California Business Updates: November 2011

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

The Innkeeper's Tale

They think I'm some kind of cruel, heartless landlord. Someone must have told them that. But they're wrong, just plain wrong, and it's time to set the record straight, once and for all.

People say I'm an innkeeper. I suppose you'd call it an inn. To us it's just a big house. My grandfather, Joshua ben-Yahoudi, built it back when his trading business was at a peak. And he built it big enough to fit all fourteen kids.

Well, a few years ago, the missus and I were just rattling around in that big house--kids grown up and all--and we were thinking, maybe we could take in a few travelers. Rachel has always been mighty good in the kitchen, so we just let out word that we'd take people in, and they started to come. Every night we'd have a person or two, sometimes more. People would always come back when they came to town again, intent on another bowl of Rachel's lamb stew.

Then came that blankety-blank census the governor thought up. Taxation, pure and simple! People from all over the province flooded into town that week. Filled us clean up. Rachel and I slept in the main room where we always do, and we started putting guests in the other three rooms. They kept coming. Then we doubled up two or three families to a room. They kept coming. Finally, when we had filled the main room with four families plus Rachel and me, we started turning people away.

I must have gotten in and out of bed ten times that night, stumbling over bodies to get to the door. "No more room, sorry folks. No more room. Come back in the morning. We have a couple of families leaving then." They'd mutter something and head back to their party, and sleep somewhere next to a house under the shelter of a blanket. I just couldn't make any more room. That's the honest truth.

But I did make room for one more couple. Joseph was a burly man with big arms and strong hands, down from Nazareth, I think he said. He wouldn't take "no" for an answer. I would say, "No, I'm sorry," and he'd tell me about his "little Mary." Well, when I saw "little Mary" she wasn't very little. She was just about as pregnant as a woman can get, and awfully pale. While Joseph was pleading, I saw her grab her tummy in pain, and I knew I couldn't let her have that baby outside in the wind and sleet.

The barn. That would just have to do, I told myself, and led them and their donkey out back. Now it was pretty crowded, so I shooed several animals into the pen outside to make room in one dry corner. Joseph said, "We sure are grateful, sir." Then with a serious look, he asked me, "Do you know where I can find a midwife in these parts? We might need her tomorrow or the next day."

That man didn't know much about having babies, it was plain enough to see. I ran to Aunt Sarah's house and pounded on the door until her husband came. "One of the travelers is having a baby," I told him. "I'll wait while Aunt Sarah gets dressed." I stopped a moment to catch my breath. "And tell her to hurry."

By the time we got back to the barn, Joseph had "little Mary" settled on some soft, clean hay, wrapped up in a blanket, wiping the perspiration off her brow, and was speaking softly to her as she fought the waves of pain. Aunt Sarah sent me to get my Rachel, and then pushed Joseph and me out of the barn. "This ain't no place for men," she said.

We waited just outside in the shelter of the barn for hours, it seemed like. Well, all of a sudden, we hear a little cry. "You've got a baby boy," Aunt Sarah was saying as we peeped around the corner. She hands the young-un to Rachel, and she wraps it up in those swaddling bands she had saved. Cute little thing, I tell you.

Well, Joseph goes over to Mary and gives her a big hug, and a kiss on the cheek, and Rachel hands Mary the baby, and then comes over to me and takes my hand. "Remember when our Joshua was born?" she whispers.

The lantern was blowing almost out, the cattle were lowing softly, and baby Jesus was asleep in his mother's arms. That's how I left them as I walked Aunt Sarah home. Chilly wind, though the sleet had stopped.

By the time I got back, Rachel was in bed, and I was about ready to put out the light, step over sleeping bodies, and get under the warm covers, when I heard some murmuring out by the barn.

I'd better check, I told myself. When I peeped in, I saw shepherds. Raggedy, smelly old shepherds were kneeling down on the filthy barn floor as if they were praying. The oldest one was saying something to Joseph about angels and the Messiah. And the rest of them just knelt there with their heads bowed, some with tears running down their faces.

I coughed out loud, and Joseph looked up. I was almost ready to run those thieving shepherds off, when Joseph motioned to me with his hand. "It's okay," he whispered. "They've come to see the Christ-baby."

The Christ-baby? The Messiah? That was when I knelt, too. And watched, and prayed, and listened to the old shepherd recount his story of angels and heavenly glory, and the sign of a holy baby, wrapped in swaddling bands, to be found in a stable-manger.

