And when I'd ascend the back stairs from the basement of the Church of the Nativity with its starry floor…. I stand at the back of the Church of the Nativity for awhile, looking up at the lit stained glass telling the story of His birth, rising there like a star above the altar. Stand there — waiting. Waiting for God knows what.
Waiting for God to come make His presence known, that we can feel His withness, feel the hope of Him here.
And that's the moment when I'd heard the slosh of water, heard a spilling of water, up near the altar.
And then a woman, bent and small, she's stepped out of the shadows — with her mop.
I watched as she'd began this slow choreography of grace across the floor — with her mop. This dear woman is mopping up the birthplace of God.
She's mopping up the mess down here — a bit like God came down here to mop up our mess. Our mess of hopelessness and weariness and all kinds of unspoken brokenness.
But I can hear music? Music echoing — ?
Where in the world is the music coming from? Haunting notes, high and lovely. From the dark? From behind the altar?
Her shoulders, her shoulders, are moving with the notes.
That's where the music's coming from:
The music's coming from her. The music's coming from within her.
She turns with her mop and the whole thing feels like I've walked in on the heavenly host welcoming Him, anointing Him and I kneel low — like shepherds who have to bow in worship too — and something in me brims…. and spills.
O little town of Bethlehem…the hopes and fears of all our years…
And I can feel the beat and refrain of it now within me:
We aren't abandoned in all this — we get to let it all go and abandon ourselves to God.
We get to let go — and be small and let God do it all, be our all, make a way through it all.
We get to let go — and let God near, let God be with us, Hope with us here.
And here is this exquisite woman, with her bent back and humble mop letting her heart pour out to God, in the place where God first touched this sod, first let His loud cry mingle with humanity.
And here I am, a kneeled mess who can't stop spilling, my shoulders moving with the breaking of my heart over the beauty and rightness of her lowly offering, right where He Himself came low and offered Himself.
The woman leans her mop up against a pew.
She steps in close toward me.
And then she cups my face in her wrinkled, warm hands.
What in the world is happening?
And then she gently kisses my one wet cheek — and then kisses my other wet cheek.
My tears are being kissed by a stranger — an angel? — in the birthplace of God. There's hope in all our hurts, when we bend low, lean in, become like Jesus to each other.
And all I can hear is this angelic whispering to a heartbroken world: "Do not be afraid — for you have found favor with God."
And favor isn't found merely with God — favor is found beside God. Favor is found by those who let God stay the closest beside them, right here with them.
The woman's eyes search me and my eyes search hers — and it's this holy moment in Bethlehem, in the Church of the Nativity. This is a meeting. Our eyes meet and rest in each other — with each other. God with us.
And she nods and smiles and I try to smile brave through tears.
And I exhale with the grace of it all:
You don't have to work for the coming of the Lord — you don't have to work for hope, work for rescue, work for Christmas.
There's no performing Christmas, producing Christmas, or perfecting Christmas.
There is only Christmas finding us — grace finding even us. Hope finding even us, God with us.
He will prepare your heart for the coming of the Lord.
"This is the true preparedness of heart for coming to Christ — the preparedness of coming to Him just as you are," Charles Spurgeon wrote.
Just as you are, right where you are, He unfolds Himself in that mess that is your impossible, in the mucked straw you wish was different, right in the stench that doesn't carry any scent of hope. Rejected at the inn, holy God comes in small to where you feel rejected and a bit hopeless and small and God is with you now.
Wherever you are any unspoken broken — God always wants to be with you. You are not ever left alone. The presence of God with us is the gift… Love comes down, and no matter what, He loves to be with you…
You always get your Christmas miracle. You get God with you.
The Woman with the Mop in the Bethlehem Birthplace of God, she stands beside me, touches my streaming tears with her fingertips, wipes my cheek in this caress of communion and this right here is the heart of God:
He kisses us with grace and holds us with hope and wraps us with love and we are soul-safe always in Him.
As the Angel with a Mop in Bethlehem wipes away a bit of my spilling… it's the holy that happened under that one blazing star in a manger in Bethlehem that wipes away all our tears and fears and all our hopes are meeting in the love of Him right now.
The stars over Bethlehem, and all of us, sing clear, and all our hearts hear… even here and now.
No comments:
Post a Comment