That’s it. The message of the most beautiful story in the world: where we act to bring love and warmth into the world, we encounter God.
It’s the part we don’t hear tonight that we spend our entire lives tracking down. The part that tells us “How”—how to welcome Jesus into our lives, and show that he still lives by our own witness, just like those shepherds in our gospel. How to receive Jesus not simply by saying we believe in him, but actually shaping our lives by his example.
And so, alongside the beautiful story we just heard, and that we will celebrate for these next many days, I want to offer you another story. Some of you may have read it in a book of stories by the great Russian master Leo Tolstoy. The problem is, he read it somewhere, attributed to an anonymous author, and he adapted it, thinking it was a folk tale. By the time he found out the true author, his works had already entered the public domain. So tonight, I want to share with you a version of the original story, written by a French pastor named Ruben Saillens. Even better, let me introduce to you the main character, because his name, so perfect for our congregation, was “Father Martin.”(1)
One hundred and fifty years ago, in the French city of Marseilles, there was a humble cobbler named Martin. Although he was an incredible shoe maker, his generosity and humility led him to live a simple life-- he had his tiny shop on a dusty side street consisting of a single room, and above it he lived in our studio apartment that was neat but plain. Father Martin's wife had died many years before, and their only son had been a sailor who had been lost at sea. He had a daughter, too, but for some reason they no longer spoke, and when asked about her, a single tear would leak out of his eye and run down his cheek as he shook his head mournfully. Yet even though he had known these tragedies, he was nonetheless known as a simple, kind, compassionate man.
It is Christmas Eve, and there's a sharp chill in the air as Father Martin closes his shop for the day.
He looks around his tiny home, noting that things may have been worn and well used, but they were neat and clean--certainly much better than spending the night out on the streets, or in a drafty barn. Father Martin thought slowly, “Oh that I could have made room for him here! I would have been glad to see him, to shelter him, and to welcome him into my home.”
“Of course,” he continued, “I have no gifts-- certainly not like the gold and the frankincense and the myrrh that the Magi brought. But what did the shepherds bring? It doesn't say-- but perhaps they didn't have time to get anything. Perhaps they only brought themselves.” Father Martin suddenly looked up on the top of one of the shelves along the wall and saw a small tattered cardboard box he sprung across the room and got it down and looked inside, where two perfect little shoes lay wrapped in tissue paper, made for a baby long ago whose parents had never come to get them. They were the best thing Father Martin had ever made-- his masterpiece. He smiled and touched the supple leather and neat stitches. “This is what I would give to Jesus--my very best pair of shoes I ever made! Oh, I wish I could have seen him and his family!”
He smiled for a moment at his own foolishness. The old man closed the box carefully and returned it to its place on the shelf. He then walked across the room and sat back down in his chair, sighing. Soon his head nodded on his chest, and he fell asleep. His lone candle burned itself out.
A voice suddenly spoke out of the darkness. “Martin!” “Who's there?” he cried out, seeing no one. But the voice, continued gently, “Martin, you wanted to see me. Keep an eye out on the street for me tomorrow.” And then the voice ceased. Martin rubbed his eyes wearily, and heard the clock strike midnight. It was now officially Christmas Day. Surely he must have been dreaming. So he put on his night clothes and crawled into his bed and fell asleep.
The next morning when Martin awoke, he was convinced that he had heard the voice of Jesus. Surely he had nothing to lose by remaining watchful as the voice had told him and seeing if he could see Jesus walking on the streets outside his shop. surely he would recognize Jesus as Jesus passed by-- after all, hadn't he admired paintings of Jesus throughout his entire life? And so he dressed, went downstairs to his shop on the main floor, and pulled up his chair at the large front window.
It was barely dawn, and there was no one on the streets. All that Martin saw was a street sweeper working in the bitter cold. He shivered visibly as he tried to attend to his work, rubbing his hands together, and stamping his feet to keep the blood circulating. Martin, thought, while he was waiting to see Jesus, surely he could take time to offer the man something warm to drink. So Father Martin opened the door and called out to the man. “Come in, won't you? Come in and let me offer you something warm to drink and a seat by my stove if only for a moment!”
The streetsweeper turned to Martin gratefully, and came in from the cold, scraping his boots on the mat outside first. “I can only stay a moment,” the man said. “I don't want to lose my job.”
“Let me make you a cup of coffee, at least. Surely you have time for that!” exclaimed Martin, and the streetsweeper couldn’t say no. Yet even as he prepared the pot of coffee, Martin's eyes kept darting to the window to the street outside to see if anyone was passing.
“Why are you looking outside so often?” asked the street sweeper.
“I am waiting for my Master,” Martin replied.
“Your Master?” the street sweeper asked. “I thought you owned this shop.”
“Yes, I do, I was talking of another Master,” Martin replied.
“Ah, sure,” said the street sweeper, too tired to try to solve riddles. He finished his cup of coffee, wiggled his toes in his boots, and prepared to leave. “Well, good luck, I hope you see your Master today.”