My Lord, it was my stable where the Christ-baby was born. My manger he rested in. My straw, my lamp, my wife Rachel assisting at his birth.

The shepherds left after a while. Some of them leaned over and kissed the sleeping Christ-child before they departed. I know I did.

I'll always be glad I made room in the barn for that family-- that holy family. You see, I'm not some mean inn-keeper. I was there. I saw him. And, you know, years later that boy came back to Bethlehem, this time telling about the Kingdom of God. Oh, I believe in him, I tell you. I was there. And, mark my words, if you'd seen what I've seen, you'd be a believer, too.

Christmas Hardships

Do you really expect me to go to Bethlehem?" Joseph banged down his chisel on the scarred bench.

Ephraim, his cousin, had just entered the low workshop. "You don't have a choice, Joseph. If you don't go the Romans will confiscate your house and your precious tools. Just try to carve a yoke with your fingernails."

"What are we, cowards?" the carpenter retorted. "Mark my words, Ephraim, this 'Enroll-in-your-ancestral-city' business is nothing more than a way to squeeze more taxes out of us. If we give into those foreign tyrants now they'll just be back for more money."

"What's more," Joseph continued, "you're crazy if you think I'd take Mary on a trip this month. She'd probably have the baby on the way!"

"Couldn't you just leave her with your mother for a couple of weeks? She'd be all right. Nobody says the women have to go. It's the heads of households who have to register."

"Register, hah! Be taxed, you mean."

"So why not leave her at home?"

Joseph brushed the woodchips aside and motioned for his cousin to sit down. The carpenter spoke in a low but earnest voice. "Mary's aunt has made life miserable for her ever since she found out Mary was pregnant. Some people were willing to let it go. Not Tabitha."

"She got my wife all stirred up about it," Ephraim volunteered.

"Not just your wife. Most of the women in this town go out of their way to avoid her. At the village well they whisper, "Little slut!" just loud enough for her to hear. Many's the day she's come running home in tears."

"People sure can be cruel," Ephraim said. "At least you and Mary went ahead and got married."

Joseph bit his lip, but didn't say more.

Ephraim got up. "Well, you are going to Bethlehem, aren't you? You'd be a fool to get the Romans on your back. You know what they did to old Ben."

Joseph stood up slowly. "Yes, I'll go. But Mary'll have to come along. There's no way I'd leave her in Nazareth by herself!"

However, when Joseph talked to Mary about it, she didn't seem nearly as sure as her husband. "How could I walk all that way?" she said. "I waddle now. I just can't make it."

"Mary, we'll bring old Jake. You can ride him when you get tired."

"Have you ever ridden on Jake?"

"Well, no."

"That animal is the most bony, jolting mule in Nazareth. I'd rather walk!"

She did ride, though ... some of the way. Joseph would finally stop for the day when Mary just couldn't take any more. He'd help her down off Jake, then he'd fix a fire while she would unload their heavy blankets and try to find some shelter under a tree or large rock.

Mary would always be the center of attention among the few women traveling that time of year.

"I remember when I was carrying Levi," one would start. "Made my feet swell. I couldn't do anything for months."

"That's nothing," replied another, "my sister got so big everyone thought she was carrying twins. But her time came there was only one baby. Died though."

Joseph glanced over at Mary in the flickering firelight. He could see fear flit across her face. Her hands moved to her swollen belly so she could feel the baby's reassuring kick.

The women didn't notice. The first one went on, "Oh, the pain's so awful! I'm glad I'm too old to have any more babies."

Joseph put his arm around Mary's shoulders and pulled her close. Only one more night on the road before Bethlehem.

They reached the sleepy village of Joseph's ancestors just about dusk the fifth day. Joseph went to the inn and nearby houses trying to find a place to sleep. "God," he whispered as he combed the town, "can't You find us a decent place to have this baby?" Nothing.

All at once he saw Mary's face tighten. She tried to suppress a groan as she fought with the pain. It was a long moment before she relaxed, but he could see worry written all over her.

Joseph went back to the innkeeper again. "Are you sure there isn't any room? My wife's about to have a baby. We've got to find a place out of this wind tonight!"

The innkeeper thought a while. "Did you try the house at the end of the street? They sometimes take people in."

"I tried an hour ago."

"Any relatives in town? Any second cousins?"

"No."

