Gaius sighed wearily. Outside the air was fresher. In the room he had just left the voices were loud. The night air muted the sound. Lights flickered in the windows of rooms opening onto the court. But the clear stars were not dimmed. He thought of the mountains where the air would be fresher still, cooler, sharper. Sitting in the quiet of the hills with the warmth of the dying fire would make a man content. He sighed again. Perhaps someday he could afford a manager, and, then, time with the pastured flocks and nights under the stars.
A pounding on the heavy door brought him back to his present responsibilities. As the pounding continued he called out, “Yes, I’m coming.” But he did not hurry. The place was full anyway. This census business was beginning to tire him. A full house had its financial advantages, but demands of it week after week seemed more than it was worth. The help grumbled with overwork. He had not had a single afternoon in over a month to get away from the city and into the hills. A man had to have time alone, to relax, to renew himself with the energy of the earth through his feet. No, the Roman census with the increased business it brought was no blessing to him.
He opened the small window in the door. There were six men on horseback. Immediately a voice commanded, “You. Be quick. Open the door.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Gaius answered, ignoring the order, “we don’t have a single room. Even the chair by our fire has been claimed.”
“Let us in. There must be room somewhere. We can’t stay in the streets.”
Gaius should have left the door firmly shut. He knew that. But it wouldn’t be safe for anyone to wander the streets this late. He hesitated, and was lost, though he began, “Have you tried …”
“We’ve tried everywhere,” cut in the impatient speaker. “Let us into your courtyard, if nowhere else.”
Gaius unbarred the door, but he stood in the doorway regarding the group. Three of the men looked as though they might be of some importance. The other three he took for slaves. The speaker dismounted and made to enter around Gaius. The innkeeper still hesitated and then turned to lead the men into the court. How could he leave them to the streets all night? he argued with himself.
Indicating a corner of the yard where they could sleep, he led the slaves and their horses to the stables. The smell of the warm beasts and the heavy scent of fresh hay greeted him. Contentment seeped into him as he helped the slaves settle the horses in. Animals seldom had trouble making room for more, he mused.
He lingered in the stable. Here was a society he loved. The years as an innkeeper slipped away. He was a boy—tagging along with his uncle to the pastures, unaware as yet of the complexities of the world of adult responsibility. All there was for him was the hills; the hills where he came to know the stupidity of sheep and the danger from a hungry predator; the hills of fierce storms and whims of wind that shoved clouds about the burning sky. Sitting beside a pool pulling brambles from a sheep’s coat, or gazing at the sun sinking below the horizon—there he had known satisfaction. That was his real life: hours of solitude, days of reflection. Sheep were only animals, but they were capable of showing affection. Their nuzzles of appreciation were better payment than the silver paid for a night’s lodging. The greedy hunger of a new lamb at its mother’s tits had made him happy as he watched. He could still feel the pressure of the orphan lamb he had spoiled and petted, insistent against his leg for attention. And he had never forgotten the shock and sickness he felt when he came across a half-eaten carcass the first time. The blood had been so red against the white wool. Such was the violence of the hills, but it was part of the whole scheme of being—of living and dying. He had felt at home in the mountains and the cycles of their years.
What strange things chart a man’s destiny. Marrying Suzanne, confident he could forget his Roman patrimony and the problems that caused with his Jewish grandparents, forget the harsh sound of soldiers’ feet on the cobbled streets, forget the tiring rush of the city. A shepherd forever, until the sudden death of Suzanne’s father, and in a single night his life was redrawn. He and Suzanne moved into the life her father, and his father had followed. Only occasionally was he bitter, less so as the years passed; but the longing for the life of the hills never left him.
He heard a commotion in the courtyard. Sighing again, he turned from his reverie and became innkeeper again. The voices were muffled, but he could hear a tentative knocking over the growls of the men in the yard. Gaius hated turning people away more than the fatigue of serving their needs. People weren’t able to take care of themselves in the streets in these times. The luxuries of civilization exacted their price. When the three men saw him, they eased their grumbles and turned to the wall. The knocking, to his aggravation, continued.
Gaius crossed the court and opened the window. Peering out he saw two figures, a taller one supporting someone bent over. Cautiously he unbarred the door. If this were a ruse there were enough strong arms at hand to stop any robbers.
“How can I help you? I haven’t a room left in the place. There are people sleeping here in the yard.” Then he added apologetically, “The census, you know.”
“Yes, the census.” The voice hinted of great weariness, but it was controlled. “If you could let us even stay in the courtyard for the night.”
The bent figure—it was a woman, Gaius could see now, a young woman—sagged against the man. He strengthened his support as he said, “My wife. She is about to give birth. There is no room anywhere. Even your court …”
Gaius opened the door wide. “Step in here, please.” He took the woman’s arm. She felt tense, as if struggling to bear her pain in silence. “The stable will be protected and warm. It is clean. Come. This way.”