The door closed behind the street sweeper, and Martin sat down again, watching the street closely. A group of children passed by, singing Christmas carols. Martin waved, and they waved back. But still no Jesus. Some people saw Martin watching from the window—he smiled invitingly, and even those who had seemed less than happy smiled back. But still no Jesus.
Martin made a simple lunch from some of his leftover stew, and sat watching carefully. But still no Jesus. A few beggars were made brave by Martin’s smile, and approached, begging for a few pennies. They were not disappointed, and left with enough to buy a small roll and some cheese. There were cheeses-- but still no Jesus.
As darkness approached, the streets grew emptier and emptier. A small, ragged brown mutt slunk by sniffing in the gutter for scraps, limping slightly. The butcher down the street acted as if he would strike the pup with his broom, and the dog yipped in alarm and scurried straight toward Martin’s door and leaned against the post. Martin reached into the stewpot and pulled out a few pieces of meat and some of the broth, putting them on a chipped plate. He took them out to the poor dog, who, after starting, carefully approached the plate in almost human disbelief. Within moments the plate was licked clean, and the dog allowed his head to be petted before he trotted off.
The streets were in twilight and empty now. Suddenly around the corner a figure appeared, and Martin’s heart leapt—but it was only a young woman, not much more than a girl really. She held a bundle in her arms, and as she got closer, Martin could see she was dressed in a threadbare smock and a ratty coat, and the bundle was an infant, about nine months old. Martin sprang outside when he saw her stagger. “Ma belle!” he called out as he rushed to her as she leaned against the wall. When he was closer he could see that her face was creased in weariness, and the baby clung to her for warmth.
“Why, you don’t look well, ma chere. Why are you out so late on such a cold night—and alone with a little one?” Martin asked.
“I’m ill, and going to the hospital, and hoping that they will have pity and admit me although it’s Christmas Eve. My husband is away at sea, and should have returned. But it’s been three months. And now I’m ill…” The shoemaker immediately though of his own son, and his heart ached.
“Please, won’t you come inside for just a moment and warm up a bit? I have some stew, and milk for the baby.” He looked so kindly she felt reassured, and she followed him inside. Martin insisted on taking the baby from her so she could eat, and found one of his wife’s old shawls he had kept for sentimental reasons and draped it around her shoulders, all while crooning to the baby. When the young woman finished eating, he poured out some milk in a cup for the baby and placed it in ront of her so she could feed the child. As he passed the baby over, the blanket slipped, and he saw that the baby’s feet were bare and cold.
“No shoes? Oh no this will never do,” Martin murmured out loud. He looked closer. Could it be that the size was right? He went over to the shelf and pulled down his masterpiece shoes, and took them from the box and unwrapped the paper. Ah, they were the best shoes he had ever made! But he had no use for them, really—shoes are made to be worn, not stored away. And so Martin came to the woman, holding out the shoes, and asked “Will you allow me?”
“I have no money to pay you,” she cried, “and those are so very fine! They are fit for a prince!”
Martin smiled, “We have your young prince here now. Let’s try them on.” And the shoes fit as it they were made for the baby’s feet. It seemed impossible but they looked even more beautiful actually being worn. The young woman clasped the old man’s hands in gratitude and got up.
“I must go,” she said. “You have been so incredibly kind! I can never repay you.”
“No need, my daughter. Just get yourself well, and I will pray for your husband to be home soon!” The door shut behind her, Martin sat down again thoughtfully. It was now night. A fog even began to roll in from the sea. No point in watching any more. Jesus had not come!
He was so heartbroken he moved to his chair and slumped down. It all must have been just a dream! “He didn’t come!” he repeated over and over to himself.
Suddenly the room filled with light. The door of his shop swung open, and he saw all the people he had seen that day—the street sweeper, the passersby, the carolers, the beggars, the young woman and the baby. Each one approached Martin and said, “Didn’t you see me?” Over and over again. Martin was astounded, and his mouth formed a small o in wonder and shock. Could it be?
And then, with one voice, they spoke in the voice Martin had heard the night before:
“I was cold and you warmed me. I was hungry and you fed me. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger and you invited me in. I was naked and you clothed me.”2)
Martin suddenly understood. Jesus had come, after all.
And so Jesus has come among us, too, and comes to us still, in all those whom we can welcome and help not just in the Christmas season, but all year through. Jesus has come, and lives among us—in the room that we make for him in our hearts and in the love that we share with those we meet, Where Love is, there is God. That’s the message of Christmas.
Amen.
Readings:
Citations:
1) Ruben Saillens, “Where Love Is, There is God,” translated from the French by Bob Goodenough, found at his blog Flatlander Faith, from the post “Papa Panov should be Father Martin,” November 20, 2018. The story by Tolstoy is known as “Papa Panov’s Special Christmas,” which can be found here.
2) See Matthew 25:35-36.
1) Ruben Saillens, “Where Love Is, There is God,” translated from the French by Bob Goodenough, found at his blog Flatlander Faith, from the post “Papa Panov should be Father Martin,” November 20, 2018. The story by Tolstoy is known as “Papa Panov’s Special Christmas,” which can be found here.
2) See Matthew 25:35-36.
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