Mary was shivering now, in obvious discomfort. "Joseph," she said weakly, "I've got to lie down somewhere."

"Well, there's the stable in the back," offered the innkeeper at long last. "Of course, it's full of animals from all the visitors in town for that blasted Roman census. But if you can find a place in the corner, I guess that'd be okay." He paused. "Just don't keep the animals awake all night."

It was the other way around. The dozen donkeys in the strange barn never stopped moving. And the smell was overpowering to Mary who had been fighting nausea as her pains got stronger.

In the wee hours of the morning Joseph knocked on the innkeeper's door again.

"What do you want this time of night?" the innkeeper snarled when he finally came to the door.

"Is there a midwife in town?"

"Oh, it's you. A midwife? Yes, old Martha lives in a little house about three blocks from here. You go down the main road, turn left at the two-story house, and go to the alley. You can't miss it. You go down the alley and across the pasture. She lives in a shack just behind the third house after that."

"I ... I really don't think I should leave my wife. Her pains are coming awfully fast now.... Could you go?"

"Jonathan!" the innkeeper yelled into his darkened house. "Get up and fetch old Martha. A lady's having a baby in the barn. Hurry!"

He turned to Joseph as he closed the door. "Have some pity, man. My whole family's awake now."

Pretty soon the door opened again and a young lad ran off in the chilly air. After a while he returned, walking slowly so he wouldn't outdistance the old midwife whose arthritis certainly didn't to take to cold winter nights. The boy was shivering by the time he got to the stable.

"Here's Martha, sir," he muttered quickly, and darted back into the warmth of his house.

The old lady put them at ease right away. She had Joseph fetch water and cloths from the innkeeper. It must have been nearly two in the morning by the time the baby came, and another hour before Joseph dug into his robe for a few coins to give the old woman as she hobbled away.

Then he returned to his wife and took her hand as they looked into the puffy face of their son. Alone at last.

"I'm so tired, Joseph," Mary said, settling back into the blanket-covered straw.

The baby finally stopped crying and drifted off to sleep.

Joseph stirred a few minutes later as some men peered from the darkness into the lamp-lit stable. He nudged Mary awake and reached for his staff.

"What do you want?" Joseph said to the men in a forced whisper. "Don't wake the baby."

"We're shepherds," one called out. The baby started crying.

"We saw angels out on the hills an hour ago." The entire story tumbled out as the shepherds edged into the stable to see the baby. Joseph relaxed his grip on the staff.

The shepherd continued, "And the angel told us, 'To you is born this day in the City of David a Savior which is Messiah the Lord.' The angel even told us about the swaddling cloths and the manger here."

"The angel told you about the manger, too?" Joseph interrupted.

"Oh, yes. That's how we knew where to look."

Joseph glanced over at Mary. Her eyes met his. He squeezed her hand.

"This baby is the Messiah, isn't he?" Joseph said quietly. "After all these hassles I had started to question. But..." He paused. "It's almost like God planned the whole thing: the trip neither of us wanted to take." He chuckled. "He must have seen you on bony old Jake." Joseph laughed out loud. "Even this smelly old barn and it's manger."

He stood up, still chuckling. "What do you know? In spite of the problems--no, in the midst of the problems--God's been at work all along."

The Extra Electric Train A Christmas Memory

Though money didn't flow as freely as the rain that winter, my parents worked with joyful anticipation to give my brother and me a Christmas present we would never forget. They scrimped for months and then spent more than they could probably afford for a Marx electric train.

Then the day before Christmas, a cousin stationed at a nearby military base pulled into the driveway. Opening the trunk of his car he lifted out a large heavy box. My brother and I could hardly wait to see what it was. On Christmas morning we opened it first. Eagerly we unwrapped an expensive new electric train set. Wow! You had to pull us down off the ceiling. A Lionel train, too! Then we opened the presents from our parents--another electric train. Ho hum. And not nearly as extravagant as the one from our cousin. Guess whose we played with most?

Mom and Dad were hurt. The outlay for an unmarried Air Force lieutenant was nothing compared to the sacrifice my parents had made. But all we saw was the glamour of an expensive train. We counted our parents' gift as merely a nice accessory.

Our heavenly Father spends many a disappointing Christmas. Amidst the glittering ornaments and flashing Christmas lights, the hurry and hustle of shopping and wrapping and family get-togethers, parties and presents, trees and turkeys--who really cares about His gift? What gets more attention from us: our Father's gift of life in Jesus Christ or the quickly-wrapped department store gifts from our cousins?

