Holidays - Seasons Greetings!

In Rome, Caesar Augustus learned that many of his subjects were dishonest. He ruled the known world, but the amount of taxes was not commensurate with the number of subjects. He held a council in Rome, and his advisors told Caesar that he could not levy an equitable tax until he had an accurate idea of the populations of the several provinces.

Caesar issued an imperial rescript ordering all subjects, in the winter solstice, to return to the cities of their fathers and there be counted. This, of course, would work hardship on millions of people, and in a two-week period of migration would upset the economic balance as men left their work to travel to distant cities, but it had to be done. The census would be taken in many tongues, and in places along the Rhine River, the Danube, in North Africa, Portugal, Syria, Belgium, Egypt, Palestine and all along the north Mediterranean shore.

Many of the subject people chafed when the law was proclaimed. They said that Caesar was not a just king to do this to them. Even in a small town like Nazareth, which Caesar Augustus would not know by name, the Jews said that it was not fair. Joseph sought the local tax merchant and asked if women in advanced pregnancy could be excused and he was told that no one could be excused. Even the lame and the blind had to report to the cities of their fathers, and many would have to be carried on pallets.

Joseph consoled Mary by telling her that the ancient prophecy, in spite of their wishes, was coming true. She saw the truth of this and her murmurs of discontent died on her lips. Originally, she had protested that a long, rough journey would risk the life of the baby. On second thought, this appeared to be a ridiculous assumption because, if she had been graced by God to bear the messiah, then nothing could happen to the baby.

They started on the trip south, two young and solemn people with a short and slender jackass who bore the most exalted burden ever to honor an animal. Joseph lifted Mary’s spirits by reminding her that, if he paced the trip correctly, and they were not halted by heavy rains or sandstorms, she would see Jerusalem at sundown of the 5th day.

The final few miles were fatiguing. Joseph stumbled many times in the dark and, over his shoulder; he asked his wife if she was quiet. When they were two miles from Bethlehem, she said no. She felt uncomfortable, she said, but it was bearable and she had no complaint. She hoped that they would reach the inn in time.

The stretch of road into Bethlehem curved broadly and climbed steadily. To the left the valley was precipitous. Four hundred feet below, the whistle of shepherds could be heard and sometimes, in the deep silences, the shepherds could be heard exchanging greetings. It was a cool night with a fair breeze coming out of the south. In the darkness, the stars brightened and swelled so that, among the clusters of little blue ones, big ones winked coldly across the centuries of time.

Joseph leaned forward to pull the ass a little faster. He reached the city of David and found, to his dismay, that there were multitudes of people, some sleeping beside the road. He had not realized that there were so many who belonged to the House of David. His heart sank as he found that Bethlehem consisted of one main road running north and south, and two cross streets. The inn was to the left, built on a cliff of rocky soil overlooking the valley. Joseph went directly to the inn, knowing that he would find room there or he would find it nowhere.

He left Mary and the animal outside, and assured his wife that he would make arrangements. She too could see the crowds. Some families were sleeping outside the inn, against the wall. She said nothing. Joseph started to go inside, then stopped and returned.

“Under the law,” he said, “you must have a midwife at once. Let me first find one.”

She shook her head no. The important thing, she said, was privacy. She was not worried about assistance. God had promised to take care of her, and she needed no additional help.

Joseph went inside. The floor of the main room was full of people sleeping in their clothing, with bundles propped under their heads. The odors of the unwashed, and spiced foods, filled the place. The young man sought the proprietor. With supplication on his face, he begged for a small private place for his wife, who was with child. The owner listened and threw up both hands. Where, he asked? Where would you go for privacy? His own family had no room in which to sleep. Every cubit of space had been rented three days ago, and some of the transients were taking turns sleeping in one space.

