The celebration of the Baptism of Our Lord had already passed, meaning Christmas was officially over, but the town was still festooned with Christmas trees and lights. The air was slightly chilly, but not incredibly so. It was the Middle East after all. My tour group had traveled to the West Bank by bus that day. And after enjoying a delicious lunch of salads in a small restaurant, we entered Bethlehem’s narrow, hilly streets.
We soon pulled up to the Church of the Nativity, which tradition tells us is built on the site of Jesus’ birth. It is an impressive edifice, with its foundations dating to the fourth century. I was traveling with a group of seminarians, as well as others who were immersed in a two-week study tour in which we walked in the footsteps of Jesus. The course was being led by someone deeply influenced by the Jesus Seminar movement, which meant that he was concerned with the historical Jesus and therefore doubted the veracity of many of the traditional sites associated with Jesus in the Holy Land.
I and many others on the tour found this mildly frustrating, even though we knew that a large number of the holy sites could not be authenticated by archaeological, factual, or historical evidence. And for most of us, that was okay. It was, in fact, not really the point of these holy sites. But the leader of this tour had, sadly, disturbed the comfort zone of some people in our group, especially those with little scholarly study of the Bible. And I understood their disappointment. Sometimes, it’s better to revel in mystery rather than trying to look for proof. And I had come to encounter the mystery, not to wallow in skepticism.
When we entered the massive Church of the Nativity, we first had to wait in a long line. We patiently held reverence and anticipation as the line snaked its way slowly to the front of the church. At the east end of the church is the altar, which is located behind an iconostasis, a large, ornate screen, adding to the mystique of the place. And below this grand altar is a grotto chapel, where tradition holds that Jesus was born sometime around the year 4 B.C.
During the long wait my heart raced with excitement. I could feel on my skin and with each breath I took the centuries of prayer seeped into the walls of this church. It was simply overwhelming. It was impossible not to be touched inwardly by the crowds of people who, like me and my tour group, had journeyed to pay homage at this place.
Finally, I and a handful of people entered the tiny grotto space. We stooped to go through the small doorway, and then we waited yet again to revere the holiest spot in the church, and one of the holiest in the world.
There on the floor below the main altar in that small chapel was a fourteen-pointed silver star with a Latin inscription reading, “here Jesus Christ was born of the Virgin Mary.” I eventually took my turn in the line of people to place my head behind the curtains partially shielding the silver star. And I kissed the spot. My skin prickles thinking about it. Then, it was all over. I had to move on because a long line of other pilgrims still waited to venerate the supposed site of Jesus’ birth.
Throughout the rest of my trip in the Holy Land, I reflected on the sites we had visited. And I realized that neither I nor anyone else would ever really know the true history behind some of the holy sites, such as the Church of the Nativity. I was looking for a certainty that I could never, ever find. Others were, too. Some, like our tour guide, relished bursting the bubbles of other people’s certainties. But why? I admired the simple faith of those who did believe in the authenticity of the holy sites. And I admired the deep mystery of not knowing for sure, either.
In spite of my questions and lack of certitude, there was something that I knew for certain. And because I knew this one thing for sure, it didn’t matter to me whether I could prove the validity of holy sites with factual or historical information. The one thing I knew and treasured in my heart was that in some year, perhaps unknown to us, and in some historical place, which Scripture tells us was Bethlehem, Jesus Christ was born. This we know. God entered the human condition. God seeped his way into earthly existence so intimately that he got under our skin. And he touched us. And that, for me, is all that matters, because it is everything.
When St. John unfolds the wondrous Prologue of his Gospel, he takes us to the beginning, although there really is no beginning with God. And there, with echoes of the Book of Genesis, we find the pre-existent Word of God, waiting until that Word would become flesh and get under our skin. I found the anticipation and fulfillment in John’s words echoed in the long line leading to the grotto at the Church of the Nativity, waiting, suspensefully and hopefully, to confront a mystery in the flesh. And then, God comes among us and gets under our skin.
For the thirteen verses that open his Gospel, John spins poetic, philosophical, and theological language in what seems to be vague terms. It goes on and on until we finally arrive at verse fourteen. We enter the grotto. And since we have probably heard this passage of Scripture many, many times, we know it is coming. And if you are like me, it never loses its power. When I read it or hear it, I literally get goosebumps, because I remember that it points us to what really matters: that God, in some historical year and historical place, came so close to us, that he got under our skin to touch us in the most intimate way imaginable. We stoop to enter the grotto, and we mirror God’s motion of stooping to get under our skin. We kiss the silver star. We hear John’s words: And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.
This is what matters. This we know for sure. This no skeptic can take away, because its power has enthralled the human race for a long, long time. Maybe you, like me, get goosebumps when you hear those words. It’s the bending down to kiss the star in the Church of the Nativity. It’s the prickly sensation we have when we suddenly understand that God has not remained aloof from us but has come to get under our skin so that we might become children of God.
I suspect that this Christmas, you, like I, have many, many questions. You may be seeking answers, too. With so much uncertainty around us, is it too much to ask for a little certainty? Don’t you at least want to know when this pandemic will end? Don’t you wonder whether we’ll be wearing masks again next Christmas? Wouldn’t you like some reassurance that everything will be okay, that all this illness and death will cease?
I don’t blame you for seeking those answers. I want them, too. I wish we could find them here today. But right now, our task is simply to celebrate a truth that may not answer all our questions but that rings with a profound certainty.
The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. This we know. God did not remain far off and distant. God got under our skin in a manner so intimate that we will never understand it. It’s the reason that every year at this time we metaphorically bend to kiss the silver star below the altar of the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. We don’t do it because we have all the facts about that place. We do it because the place is holy. We do it because generations of people have made their way there because they know with certainty that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, that God got under our skin.
Only such a certainty could give us goosebumps. Only such a certainty could bring you here today. Only such a certainty can give us the hope that we desperately seek and find in the mystery of worship: that the Light that once shined in the darkness, in a definite point in history still shines among us. And even in the midst of all our questions, we can know for sure that this Light will pierce our darkness again at a time and a place that we might not yet know. And in spite of our lingering questions and uncertainty, we know one thing more: this Light that got under our skin and illumines our darkness, will never, ever go out.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The First Sunday after Christmas
December 26, 2021