With the gentleness of a lover, Gaius guided the lady to the stable. The slaves started to attention when they entered, but seeing it was only the innkeeper, they returned to their sleeping positions near their masters’ horses. Toward one corner was an empty stall, unused but laid with fresh bedding. As soon as the lady was seated, Gaius became the solicitous host.
“Rest here. I’ll return shortly with some blankets and food.” He turned away as the young woman bent over to suppress a moan.
He hurried across the court, stopping to bar the door. The sky was clear and brilliant with stars. In the kitchen he roused Anna, the serving girl, to prepare a cold supper of cheese and bread and wine. Then he went to his own rooms.
As he entered, the soft light of a night lamp cast mellow colors on the face of Suzanne. He paused in the doorway. Seeing her lying there in the unguarded trust of sleep, he knew she was worth this life. His love reached out and held her. Her hair was dark against the bedclothes. They rose and fell just perceptibly with her slow breathing. In the muted light he could imagine her as she looked the night after their wedding. He warmed to her, his beautiful Suzanne. He went to the bed and kissed her closed eyes. She stirred and almost woke. “Suzanne.”
Oh—gaius.” She smiled through her sleep and caressed him with her eyes. Then she was fully awake and sitting up. “Is anything wrong?”
“No, just more people.” Before she could reply he hurried on, “But one is a woman, already with the pains of childbirth. She may need your help.” “Where is she? We don’t have a corner left.” “I’ve put them in the stable. It’s warm and …”
“The stable! Why we must let them have this room.”
“No, Suzanne. This room will not be taken for any guests. The stable is a fine place. It’s warm and clean and quiet. We can make her comfortable in the straw.”
Suzanne was already dressing. “I’ll take care of the mother. Have you seen to food and light and …”
“Go to the woman, my love. I’ll look to the other matters.” He took her in his arms. Neither of them was young, but he held her as he had years ago, and the strength of their life together made the years as nothing. She was a good midwife. The woman could have no better help.
Gaius gathered pillows and blankets. He met Anna and told her to bring lights first and then to serve the supper in the stable. He led the way across the court. The sleeping figures did not stir.
Suzanne was bent over the woman talking in low tones. The man stood nearby. He turned to Gaius as the innkeeper approached. “This is very good of you and your wife.” The voice was strong but not loud, and Gaius thought he recognized a northern accent.
The innkeeper busily made a pallet of sweet-smelling straw. His wife helped the woman to it. Then he made a bed at a little distance for the man. Anna had returned with food. Gaius served the man, whose eating seemed more out of politeness than hunger. Gaius dismissed the girl with a word to return in an hour.
Child-bearing could take time. He prepared himself for a long night. He glanced at the women. They exchanged whispers. How beautiful my wife is, he thought, bending over that young girl with the confidence and strength of her maturity. No, he thought again, the woman could find no better midwife, even in a palace.
He turned his attention to the man. “Your wife will be fine. It’s only too bad the census had to be taken at such a time for her. But Rome doesn’t wait for the birth of one child. I dare say, not even for an emperor’s child. You are from Galilee?”
“Yes, from Nazareth. But it is right that the child be born here in Bethlehem.”
“Bethlehem is a good place. Home of kings. My Suzanne’s family have lived here for a long time. They are of the house of David, as is my mother’s family. You’re here for the census, aren’t you?”
“Yes, my wife and I are both descendants of David.”
“What work is it that your son—I’m sure it will be a son—will inherit? By the look of your young wife, this must be her first child.”
“I am a carpenter. And, yes, this is Mary’s first child.” He looked to where his wife was reclining.
Gaius was impressed with this younger man’s self-possession at the birth of his first child. He seemed to have a sureness beyond his years: not arrogance, but a comfortable maturity. The two men grew silent, each caught away in his own thoughts.
Gaius was again in the hills. The sheep would look like grey rocks on the dark hills. The sky would make him aware of his smallness in the great universe. The companionship of the other shepherds would give him peace in the fire and the human contact they would share.
He thought of his uncle, his mother’s brother, who had taken them into his home when his Roman father had gone down with his ship. Belonging to two worlds had its advantages. But somehow, at bottom, he had felt neither Roman nor Jewish. In the cities it sometimes mattered. But never in the hills. And having been once to Rome as a small child with his father, he did not desire the unending stone and constant noise of the bad-smelling cities. Someday … someday.
He was brought back to the present by a moan. The woman Mary was obviously in labor. Suzanne was quiet and efficient in her ministration and encouragement.
Gaius turned to the carpenter. “Let’s go outside for awhile.”
Reluctantly the man turned and followed Gaius. They stood in the courtyard. It was after midnight and the world was incredibly silent. The stillness felt kinetic, as if a great power held the universe quiet. Time seemed suspended.