My wife, said Joseph in a tone this side of begging, is outside. She will have her first-born in an hour or two. Can you not please find room? A little room? The owner became irritable. Every house, every field in Bethlehem was filled with people from all over Judea. Some of the regular caravans between Egypt and the upland country chose to continue their journeys at night rather than remain in this overcrowded place. Where then could a woman have a baby? Nowhere. Some people were even sleeping below in the valley, skirted by bleating sheep looking for grass.

The owner’s wife heard part of the plea. She called her husband aside and asked questions. The night was chill, she said. Look at the men outside the inn, sleeping with their cloaks over their noses. Why could not the young man take his wife to the cave below, the cave where the animals were kept?

The owner shrugged. If Joseph wanted privacy, he said, the only place left was down the side path to the cave where the asses and small animals were kept. The young man was welcome to it, if one wanted to bring a baby into the world in a place like that. Joseph inclined his head. “I am grateful,” he said. “I thank you.”

He dragged his feet returning to Mary. He told her the news. She was not vexatious; in fact, she seemed to be relieved. “Take me,” she said. “The time grows short.”

There were paths leading from both sides of the inn down the side of the cliff. In front, as on the bow of a big ship, there was an entrance to the cave, which had been carved out a long time ago. Joseph paused to light his small lamp, and then led the donkey inside. He turned to look at Mary, and, in the yellow rays, he saw that she was in deep fatigue. The chalk of the road had powdered her face. She removed her veil, shook out her hair, and slid down off the animal. Her bones ached.

Joseph apologized. He said that he was sorry that the Hospice of Chamaan had no room for her, but she could see the crowds of people. He was ashamed that he had failed her in this hour. He must confess that he had not been much of a husband; he hadn’t even found a midwife.

For a moment, Mary studied her husband. She brought a tender smile to her face. She told her husband that he had not failed her; he had been good and tender and lawful. He hung his head and listened. Mary looked around at the haltered cattle, the few lambs, some asses and a camel. If it is the will of God, she said, that His son should be born in a place like this; she would not question the wisdom of it.

At the age of fifteen, she would undergo this trial alone, just as, thirty-four years later; her son would undergo his trial alone. She asked Joseph to build a small fire on the path outside, and to fetch some water from the goatskin. Joseph did as she directed. He found an extra lamp hanging on a stable peg, he lit it and the stable brightened, and the animals watched in glistening-eyed silence, their breaths making small gray plumes in the gloom.

Joseph collected clean straw from the feed boxes, cleaned out a stall, and arranged the straw as a bed and placed his cloak over it. Then he looked for wood outside, and found none. He went back up to the hospice, and bought some charcoal from the owner. When the water was hot, he filled a jar, and brought it to Mary with some cloths. She was standing, hanging onto the wall of the stall with both hands.

Her head was down, and he could not see her face. In fear, he asked her to name what he could do. She said to go outside and tend the fire and heat more water and to remain there until she called him. The animals watched him go, and they watched impassively as Mary sank to the straw.

The fire outside burned brightly in the southerly breeze and little trains of ruddy sparks flew off into the dark night. Joseph sat beside it, heating the water and praying.

No one came down from the inn to ask how the young woman felt. If she prayed, no one heard except the animals, some of whom stopped chewing for a moment to watch; others of whom opened sleepy eyes to see. Time was slow; there was an infinity of silence; a timeless time when the future of mankind hung in empty space.

Joseph had run out of prayers and promises. His face was sick, his eyes listless. He looked up toward the east, and his dark eyes mirrored a strange thing: three stars, coming over the Mountains of Moab, were fused into one tremendously bright one. His eyes caught the glint of bright blue light, almost like a tiny moon, and he wondered about it and was still vaguely troubled by it when he heard a tiny, thin wail, a sound so slender that one had to listen again for it to make sure.

He wanted to rush inside at once. He got to his feet, and he moved no further. She would call him. He would wait. Joseph paced up and down, not realizing that men had done this thing for centuries before he was born, and would continue it for many centuries after he had gone.