Lo, in the silent night
A child to God is born
And all is brought again
That e’er was lost or lorn.
Could but thy soul, O man,
Become a silent night!
God would be born in thee
And set all things aright.
I love the wonder of this night. Surrounded by deep darkness we gather to welcome the light of Christ, we know in our hearts that all is well, and we want to hold on to that knowledge – but how?
The mystics insist that the heart must be the very place where Christ is born. Silesius, whose verses I just quoted, longs for the human soul to become a silent night. Another mystic compared the human heart to a smelly stable where we keep the manger well-filled to feed the ox of selfishness and the ass of prejudice. Christ must be born in that stable, between ox and ass, so that our selfishness and prejudice finally surrender to divine love.
I’m not much of a mystic, but I love to imagine the newborn Jesus surrounded not only by poor shepherds, a handful of wealthy foreigners, and all kinds of other people, but also by animals. They help me remember that the whole creation is longing for redemption; that salvation is not a private human enterprise, but God’s will for all God has created.
So to me, the stable on Christmas looks like a combination of Noah’s ark and O’Hare airport when all flights have been cancelled. It’s crowded, smelly, and noisy – but all is calm. No frantic travelers, no irritated airline representatives, no fussing, no fighting, no complaining. There is peace, a peace the world hadn’t known since the seventh day of creation – and it’s because of this child. The ox and ass are there; camels and sheep; over in the corner you can see the wolf and the lamb, the leopard lying down with the kid, and you notice the lion standing next to the ox, both eating sweet, fragrant hay. Doves and hawks are chatting with each other, and the bald eagle is taking a nap, safe and secure from all alarms.
Last Wednesday night, Carolyn gave her annual Christmas concert, and during one of her songs she suddenly stopped and apologized. We didn’t know if she couldn’t read the words to her song due to the dimmed light, or if it was just a slip of the tongue, but instead of ox she had sung, fox.
She was probably the only one who noticed, but I’m glad she pointed it out to us. The fox really belongs in the picture, and someone should write a song about the fox in the stable.
In Luke 13, about half-way between the birth of Christ in Bethlehem and his arrival in Jerusalem, some Pharisees come to Jesus to warn him, “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.”
And you know what Jesus tells them?
“Go and tell that fox that I’m on my way!”
The fox is in the stable. It’s like somebody just hung a crucifix right above the manger. The fox is the ominous messenger from Jerusalem. He connects the beautiful silence of this night with the darkness of Good Friday. We may feel tempted to tell him to get lost, but that’s the difference between our ways and God’s.
The fox isn’t here to ruin our holiday cheer. All his life, the little fox has dreamed of being the big, bad wolf, but now he lies stretched out on his back next to the manger, and Mary is rubbing his belly. The peace of the kingdom that is ushered in this night is complete – it includes all the enemies of God. The love of God has brought to an end the reign of sin, and all creation will know the peace of the seventh day. We know in our heart that all will be well as often as we break the bread and drink the cup in remembrance of Jesus Christ.
Lo, in the silent night
A child to God is born
And all is brought again
That e’er was lost or lorn.