Thank you, Father, for Jesus. Thank you for the abundant life that we, His disciples, can enjoy now. Thank you for sending us a most expensive gift--your own life. Thank you!

A Story of the Annunciation

"Mary," my mother calls from the path in front of our home on the outskirts of Nazareth, "we'll be back in a while. Make sure you finish the mending." Her voice trails off as she and my little sisters head for market. It's finally quiet. Of course, father and the boys left for the fields hours ago. And now I'm alone, gloriously alone. Alone with my thoughts and dreams -- and the family mending.

I sit near the window so the morning sun will light my stitching. I sew and think.... Of turning fourteen last month. Of kind Joseph, the village carpenter, to whom I am pledged. Of how life will be like a year from now when we're married. They'll call me the carpenter's wife, and finally I'll be thought of as a woman rather than just a girl. We'll have children of our own, and....

I hear a step on the threshold and look up. Standing in the doorway is a man, tall -- extremely tall -- and bright, with a gold sash girding his shining robe. I've never seen him in Nazareth. Who is he? What does he want? He's looking directly at me.

"Shalom, daughter, upon whom the favor of the Lord is resting," he begins. "The Lord is with you!"

What kind of greeting is this? Who am I that he should speak to me so? Should I cry for help? Should I climb out the window and run? But I sit paralyzed with my mending still in my lap, needle and thread fallen to the floor. "What brings you to our humble house, good sir?" The words roll out without me even realizing that I am speaking.

The man stoops to enter the door, and then, as if to put me at ease, he lowers himself on one knee so his imposing height will seem less intimidating.

"Do not be afraid, Mary," he says gently, "You have found favor with God."

I have been holding my breath, I realize, but now relax enough to let it out and take another. His next words, however, terrify me.

"You will be with child and give birth to a son, and are to give him the name Jesus."

Me "with child"? Bear a son? I'm just a girl in my father's house. But he goes on, and it is all I can do to keep up with the words which sound like a formal decree from a king or someone he represents.

"... You will give him the name Jesus. He will be great, and will be called Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will have no end!"

The man has finished his message for a moment. I brush the hair away from my face. "How will this be," I stammer, "since I am a virgin?"

He must be an angel! The royal manner and presence, the shining garments. I clutch the mending still tighter in my fists.

"The Holy Spirit will come upon you," he answers, "and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the Holy One to be born will be called the Son of God."

He's not talking about my marriage in a year, and a little "Joseph" nine months later. No, he's talking about some kind of miraculous pregnancy, a pregnancy from God Himself. A holy Child who is God's Son, body and spirit.

Why me, a peasant's daughter in a hill-country village? Why is God is calling a mother for His holy Son? Why?

The angel doesn't answer my whys, but his tone changes from royal herald to gentle explainer.

"Did you know that your cousin Elizabeth in Judea is pregnant?"

Old Elizabeth, the priest's wife? She must be sixty if she's a day! How amazing! How wonderful!

"Yes," he goes on, "though everyone thought she would never have a baby, she's already six months pregnant!" The angel is smiling, and now I am smiling, too. Elizabeth, six months pregnant! What a divine joke on everyone! How happy she must be! I look at the angel once more, but the smile is gone. There is friendliness and warmth, but no smile.

"Mary," he assures me, "nothing is impossible with God." Then he is silent, waiting.

So I'm to be the mother of the promised Messiah? How can it be? And yet this is God's angel. It must be true!

But what about Joseph, dear Joseph who loves me. He could never understand this. He would never believe this. And my mother and father -- the village for that matter -- how could anyone understand? I don't understand it either, but I find I believe it. Deep within I know that this angel bears me a message directly from God Himself.

I glance up again. He is still waiting. No convincing, no arguing, no badgering. Just waiting for an answer to take back to his Lord.

"Mary, mother of God's Son." It sounds so strange. I am weeping now, overcome with love for God who is trusting me to carry out this awesome mission for Him.

At the same time thoughts rush in to compete for my attention, thoughts of my future, of Joseph, of my parents, and friends. I can't expect anyone to stand by me through this. Can I bear it? I look at my lap. I have twisted my brother's shirt into a tight roll. I unroll it, and try to pat out the wrinkles.e

Yes! I am willing if God will help me. I look up at the angel and speak quietly but clearly: "I am the Lord's servant. May it be to me as you have said."

