It was sometime during the Twelve Days of Christmas, and he was standing by the crèche, gazing adoringly at the sheep and the donkey and the ox. He was making cooing noises, admiring the cuteness of the animals as they reclined before the baby Jesus. He had found his way to the church in the middle of a bustling urban center. Truth be told, it was a home of sorts for him. To my knowledge, he had no other home, but he frequently showed up at the church for daily prayer and Mass.
He was a character, to say the least. He’d been known to wave a Mexican flag at the peace during Mass on Cinco de Mayo. At other times, he could be seen striding up to Communion, with large designer glasses on and a scarf wrapped luxuriously around his neck. He knew the church was his home, because on the day that he was beaten up on the streets, he headed straight for the church, where he was lovingly embraced by the parish priest. The church may have been the only place on earth where he felt loved.
As he stood before the crèche on one of those Twelve Days of Christmas, admiring the animals in the nativity scene, he turned to my friend and asked, “Do you think the animals knew it was the baby Jesus?” Now, that’s a theological question if I ever heard one. It’s a question that most of us would be too embarrassed to ask. We don’t often think of the animals in the manger as having so much sentience. To be honest, no one really knows how the sheep, the donkey, and the ox came to be associated with the nativity scene. The Gospels say nothing about them at the manger. The sheep, we could reason, found their way there with the shepherds. But the donkey and the ox? Who knows? And yet, it would be an anathema to have a crèche without them.
Tradition tells us that these animals were introduced into the nativity scene because of a mysterious line at the beginning of the book of Isaiah. The prophet Isaiah says that “the ox knows its owner, and the donkey its master’s crib; but Israel does not know, my people do not understand.” This is Isaiah’s prophetic judgment on our spiritual ancestors. He sharply suggests that, despite God’s gracious care, his people were so stubborn and willful that even an ox and a donkey would have a better sense of obedience. We might say the same of ourselves. An ox recognizes the feel of its owner’s pull on a halter, as well as the standard verbal commands. A donkey must sense the pressure on his back as its owner leads it where it should go. A cow clearly knows where the feeding trough is. Even Scripture tells us that the sheep will answer to the voice of the good shepherd. But many of us refuse to follow the lead of our true Master, nor do we really understand who’s leading us at times.
Animals know sometimes. They just know. They have a sense that someone can be trusted. They know where food is. They know where home is. My father-in-law recently told me a story about a dog he had when he was young. One day my father-in-law, his brother, and mother went over to the site of their future home in the town where they lived. And the dog went with them. But when they opened the car door, the dog jumped out and ran away.
They searched and searched for a couple of hours, but to no avail. They couldn’t find the dog, and so they eventually started home, worried about where he was. But when they arrived back home, several miles from where they’d been searching for him, the dog was already there, sitting patiently outside the house. For whatever reason the dog ran away, he knew where home was, and he found his way back there.
So, I wonder: did the ox and the donkey and the sheep know that it was the baby Jesus? We’ll never know, of course. But they did know where home was. The donkey knew the stable as his home. The ox knew it, too. And the sheep must have followed the shepherds, because wherever the shepherds were present to protect them, it must have been home to them.
That urban church of which I was a member years ago was also home to a restless soul who asked my friend a rather perceptive theological question. He knew that the church was home, where Jesus was always enthroned in the tabernacle on the altar. He knew that it wasn’t silly to query whether the animals at the manger knew it was the baby Jesus, because they at least knew where home was, through obedience and familiarity. And that sense of knowing is too often lost on us, however advanced we might be on the evolutionary scale. Maybe the animals did somehow know it was the baby Jesus.
In those days when a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be enrolled, the edict from on high was that every citizen should go home. Each was to go to his own city, which is how Mary and Joseph ended up in Bethlehem, the city of David. It was a nondescript place, a tiny hamlet not far from Jerusalem but worlds removed in terms of sophistication. To Bethlehem they went because it was home. Well, technically speaking, Nazareth was home, but from God’s perspective—from a spiritual perspective—Bethlehem was really home. From the viewpoint of salvation history, Bethlehem was where it all began. It was the city foretold by the prophets as the home of the Messiah. Bethlehem was home.
And through a marvelous intersection of history and divine providence, a stable became a throne. A sweeping decree from a worldly ruler enabled the true King of the world to begin his reign in the back room of a country lodge. A homeless family found a home in a stable that wasn’t technically home to them. And yet, it was home.
The manger was home for the animals, because there they found food. For the ox knows its owner and the donkey its master’s crib, even if the rest of the world doesn’t know who its true King is. The sheep knew to follow their shepherd, even if thousands enrolled in an imperial census were led by bad shepherds, who for reasons of greed uprooted them and sent them each to their own cities. For Mary and Joseph, the stable was a home, because the baby was there, the Word was made flesh there, the Bread of Life was born in the House of Bread, which is what Bethlehem means.[1]
And on this night, we, too, have come home. Something other than Christmas cheer must have brought us to this church. I suspect that more than a few of us are struggling to find Christmas cheer, but we’re in this church for more than simple happiness. So, like an ox finding the comfort of its master’s lead and a donkey recognizing its master’s crib and a sheep following the guidance of its shepherd and a dog finding its way home again, we have found our way here. We must know this is home. Like that man who found his way to the church when the world beat him up, we have made our way here, to the crèche, to adore the newborn King, the Prince of Peace. He is our home.
On the other 364 days of the year, we might feel as if we have no home. We are frequently strangers, wandering all over a planet where there seems to be no peace, searching for our true home. We’re led by bad shepherds at times. We’re force-fed food that doesn’t nourish us. But tonight, we must return home to be quickened by the life of the Word made flesh.
For earthly homes aren’t always the places we think they’ll be. Earthly homes aren’t always happy. Going home can feel like a regression, backsliding from maturity into immaturity. But on this Christmas night, we can rest assured that this place is more than a mere earthly home. It’s an earthly home touched by heaven itself. It’s a home of peace, love, and joy. Perhaps, once again, we need to become an innocent child or take a cue from animals who can’t solve math equations but who at least know who their master is and where home resides. Tonight, we’ve come home.
And the marvelous mystery of Christmas is that home isn’t only in Bethlehem. Home isn’t only at the crèche at the back of this church. Home isn’t only before the altar of God where Jesus reigns in the Sacrament. No, because of the mystery of the Word made flesh, home has spread to the ends of the earth. Home is taken with us in our hearts, where Jesus also reigns in glory. Home is anywhere, in the grimiest alleyways of cities or in the feeding troughs of country villages. Home is where we know the love of our Lord, our true Shepherd, who leads us, guides us, and protects us forever. Home is where he feeds us and promises us eternal life, so that one day, we’ll abide with him in the heavenly mansion.
So, come, let us worship the newborn King! Come, let us adore the baby in the manger! Come, let us kneel before him and offer him our hearts, so that in them, he will make a home and abide there forever!
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Eve of the Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ
December 24, 2024
[1] This play on words has roots in the patristic tradition.