stable.
Shortly after they got to the stable, Mary started moaning. A few minutes later, Mary’s boy child was born and they called him Jesus.
An angel appeared from heaven and announced the birth of the baby with soft, sweet music that somehow could be heard throughout the whole kingdom.
Within minutes, shepherds and their wives came and brought beautiful gifts to the new baby. It was around then that Katy Kindheart decided to visit the stable. By now it was hard to see her way. Not a star was to be seen. It was bitterly cold. Only a purring cat shattered the spell of silence. Katy’s breath was coming out on to the cold air like puffs of steam from a kettle.
Even before she got to the door, Katy could hear the new baby crying. She saw a few men rushing in before them in a state of great excitement. Some of them were carrying armfuls of nice, clean straw.
Katy walked in and peeped out from behind one of the big men to see Mary holding her new baby and no woman could look happier. A lot of happy visitors were circling the happy couple like a swarm of bees. Outside, children’s screams pierced the air. The late-comers frantically scampered up to the door, slipping red-faced into a corner at the back, briefly disturbing the hushed stillness. Men in heavy cloaks shuffled nervously, whispering about the price of sheep over the talk about the new baby. Women in their best coats held their heads high.
Katy heard one of the shepherds whispering: ‘Then it is true. About an hour ago, an angel appeared to us as we sat around our campfire. We were tired from looking after our sheep all day and very cold, so we had been drinking whiskey to keep us warm. The first thing the angel said was: “Be not afraid.” But we were terrified! Really, I mean it. We were sacred out of our wits!
‘Then the angel said a second time: “Be not afraid.” And once again we were terrified! The angel went on to say: “Tonight a child is born who will save the world.” Just when we thought things could get no stranger, the angel started singing: ‘‘Glory to God in the highest and peace to all people on earth. Listen now and hear what I have to say. All children will live for evermore because of Christmas Day.”’
Katy was joined by her tiny son, Luke, with his drum and he said to Mary: ‘I would love to offer the Christ child gold and silver but my simple gift is my music. This is all I can give you.’
He played a piece so beautiful that a hush descended in the stable. Luke’s drum gave the sweetest music that Joseph and Mary had ever heard.
The baby Jesus gave his first ever smile to Luke. Then he reached out his tiny hand and touched the drum.
The First Christmas Miracle
Once upon a time, about two thousand years ago, there lived a boy called Tadhg. One morning he had been moving home a big bowl of water. It was much too heavy really, for a boy like himself, but he always did what he was told. He had almost made the mile and a half home when he lost his balance and the bowl crashed on to the ground, smashing into a hundred tiny pieces. He knew immediately that this meant big, big trouble from his father.
Tadhg decided he would run away. He ran and ran until he got very tired. By now, it was very dark. He reached the local small town of Bethlehem which, unusually, was full with people. Tadhg was scared by all the noise and started to cry. A kindly old shopkeeper saw him and gave him some apples and oranges. Tadhg was overjoyed and went to find a quiet place to enjoy this feast.
Just as he was sitting down outside a stable, he heard some shadowy figures come out from the darkness. Tadhg was upset when he heard the woman moaning in pain and holding her stomach. That poor creature must be very hungry, thought Tadhg. Without thinking he brought over all the apples and oranges to the couple. They thanked him warmly and then the man helped the woman into the stable and lay her down on a bed of straw.
Suddenly Tadhg felt a great sense of peace sweep over him and he decided he would return home. He was halfway home when he met three beautiful women, with dark skin and wavy air, in magnificent robes on camels. They were carrying what looked like very expensive presents.
‘Young boy do you know where the new king was born tonight?’ one asked.
‘I’m afraid I know nothing about that, ladies, but there was a lot going on in Bethlehem this evening.’
‘Please tell us what you saw,’ said one of the women. ‘My name is Ruth, by the way, and this is Roberta and Rachel.’
While Tadhg told them everything that had happened to him, the three women listened very carefully. When he had finished Ruth asked, ‘I know you are very tired, but would you be kind enough to take us to see that woman in the stable?’