The angel's face beams, and he rises to his full height. My, he is tall! The sun from the window catches his golden sash for just a moment, and moving sparkles cascade upon the walls and ceiling and floor.

Now I hear the sounds of children laughing and glance out the window to see my sisters skipping up the path, my mother a few steps behind them. I motion for the angel to leave quickly, but he is no longer here. The door bursts open, and my giggling sisters scamper into the room, tumbling the market produce from their aprons onto the table.

"You seem flushed, girl," mother says. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, mother, I'm fine." She looks at the pile of mending, hardly begun, gives me a glare, and then sets about putting away her purchases.

"Mother," I say. "Do you remember cousin Elizabeth who lives down in Judea?"

"Oh yes, old Bessie. My, but it's been a long time since we've seen her and Zechariah!"

"Mother, I'd like to visit her for a little while, if you think that would be okay with father."

"Now whatever put that thought in your head?"

"Mother...."

"We'll see, Mary, we'll see. I'll talk to your father. Now help me cut up these vegetables. Your father and brothers will be back in less than an hour, hungry for their dinner."

"Yes, mother. I'll help right away. I ... I am your servant."

She stares at me for just a moment, till the barest smile forms at the corners of her mouth, and then hands me the kitchen knife. "Okay, Mary, it's all yours," she says with a touch on the shoulder, and she's out the door calling for my sisters, "Sarah! Margaret! Come help with dinner!"

Old Zechariah's Promise

Streaks of gray salt Zechariah's heavy black beard as this old priest climbs the steps of Herod's Temple to the twin pillars that frame a massive doorway into the gilded building.

His heart is racing. Not from the stairs -- he's been climbing the rugged Judean hills all his life -- but now, in the twilight of his years, Zechariah is about to satisfy a lifelong dream to burn incense before the Holy of Holies inside the Temple.

He steps the final stair and peers into the darkened portico between the pillars. The heavy bronze door swings easily on its pivots and he slips in, pushing the door closed. The deep sound of it shutting echoes throughout the hall.

From the brightness outside his eyes struggle to adjust to dimness within. On his left is the seven-branched lampstand, the flickering of its lamps now steadying as drafts from the massive door closing subside.

An eerie stillness prevails except for the sound of his feet striking the paving stones. He is alone.

Now he moves to the small golden altar in front of the curtain, fumbling in the shadows with incense he has brought. He places the incense on the altar and ignites it with a coal from the censer. The incense flares and begins to release a delicious fragrance that expands to fill every corner of the hall with its delight.

Now Zechariah begins his prayers as the fragrance rises heavenward.

"True it is that You are the Lord our God,
and the God of our fathers,
our King and the King of our Fathers,
our Savior and the Savior of our Fathers,
our Maker and the Rock of our salvation..."

The words of the familiar prayer resound throughout the hall. Today he speaks them before the Holy of Holies itself.

Finally he is quiet once again. He must remember this moment, savor it, let it form indelibly in his mind so that he may recall it forever after.

He will tell his wife and his .... No, Zechariah has no children. Elizabeth has been barren all these years, and though they have earnestly desired sons and daughters, God has sent none. And so Zechariah takes this time alone before the presence of his most Holy God to lift his petition once again.

"Mighty God, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. God of my forefathers Levi and Aaron. I humbly ask you for a child, a son, I ...." His words taper off as his emotions begin to get the better of him.

Slowly he becomes aware that is someone else in the hall. He can hear nothing, but he senses a presence. He glances to the right; just beside him stands a man in shimmering clothing.

Zechariah instinctively flinches, though the man is still. Yet Zechariah is gripped with fear. This isn't a just man. This is an angel. What have I done to offend God? he wonders. What mistake have I made in the ritual, that that God has sent an angel to punish me? Zechariah begins to tremble.

But a voice, a warm and deep, resonates throughout the hall, "Fear not, Zechariah," says the angel. "Your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you are to name him John, 'beloved' of the Lord."

It is like a dream. Zechariah hears the voice and the promise, yet he can scarcely believe his ears.

"He will be a joy and delight to you," the angel continues, "and many will rejoice because of his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord his God."

A son! thinks Zechariah. A son!

But the angel is not finished. "He is never to take wine or other fermented drink...."