Then Suzanne was at his side. “Please, waken Martha and have her come to assist me.” She turned to the other man. “Joseph, your son will soon be here. Wait here in the court, until you hear his first cry.” She squeezed his arm and then smiled at Gaius before returning to the stable.
Gaius went to the kitchen. The serving girl was sleeping. He roused her to waken Martha, and ordered her to go herself also to aid his wife. Then he returned to his vigil with the man Joseph.
The stars moved west. The silent world slept on. Finally, suddenly, a cry broke the stillness. Joseph turned to the stable door, but did not move toward it. Gaius clapped his shoulders and smiled. “That sounded like a healthy cry. Shall we go see your new son?” And he suddenly realized that everyone had spoken all night as if there had been no doubt that the child would be a son. He smiled ruefully to himself and led the new father to his family.
The dawn showed in the east. Birds had been calling for some time. Gaius, with Suzanne, was crossing the courtyard, which slept in dark shadows, when the knocking sounded. “Go on to bed. I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said to his wife.
He went to the door. “Who’s there?”
“Gaius? It’s Andrew. We’ve come to see the child.”
“The child?” Gaius was busily unbarring and opening the door. “How did you know about the child? Come in. Come in, Andrew. Judah. Benjamin. Joshua. It’s good to see you. But how did you know about the child?”
“Gaius, you won’t believe this, but tonight a messenger from God appeared to us in the hills. He told us that the Messiah had been born here in Bethlehem. He said as a sign we would find the Saviour sleeping in a manger. Your inn just seemed like the place we were to come, seeing that we don’t know anyone else who would open their door to strangers, and shepherds at that, at this time of night. Do you have a newborn child here?”
But Gaius was hardly listening as he looked at his friends. Could it be that this child, born in his stable, was indeed the Messiah? Andrew was, of all men, the skeptic. He obeyed the laws as was his religious duty, but with little enthusiasm or devotion. If any man would be careful in ascribing to messengers a supernatural origin, it would be Andrew. And then—with a stab of jealousy—why should he have missed it? If he had not been here, wouldn’t he have been with them? Had he not been here, perhaps the child would have been born in another place, and the messenger would have come to other shepherds. Why shepherds? Why his friends? Why his inn?
Whatever might have been he would never know. But that he had been at his work when the couple came to the door had given him a privilege of service no one could have asked for.
Mutely he led them to the stable. There, by the light of the lamp, they could see Mary as she lay in Joseph’s arms. She seemed at such peace, sleeping after her ordeal. Joseph put his finger to his lips. In the manger the baby’s face could just be seen peeking from the swaddling clothes. Although he was quiet, his eyes were open.
Good Friday Thoughts on Christmas
Betrayal, trial ,
A friend’s denial ,
And birth leads to a cross.
Frankincense, myrrh ,
Bright gold, warm fur ,
Are in the end but dross.
Manger and star ,
Wise men from far ,
And great joy unrestrained;
A birth indeed ,
But in that seed
The ending was contained.
He came to die
On cross hung high ,
His love for man to show.
Did babe foresee
The nails, the tree
Where kings would not bow low?
JAMES A. HOUCK
The shepherds stood a little distance from the family. Mary stirred, opened her eyes, and smiled a welcome to the men.
“We were sent by an angel.” It was Andrew, but an Andrew held by awe. “Is this truly our Messiah?”
Mary looked into Joseph’s face. The carpenter nodded assent. “Yes,” he said. “His name is Jesus.”
There was a noise of people awakening in the courtyard. Gaius turned from the stall and went out into the growing light of the morning. He nodded to his guests who had slept in the stony court. He passed through the kitchen and left orders with Anna to see that the morning service was completed. Then he went to his bedroom.
Suzanne lay awake, waiting for him. He undressed and lay down beside her. He still did not speak, but he took her in his arms with great gentleness and reverence.
She nestled her face in his chest. Then she said, “He is a beautiful boy. He will make a fine, strong man.”
“Did you know they say he is the Messiah?” His voice came as from a long way off.
“Mary told me. It’s a very strange story. It is almost too much to believe, but somehow I do believe it.”
“An angel came and told Andrew and the others about him.” He could feel her surprise in his arms. “They are with them now.”
There was a time of silence, and the comfort of their love was around them.
Then, very softly, Suzanne asked, “Gaius, are you sorry you were not in the fields with them?”
He was silent, full of wonder at her love that knew his most hidden thoughts. His arms tightened around her. With his chin he caressed her hair. Lightly he kissed her eyes, and finally said, “No, my love. If we should be allowed to make a place for the Lord to be born, it is enough. Today we will move them into the inn. But surely it will not be a finer place than the room you made for them in our stable.”
G. Douglas Young is founder and president of the Institute of Holy Land Studies in Jerusalem. He has lived there since 1963.