Quick as a flash, Ruth stretched out her long arm and pulled Tadhg up beside her on her camel. Even before they got to the door, Tadhg could hear a baby crying. Where did that baby come from? he thought to himself.
Then the three women presented gifts to Mary.
Roberta went first and she gave the new mother a basket of lovely soaps and oils and face-cloths, as well as the tiniest clothes anybody had ever seen in Bethlehem.
Next came Rachel and she presented Mary with a beautiful silk nightdress and dressing-gown.
Finally, Ruth opened the wrapping paper off a bulky object. Mary’s eyes nearly fell out of her head when Ruth calmly put a magnificent crib on the strawy floor and placed the baby in it and wrapped his blanket around him.
Tadhg felt bad that he had no gift for the baby. He quietly slipped outside. Young though he was, he knew that it was not the value of the gift that matters, but the spirit in which it is given. He went out to the woods and got a tiny holly tree and dug it up with his hands. It was a poor little thing without a single berry on it, but Tadhg carried the offering to the stable. When he walked back in, the shepherds started laughing at his miserable-looking plant.
Tadhg knelt down before the baby’s crib and, in a shaking voice, he said, ‘Dear little child, I’m sorry I could not give a beautiful present. The little holly tree was the best I could find, and I give it to you. I always give of my best.’
As soon as Tadhg had finished speaking, a great hush fell upon the stable, for a wonderful thing had happened before their eyes. The colourless little holly tree had become covered with a mass of glowing red berries. It was the first Christmas miracle.
Christmas Guests
Niamh’s Christmas dinner was a very simple one of eggs, hot cocoa, biscuits and butter.
Tears came to her eyes, not for the first time that day, as she thought of her late husband. How quickly those marvellous months melted away when they were so happily married.
Niamh woke from her afternoon slumber with a start. A crashing sound boomed through the still air. Somebody was knocking at the door. Niamh’s heartbeat accelerated; nobody ever came to see her anymore, but last night she had the strangest dream that the Lord himself would visit her on His birthday. Niamh herself had been born on Christmas day seventy years ago. Her face fell when she saw a shabby old beggar standing on the doorstep. What a foolish old woman I am becoming she thought to herself. The stranger’s clothes were ragged and threadbare and his shoes were badly worn out. Niamh brought him inside, sat him beside the fire, gave him a mug of steaming tea and went off to look for her late husband’s old coat and boots. They fitted the stranger perfectly. With tears in his eyes, the old man bade farewell.
Niamh started to tidy up. Within moments, through the clear frosty air, there came a faint knock. This time it was a bent old woman. She had curly white hair, a very haggard face, brown eyes and a sad smile. ‘Could you give me some money and God bless you, ma’am?’
Niamh shook her head regretfully. ‘Come in anyway!’
The old woman sat beside the fire while Niamh made her some hot tomato soup and gave her two slices of brown bread. The woman looked at the ‘feast’ with delight and savoured every mouthful. Then after a short chat, she left warm and contented.
Niamh thought how strange it was that she should be visited by two strangers in such a remote place. An hour and a half later, there was another knock. This time it was a beautiful, slim, pale-faced young woman. ‘I’m really sorry to trouble you but would you mind if I came in and sat down for a few minutes because I think I have twisted my ankle?’ she asked. Niamh bathed the ankle and bandaged it expertly to prevent any swelling. The young woman thanked her sincerely and Niamh walked her to the door and they exchanged goodbyes.
Niamh shut the door and went back inside. What an extraordinary Christmas day it had been! Suddenly she walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up an old book. It was covered in a sheet of dust. After a short search, she found the lines she was looking for:
For I was a stranger and you gave me welcome,
I was naked and you gave me clothes,
I was hungry and thirsty and you gave me food and drink,
I was in pain and you gave me comfort.
A sudden twinkle came back into Niamh’s eyes. Dreams come true after all!