A Nazirite, Zechariah realizes. My son is to observe the strict Nazirite vow all his days.

"... and he will be filled with the Holy Spirit even from birth."

Ah! A prophet, thinks the old man. Filled with the Spirit so that he may speak for God.

The words roll on and on. The angel has not lifted his voice, but his speech fills the entire volume of the room with its intensity and boldness.

"Many of the people of Israel will he bring back to the Lord their God. And he will go on before the Lord, in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the fathers to their children and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous -- to make ready a people prepared for the Lord."

Finally, the angel is silent and the echoes throughout the cavernous Temple still.

The angel lingers to the right of the altar of incense as if waiting for something. How should I respond, Zechariah wonders, to this promise of a son? What is this? How can a son be born to an aging priest and his withered old wife? It is good to be true?

"How can this be?" he blurts out. "How can I be sure of what you are saying? For I am an old man and my wife is well along in years."

The angel stiffens as if Zechariah has said something wrong, and his next words take on a more formal tone.

"I am Gabriel," he declares, lifting himself to his full stature. "I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to tell you this good news. And now you will be silent and not able to speak until the day this happens, because you did not believe my words, which will come true at their proper time."

As Zechariah watches, the glimmering angelic light gradually dims. The angel is gone. Zechariah is stunned -- staggered by the rebuke and astonished by the angelic promise: a son. He and old Elizabeth will have a son!

Zechariah completes his tasks at the altar, turns and retraces his path to the giant doors. His step is quicker now, a young man's pace. The censer is swinging, but he does not restrain it. A son! Let it swing!

He pushes the great bronze door open, strides into the brightness outside, and descends the stone steps with a speed and deftness that belie his years. A son!

His fellow priests wonder at his delay. They cluster about him to hear the story which tumbles from his lips at a rapid pace. But no sound voices his words. He speaks but cannot be heard. Zechariah is mute.

"He has seen a vision," says one.

"He has had a visitation," says another.

"He is a bit daft," says a third.

But Zechariah doesn't care. He is speechless but his heart is burning within him. The muteness proves it! he realizes. A son! A son! And then he pauses.

How will I tell Elizabeth? he wonders, and then chuckles.

"I'll find a way," he says to himself, smiling. "I'm sure I'll find a way."

The Real St. Nick (Santa Claus)

"A vast multitude was imprisoned in every place," wrote an eyewitness. "The prisons -- prepared for murderers and robbers -- were filled with bishops, priests, and deacons ... so there was no longer room for those condemned of crimes."

You'd hardly expect to find old St. Nick in jail. But St. Nicholas is more than a children's Christmas legend. He was flesh and blood, a prisoner for Christ, bishop of the Mediterranean city of Myra.

What do we know about the real St. Nicholas? He was born, ancient biographers tell us, to wealthy parents in the city of Patara about 270 A.D. He was still young when his mother and father died and left him a fortune.

As a teen-ager, Nicholas' humility was already evident. He had heard about a family destitute and starving. The father had no money for food, much less the dowry needed to marry off his three daughters. He was ready to send his oldest girl into the streets to earn a living as a prostitute.

Under the cover of night, Nicholas threw a bag of gold coins through the window of their humble dwelling. In the morning the father discovered the gold. How he rejoiced: his family was saved, his daughter's honor preserved, and a dowry for her marriage secured. Some time after, Nicholas secretly provided a dowry for the second daughter. Still later for the third.

But on the third occasion, the girls' father stood watching. As soon as the bag of gold thudded on the floor, he chased after the lad till he caught him. Nicholas was mortified to be discovered in this act of charity. He made the father promise not to tell anyone who had helped his family. Then Nicholas forsook his wealth to answer a call to the ministry.

At the nearby city of Myra a bishop supervised all the churches of the region. When the bishop died, the bishops and ministers from other cities and villages -- Nicholas among them -- gathered to choose a successor.

Nicholas was in the habit of rising very early and going to the church to pray. This morning an aged minister awaited him in the sanctuary. "Who are you, my son?" he asked.

"Nicholas the sinner," the young minister replied. "And I am your servant."

"Come with me," the old priest directed. Nicholas followed him to a room where the bishops had assembled. The elderly minister addressed the gathering. "I had a vision that the first one to enter the church in the morning should be the new bishop of Myra. Here is that man: Nicholas."

Indeed they did choose him as bishop. Nicholas was destined to lead his congregation through the worst tribulation in history.

