Doors wide open

“Like the warmth of the summer wind you come”—Mark Wilson’s “You are born in us again” is one of my favourite Christmas Carols and inspired this reflection for Christmas Eve. You can find it in the NZ Hymnbook Trust’s Carol Our Christmas

Published in “You who delight me” 2018

Picture this: A small house, in a close-knit community; the sounds of hammering and a plane scraping across wood, and men’s voices—husband, stepsons—as they work; the smells of baking and lamb roasting.

A young, tired woman bustling around the kitchen, setting the table, glancing out the window at the afternoon shadows; neighbours gossiping in the street, sideways glances, the feeling of still being under suspicion, not quite fitting in, even with things going well—so far.

And just when there’s still so much to do, the sound of little feet hurrying up the steps, and that dear, persistent, interrupting young voice: “Mama, where did I come from?”

“Not now, Jesus,” says his mother. “I’m busy. Go outside and play, there’s a good boy.”

“But Mama, I don’t like it outside just now. It’s too windy. The wind blows sand in my eyes. Where does…?”

“Go and help your big brothers, then; they might let you help tidy the workbench before the Sabbath. Or Joseph might want you to help polish that new cabinet he’s been making.”

“But mama, where does the wind come from?”

Mary gives a little sigh, and sits down to polish the glasses, carefully putting each one at its place on the table, and tries to answer her son.

“Little philosopher, who knows? The wind blows wherever it wants to. You can’t tell where it comes from, or where it’s going. But you know it’s there, don’t you?”

A puzzled frown, more questions in those big brown eyes.

“You can feel it on your face; you can feel the wind ruffling your hair—like this!” A tender, work-worn hand rests briefly on the precious head.

He ducks, and pulls away. “But why, mama? Why does the wind tickle like that?”

“Pass me the fruit sauce in that dish—carefully! Good boy, put it in the middle of the table, there. Well, the wind is like your breath, isn’t it, like your spirit. You need the air to breathe, and the wind is like a great big breath—puffing at you, hurrying you along the road when you’re dawdling…”

“Past the soldiers, mama.”

“Yes, son, past the soldiers—quickly. If it’s a nice warm wind it makes you feel good, though, makes you want to dance in it. You remember, when we went to visit Aunt Eliza and Uncle Zach in Judea, how you little ones ran about in the wind?”

“We’re not little, mama, we’re big boys now. I’m nearly as big as John, aren’t I? I’m nearly as old as he is, aren’t I mama?”

“Only a few months, yes; he’s just a bit older than you are.”

“He always wants to go in front of me, though. Why won’t he let me go first, sometimes? What’s your spirit, mama?”

“Listen, Jesus, you should be grateful for your cousin going ahead of you. He smooths things for you sometimes, doesn’t he? Introduces you to his friends? ‘This is my cousin, Jesus,’ he says. ‘He’s my special friend.’ He even helps you tie the thongs of your sandals!”

“He eats locusts! Ugh!” says the small boy, Jesus, screwing up his mouth and wrinkling his sun-freckled nose. “And he’s always paddling about in the river, splashing people! Getting me all wet.”

“Yes, but he shares the wild honey with you, doesn’t he, and shows you the best places to go fishing? And he gave you his spare tunic, didn’t he? Oh, that’s the door banging! Did you leave it open again? Anyone would think you were born in a stable!”

“It’s the wind blowing the door open, mama. It’s good to have the door open, so your friends can come in. Mama, mama, look, here’s abba!”

“Joseph, good! You tell your son what the wind is! I’ve got to check the lamb, and pour the wine—and the sun’s getting very low in the sky. Go on, go with your father and stop asking questions, always questions. Enough already!”

“Daddy, abba, do you like the wind? Mama doesn’t know where it comes from. Do you know? Mama says I was born in a stable. Was I really? What’s the wind, abba?”

“Well, son, the wind comes to blow away the cobwebs and dust and the wood shavings that make the floor messy. You come with me, and give Mary some peace for a bit; she’s got a lot to do today. The wind, now, it freshens things up. On a very, very hot day it’s good to feel a cool breeze, isn’t it? Like a wash in the river when you’re tired and dusty, or like a hug when you’re feeling grumpy or scared or sad.”

“Abba Joseph, is it like love? The wind. Is it like when you let me have a little candle near my bed ‘cause of the dark, and you leave the door open so I can hear you in the workshop?”

“Clever little chap—you’ll maybe be a rabbi or even a Pharisee one day, if you don’t fancy the carpenter’s shop… and I can’t see you being happy there, indoors all day, making crosses for the wretched Romans and taking commissions for their empire-building! But enough of them. I suppose they bring us business.”

“What’s crosses for, abba? Do we have to love the Romans? You said I should try and love everybody. I saw some soldiers today! Why’s love like the wind, abba? Tell me again!”

“Such things you ask, boy! Yes, the wind is like love—sometimes. You can’t see it, but you can feel it, and you don’t always know where it comes from, but suddenly it’s there, pushing you off course, carrying you away!”

“I don’t understand! Mama says it makes you want to dance. But she was cross when the door banged!”

“Well, that’s just it. Suddenly the door’s open—like your heart. Things peaceful for a bit, then, whoosh! It’s like being born again, into a world where everything’s bigger, and good, and right. Good, here are your brothers. Now, let’s dance back inside and you can help mama light the candles. It’s almost time.”

A wry glance at this precocious, sweet-tempered child; this surprise in his middle age; this lovechild of such mystery and ordinariness.

“Jesus, you help mama carry the herbs and salt to the table, that’s a good lad; she’s been working so hard all day, taking care of you, answering questions, getting this special meal ready,” says the pragmatic Joseph.

“Mary, come and sit down now. You’ve been rushing around like the wind all day. Ah, this so good! Our family, good food, wine from new wine skins. If God had only given us the Sabbath, that would have been enough! And here’s our little lad, growing up fine and strong, like his brothers.”

“And questions, always the questions, and asking for stories!” says Mary. “I’m sure he’s nearly ready for temple school. James, prop the door open, for Elijah, that’s right! Now, son, this is the time to ask your questions; you know what you have to say?”

And the boy Jesus sits up straight at the table, with its smooth surface and straight legs, and the clean cloth and the dishes of lamb and rosemary, the water and the salt, and the empty wine glass –

—and he begins, “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

And each year, all around the world, wherever we gather to share bread and wine, at Passover, at Christmas, at Hanukkah, at Easter, we ask—

“Will it be born in us again? The love, the compassion, the commonwealth of peace and freedom?”

And each year anew, the answer comes: the hope, the promise and fulfilment— blowing the doors wide open, like a summer wind; opening our hearts.

This work by Bronwyn Angela White is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 New Zealand License