The Road to Bethlehem

I was reading the Gospel of Luke the other day. I got to the second chapter and tarried there for a while. Some days the Word shines out a little more brilliantly than others, as if God’s Spirit is underlining something in particular. The text really wasn’t all that profound. Caesar Augustus declares that the entire world should be taxed. “And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:) to be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child” (Luke 2:4,5 KJV).
    I suddenly started thinking about how I would react to something like that. I’m sure Mary took the news with good grace and a great deal of humble submission. But what about me? There I am, almost nine months pregnant, and my husband comes to me and says, “We’ve gotta be taxed. We’ve gotta go to Bethlehem.”
    “What!?” I respond with horror. “Bethlehem! That’s almost a hundred miles away! I’m nine months pregnant and you want to put me on the back of a donkey and drag me all the way to Bethlehem?”
    “Have to,” he shrugs. “ It’s the law. Caesar Augustus has just declared that the whole world is to be taxed and that includes us. We have to go to my birthplace to register.”
   “That’s not fair!”
    By now tears are welling up in my eyes and Joseph’s face is beginning to blur. “Caesar Augustus hasn’t any idea what it’s like to be pregnant for so long! He has no right to do this to me!”
    I am sobbing uncontrollably and my poor husband watches helplessly wishing for all the world that he’d never left Bethlehem in the first place.
    After writing several very angry letters to all the government officials, I finally give in and allow myself to be propped up on the family donkey. I do remember to pray, “Oh, Lord, please let me live through this.” And the journey begins.
    It’s hot. I’m extremely uncomfortable, and I am sure I’ll never see my safe, secure little home again.
    “Maybe we can take a few shortcuts,” Joseph says to appease me.
    He’s not known for his overwhelming sense of direction. I look down over the donkey’s ears. “Please don’t leave the main highway,” I tell him.
    “There’s a path that leads down through the canyon that’ll cut right around the desert. I am sure of it.”
    “Don’t leave the main highway.”
    He leaves the main highway and we get lost. The donkey stumbles on some rocks and I nearly slide off. “I told you not to leave the main highway,” I sob. “I begged you.”
    “I’m sure the road is around here somewhere,” he mumbles.
    I begin to pray through my tears. “Oh, God, why is this happening to me? I thought You liked me.” I pray for Divine intervention. In the ensuing sandstorm Joseph gets turned around and finds the highway.
    “There it is,” he exclaims proudly. “I knew it was there all along.”
    I don’t say a word.
    “It’s not much farther,” I am assured for the hundredth time as Joseph struggles to reseat me on my mount after yet another necessary stop. This trip would be hard under normal conditions. My swollen belly slides across the donkey’s back and the animal wobbles. I think I’m going to be sick. “Joseph, I have to get down again.” I know I’m not going to survive.
    Despite everything, we are beginning to near the end of our journey and all I can think about is a long, hot bath in our hotel, and a very large dinner that somebody will cook for me. I lick my lips that are now caked with dust and cracked from the sun. I close my eyes and dream about spending the night in a big, soft, comfortable bed, complete with down quilts and lots of fluffy pillows. No more long nights sleeping on the ground, or trying to sleep when I’m not worrying about sharing my sleeping blanket with vipers and scorpions, or lying awake for hours vowing to never forgive Caesar Augustus if it’s the last thing I ever do.
    The end is in sight. Bethlehem seems to rise out of the shimmering waterline of another desert mirage. The inn is within my reach, if I can just hold on for a few moments longer. I decide to walk the remaining few steps, and as we enter the town I gather several sympathetic glances from the other women as they look at my haggard appearance and my belly, which is round with child.
    “There’s the inn!” Joseph exclaims joyfully.
    He leaves me with the donkey and disappears inside to secure our room. I wait and wait. My mind is full of images of hot water and soap and food and warm, comfortable beds. I wonder what’s taking him so long? He finally reappears. His face is ashen and he avoids my eyes.
    “There’s no room at the inn,” he mumbles.
    I can hardly hear him. “What?”
    “There’s no room at the inn.”
    “WHAT?!” My senses are reeling with shock. “YOU DIDN’T MAKE RESERVATIONS?!!!”
    “Don’t worry,” he adds quickly. “They’ll let us sleep in the barn. Did you hear me? It’s okay. We can have clean hay and everything.”
    Lying in the straw that evening, breathing in the cow smells and trying to doze off amid the sounds of swishing tails and stomping hooves, I have one last imaginary, somewhat heated conversation with Caesar Augustus in which I, once again, have the last word.
    I awake several hours later, a little more subdued. I can see out past the stalls. The night sky is harboring one brilliant star. It’s so beautiful, it seems like it’s a gift just for me. “Oh, Lord,” I pray. “Why was the journey so hard and long? Why did You let me come to this place? I never wanted to be here. I’m sleeping on straw and I couldn’t have my bath. We ate cold bread and cheese for dinner, that’s all they had left. Why did You let this happen to me?” Oh, no! I suddenly feel my very first contraction. “Oh, Lord, please! Not here! Not now! Ohhhhhh, Joseph, it’s time! The baby’s coming!”
    Several hours later, the child is cooing in my arms. He has the biggest, brightest eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s smiling at me and I smile back through my tears. Joseph squeezes my hand and our joy is transmitted silently as we stare with wonder at our miracle. The doorway is crowded with eager spectators, an assortment of shepherds and kings. They’ve come to see the baby, and for some strange reason I am not offended by my lack of privacy. They have every right to be here, for He is their child, too. There has been much talk of miracles and angels and prophecies being fulfilled. And I’ve learned by now that Bethlehem is a very special place. It was the place I had to be, even though it took a lot of pain to bring me here. I know now that it was worth every mile. I’ve learned that sometimes when circumstances don’t go our way, there just might be a very good reason. I’ve learned to trust, and oh, yes – I’ve even forgiven Caesar Augustus.

copyright 1991 by H.D. Shively