So This Is Christmas
At school we learned many favourite Christmas stories. One was the story of how Christmas brought a stop to war when the fierce and bloody First World War came to a halt on the day of Christ’s birth in one corner of the Western Front. The Germans waved and called out; speaking in simple French, holding out cigars, they asked for English jam in return. ‘Stille Nacht’ and ‘Silent Night’ rang out on different sides.
Adam’s Christmas Prayer
It was Christmas Eve and Adam Golden knelt down at the side of his bed to say his prayers. After he said his normal prayers, he added one of his own. ‘Please God, make Christmas come for Daddy this year.’
Adam was five years old. He loved his father very much, because he was such a good man. He was also very kind and gentle. One day he brought Adam for a walk in the country. Suddenly Adam shouted, ‘Daddy, Daddy, stop! stop! There’s a kitten back there on the side of the road!’
Mr Golden said, ‘So, there’s a kitten on the side of the road. We’re out for a walk.’
‘But, Daddy, you must stop and pick it up.’
‘I don’t have to stop and pick it up.’
‘But, Daddy, if you don’t it will die.’
‘Well, then it will have to die. We don’t have room for another animal. We already have a dog at our house and a cow in our barn. No more animals.’
‘But, Daddy, are you just going to let it die?’
‘Be quiet, Adam. We’re just going to have a nice walk.’
‘I never thought my daddy would be so mean and cruel as to let a kitten die.’
At that moment his father turned around, returned to the spot at the side of the road. He bent down to pick up the kitten. The poor creature was just skin and bones, but when Adam’s dad reached down to pick it up, with its last energy the kitten bared his teeth and claws. Ssst! Sssst went the cat. Adam’s dad picked up the kitten and brought it back to the car and said to Adam, ‘Don’t touch, it’s probably full of disease.’
When they got home, they gave the kitten several baths, about a pint of milk, and Adam begged, ‘Can we let it stay in the house just tonight? Tomorrow we’ll fix a place in the shed.’
His father said, ‘Okay.’
Adam watched quietly in the corner as his father fixed a comfortable bed, fit for a prince.
He called their new pet Rex. He loved Rex, but his father didn’t. Several weeks passed. Then one day his father walked into the house and felt something rub against his leg. He looked down and there was Rex. He reached down towards Rex, carefully checking to see that Adam wasn’t watching. When Rex saw his hand, it did not bare its claws and hiss. Instead it began to lick Adam’s father’s fingers. From that day on, he became every bit as fond of Rex as Adam.
Every morning, Mr Golden put a grain of sugar on Adam’s tongue and another on the top of both his ears. He thought that if he did that, it would help Adam say nothing but nice, sweet words all day and hear nothing but good news and kind words all day.
At night he would put a grain of sugar on Adam’s head so that he would have sweet dreams. Then he put a grain of sugar on his eyebrows so that the last thing he would see before he went to sleep and the first thing he would see when he woke up was something nice.
Adam found it very sad that his father refused to believe in Christmas. Mr Golden was a very successful businessman who treated all those who worked for him very well indeed. He was used to dealing with money and things he could buy and sell. He had no faith in all that nonsense which Christians celebrate at Christmas: the idea of God becoming human was too far-fetched to be seriously considered by any thinking person.
He kissed his wife on the cheek as she headed out to church for the midnight service. As she drove off in the car, snowflakes began to fall, timidly at first, then gathering momentum as the shyness appeared to wear off them.
At that moment, he heard a strange sound coming from the side of the house. Three little birds had been frightened by the sudden heavy snowfall and in their panic had sought to find shelter by flying through the sitting-room window. It wouldn’t be right to leave these poor little creatures out here in the freezing cold, Mr Golden thought. He decided that he would put them into the bicycle shed at the bottom of the garden, where they would be dry and warm. He put on his coat and his big boots and marched through the deafening snow to the shed. He opened the door wide and turned on the light. But he could not persuade them to come into the shed.