In A.D. 303, the Roman Emperor Diocletian ordered a brutal persecution of all Christians. Those suspected of following the Lord were ordered to sacrifice to pagan gods. Nicholas and thousands of others refused.

Ministers, bishops, and lay people were dragged to prison. Savage tortures were unleashed on Christians all over the empire. Believers were fed to wild animals. Some were forced to fight gladiators for their lives while bloodthirsty crowds screamed for their death. Women suffered dehumanizing torment. Saints were beaten senseless, others set aflame while still alive.

Yet persecution couldn't stamp out Christianity. Rather it spread. Third Century leader Tertullian observed, "The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church."

Those who survived Diocletian's torture chambers were called "saints" or "confessors" by the people, because they didn't forsake their confession that Jesus Christ is Lord. Nicholas was one of these.

Finally, after years of imprisonment, the iron doors swung open and Bishop Nicholas walked out, freed by decree of the new Emperor Constantine. As he entered his city once more, his people flocked about him. "Nicholas! Confessor!" they shouted. "Saint Nicholas has come home."

The bishop was beaten but not broken. He served Christ's people in Myra for another thirty years. Through the prayers of this tried and tested soldier of faith, many found salvation and healing. Nicholas participated in the famous Council of Nicea in 325 A.D. He died on December 6, about 343, a living legend, beloved by his whole city.

St. Nick of yuletide fame still carries faint reminders of this ancient man of God. The color of his outfit recollects the red of bishop's robes. "Making a list, checking it twice," probably recalls the old saint's lectures to children about good behavior. Gifts secretly brought on Christmas eve bring to mind his humble generosity to the three daughters.

Yet if he were alive today, this saint would humbly deflect attention from himself. No fur-trimmed hat and coat, no reindeer and sleigh or North Pole workshop. As he did in life centuries ago, Bishop Nicholas would point people to his Master.

"I am Nicholas, a sinner," the old saint would say. "Nicholas, servant of Christ Jesus."

Shepherds, Angels, and a Manger

The hundreds of sheep were quiet now, except for an occasional bleat. Night had fallen, stars were sharp in the nippy sky, and shepherds reclined on a steep hillside above Bethlehem, watching their flocks.

The men talked quietly, their low voices soothing to the animals. Old Elias had spent his lifetime on these sheepfields. Then there was Judah ben-Ozzri, twenty years old and cynical. His uncle had been imprisoned by Roman occupation troops for some minor offense. When he could, Judah plotted secretly with a unit of Zealot guerrillas. David, Israel's greatest king, had been a shepherd on Bethlehem's hills a millennium before. As a teenager, David had defeated the giant Goliath and thrown off the yoke of Philistine tyranny. Judah ben-Ozzri longed to do the same. If only a Leader, a Deliver, would come and drive the cursed Romans from their land!

"The lambs will all die before long," he muttered darkly. "Only the ewes will survive."

"Eh?" said Elias, a bit too loudly. His hearing had faded over the years.

Judah spoke a bit louder, "The ewes will be sheared next summer, and bear more lambs, but the lambs themselves...."

"What?" asked Elias, leaning closer.

"The lambs," said Judah loudly into his ear, "won't live beyond Passover. In the Jerusalem temple, they'll be sacrificed."

"Ah, Passover in the temple," returned Elias. "On the Holy Day they'll sacrifice a lamb for each family."

Jerusalem and its temple were just six miles north of Bethlehem, and supplying lambs for the Passover sacrifice was these shepherds' livelihood.

"Passover..." reflected the old man. "I wish I could have seen the first Passover!"

Elias would rather talk than listen, since it was hard for him to catch the words when others spoke.

"Moses was our Deliverer on that first Passover night when God's judgment fell upon Egypt." As he spoke, his listeners could picture the destroying angel that had passed through Egypt. "The Egyptian firstborn were killed," said Elias, "but each Israelite slave family had sacrificed a precious lamb, and put its blood across the top and on both sides of their doorways. Their sins were atoned for, the lamb's life for theirs. And God's terrible judgment passed over them."

"The ewes will live on," repeated Judah, "but the lambs will be sacrificed."

"What?" said Elias, but Judah didn't say it again.

"I don't think I'd like to be a lamb," the youngest shepherd said solemnly.