Then he got a brainwave. Food will tempt them in, he thought. He rushed back to the house, stumbling a few times on the way in the blanket of snow. In the kitchen he got a few slices of bread and chopped them up into tiny pieces, which he sprinkled on the snow to make a trail into the barn. However, the birds paid no attention to the crumbs and remained in the exact same spot. He tried to direct them into the shed by walking around and waving his arms and shouting at the top of his voice. They scattered in every direction except into the lighted shed. ‘They must find me a weird and frightening creature; there is no way I can make them trust me,’ he said to himself. ‘If only I could become a bird myself for a few minutes, then I could lead them to safety.’
At that very moment, the church bells began ringing. He raised up his hands to heaven. ‘Now I know why’, he whispered. ‘Now I realise why You had to do it.’
The following morning, Adam listened attentively as the preacher gave his Christmas sermon.
He said: ‘The simple truth of Christmas is that God sent his only son to become human like us, so that we might be saved.’
Adam looked up at his father, who was sitting beside him. He winked back at him. Adam smiled to himself and thanked God for answering his Christmas prayer.
Home Thoughts from Abroad
Christmas came early for me last year. By that I don’t mean when the first Christmas stores opened in July or when the advertisements for Christmas parties first started on the radio in August. Instead it came when I visited Kenya.
On a sweltering hot day, I found myself in Kibera, the second biggest slum in the world. In Kenya, rural to urban migration is responsible for the high unemployment and the increased development of informal housing on the outskirts of the city of Nairobi. The cost of education, housing and healthcare is rising. Many children have no alternative but to roam the streets, exposed to crime, violence, drugs and prostitution. Some sixty thousand children (one in six being HIV positive) live on the streets of Kenya’s capital city.
In Kibera, there are over two million dwellers in the slum. There, the key words in the Christmas story ‘there was no room in the inn’, hit me with the force of a punch in the stomach. The hardest thing emotionally was to see the many neglected children with no hope of ever gaining a proper job. Theirs is a lost childhood and their only hope is for someone to give them the opportunity to go to school.
Yet I did not come away depressed. In his song ‘Anthem’ Leonard Cohen wrote about how the crack in anything is what will let the light in. In this place of abject, back-breaking, gut-wrenching neglect, the nuns I saw working there were cracks to let the light in. The code of their humanity was that not even great deprivation can shackle the human spirit.
The nuns in Kibera make it their life’s mission to care for the plight of Kenya’s forgotten children and to provide them with all those basic needs in life which we all take for granted; food and water, clothing, shelter, healthcare and education. My one regret is those media commentators who are so dismissive of the place of the Church in today’s world did not get the opportunity to see the nuns’ work at first hand.
From the outset, Jesus publicly aligned himself with the poor and the outcasts. Jesus formulated an alternative model of society. Our search for the face of Christ cannot be authentic until we honestly confront the social structures that, for example, cause parents to feel that there is no option for them but to reluctantly send their children into hostel accommodation. It is surely a damning indictment of us all that over three thousand Irish children this Christmas will be caught up in the ghastly nightmare of homelessness.
That is why the Christmas story is so important, because it takes us back to the birth in a stable of a baby for whom ‘there was no room in the inn’. Rather than bemoan the two-tier society of the ‘have yachts and the have nots’ Christmas is a challenge to each of us to take practical action to live in solidarity with, in particular, the most vulnerable sectors of our society. St James in his letter (1:27) reminds us that ‘authentic religion’ is taking care of widows and orphans.
The Gospel tells us the story of the rich young man, a good young man, a young man who had kept all the commandments from his youth, whom, nevertheless, could not become a follower of Jesus, could not be admitted to the early Christian community, because his unwillingness to share what he had for the sake of those in need was a contradiction to everything that Jesus lived and preached.
The baby in the stable calls for decisive measures in word and deed. An ounce of action is worth a ton of theory. My visit to Kibera, Kenya, was a clarion call to me that the best way I can celebrate Christmas this year is by reaching out in concrete ways to those who are finding no room for them in the inn.