The shepherds now fell silent, and tugged their heavy cloaks about them to shelter them from the whistling wind. Their eyes were accustomed to the blackness. Every few moments they would look up to scan the hills for wolves or thieves. They weren't about to lose sheep by carelessness.

All of a sudden their hillside was flooded by the light of a thousand arc lamps, blinding them with its intensity. When they could finally see, a man in shining apparel stood before them. "Do not be afraid," he declared in the ringing voice of a herald.

"I bring you good news of great joy
that will be for all the people.
Today in the town of David
a Deliverer has been born to you.
He is the Lord's Messiah."

"The Messiah! The Deliverer!" breathed Judah ben-Ozzri. "He is come at last to set our people free."

They could scarcely comprehend. Good news! Great joy! In the town of David, the Son of David is born this night. The Lord's Messiah! The shining man, glowing with the very Shekinah glory of God, had declared it. It must be so!

The angel continued: "This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying an a manger."

What a strange sign. But there was no time to think.

Now the shining angel drew himself to full height, and as he opened out his arms, the radiance and glory upon him began to spread until it covered rank after rank of angels, the heavenly host, the army of God himself -- more and more, company after company, battalion after battalion, began to fill the sky. And now they began to chant, to shout in unison.

"Glory to God in highest."

The sound bounced off the hills and echoed from the valleys, like the rumble of thunder, like the roar of a great waterfall, the shout of triumph reverberated. The shout of worship, the shout of honor, the shout of glorious praise.

"Glory to God in the highest," they shouted together with one enormous voice of worship.

"Glory to God in the highest," they chanted in unison, the overwhelming resonance blotting out everything else and infecting shepherds with its utter joy. The host of God, overcome with awe at the archangel words, now shouted again, "Glory to God in the highest! And on earth Shalom -- peace -- to those whom God has favored."

Again and again the waves of praise rolled over the hillsides, until finally the voices began to fade, and only in the distance could the shepherds still hear shouts of "Glory, glory, glory," that finally diminished to silence at last. The brilliant light, too, was fading, like the final streaks of sunlight dipping below the horizon and painting the clouds red and pink in departing splendor.

Old Elias was first to speak, "Praise the Lord, dear friends. We have witnessed what the prophets only dreamed of."

"Angels," breathed the youngest.

"The hosts of God's army," said Judah.

"Something greater still," Elias said. "The chance to see the Lord's Messiah with our own eyes. You heard the angel. He's here, yonder in Bethlehem, and we must find him. The angel told us how -- a baby, wrapped in the swaddling bands of a newborn, lying in a manger.... A manger," repeated the old man.

You could find dozens of cattle troughs if you searched all the outlying farms, but a manger with a newborn lying in it -- that was the sign! In Bethlehem itself, Elias could think of just one -- inside a cave at the very edge of town where travelers' animals were quartered. The old man careened down the hillside at a pace that left the younger shepherds breathless. He was ahead of them now, almost running to the cave behind the inn.

When they finally caught up, the old man was standing at the doorway to the cave, tears running down his cheeks.

"The Son of David," he was saying, "The Lord's Messiah. The Deliverer has come."

The shepherds moved inside and knelt at the manger, peering at the sleeping baby boy, all tightly wrapped in swaddling bands.

The youngest explained to the mother, "An angel told us," he stammered, "and then thousands, millions of angels filled the sky, lit up with God's light. 'Glory to God,' they shouted, and we joined them until we were hoarse, until they were gone."

Then Elias addressed her. "Young woman, mother of this blessed Child. You are one of the favored ones of whom the angels spoke, upon whom God's glory and grace is resting tonight."

You could see her lips form the words, "Yes, I know," but no voice came.

The old shepherd went on, "The angel told us that your Child is God's promised Messiah, our Deliverer."

Then the old man was silent. He just knelt there for a few more moments. Finally he rose up, took the mother's hand, and pressed it with his own. "God has entrusted you to raise his own Son, my dear. Our prayers are with you."

He motioned his compatriots towards the door, and they got up, leaving the cave and its manger and its Christ-Child. Nor were the shepherds silent about what they had seen. They spread the good news far and wide.

Then they went back to their flocks, and carefully tended lambs that were destined for sacrifice on Passover. And though they could not know or understand it, the baby Deliverer in the manger would not challenge the Roman oppressors, but instead deliver us from the sin and death that oppress us all. For these lamb-herders had seen God's Lamb, born to be a Passover sacrifice for the sins of the entire world.