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  QUIET TALKS ABOUT THE BABE OF BETHLEHEM
  by Samuel Dickey Gordon
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Gordon's devotional meditation on the birth of Jesus through the lens of key
figures in the nativity narrative, providing character studies of Mary, Joseph,
and others involved in the Christmas story and their faith responses to God's
purposes.

  Chapters: 7

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS
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    1. Preface
    2. Chapter 1: Mary The Virgin
    3. Chapter 2: Gabriel The Messenger
    4. Chapter 3: Elizabeth The Kinswoman
    5. Chapter 4: Joseph The Friend
    6. Chapter 5: Bethlehem The Birthplace
    7. Chapter 6: Jesus The Babe Born

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  CHAPTER 1: PREFACE
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Preface Scripture text of the story:—Matthew 1:18 to Matthew 2:12. Luke 1:26 to
Luke 2:20.

“O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and
dreamless sleep The silent stars go by; Yet in thy dark streets shineth The
everlasting Light; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee tonight!

“For Christ is born of Mary; And gathered all above, While mortals sleep, the
angels keep Their watch of wond’ring love. O morning stars! together Proclaim
the holy birth, And praises sing to God the King, And peace to men on earth!

“How silently, how silently The wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human
hearts The blessings of His heav’n. No ear may hear His coming; But in this
world of sin, Where meek souls will receive Him still, The dear Christ enters
in.

“O holy child of Bethlehem, Descend to us, we pray; Cast out our sin and enter
in, Be born in us to-day! We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings
tell,— Oh, come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel.” —Phillips Brooks.


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  CHAPTER 2: CHAPTER 1: MARY THE VIRGIN
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Chapter 1: Mary The Virgin She was a simple-hearted maiden with the light of the
morning in her pure face. Straightforwardness and sincer­ity were in her very
pose, and in the look of her clear eye. She moved with a swift deft
noiselessness, and yet there was a lingering, almost like a caress, in touch and
speech and pose that seemed to tell much of her inner nature. It was more than
thoughtfulness. It was as if she saw through the common things she touched, saw
the spirit of which they are the material expression. She went the common daily
round of simple homely duties. But she saw visions and dreamed dreams, as she
faithfully did her appointed tasks. There was the unconscious innocent
art­lessness of a child in face and speech and move. Yet if some principle of
right came into question there at once came to the fore a will that was anything
but childlike in its strength and maturity. Then the flash of eye and set of
face and tenseness of body, and withal a greater quiet­ness of word and manner,
revealed the will of iron or better of wrought steel. And crossing Napoleon’s
Alps were an easy task compared with attempting a crossing here. Whoever tried
never got beyond the trying stage. She insisted on following every glint and
gleam of light that came, however small it might be; and that, too, utterly
regardless of difficulties. This was the real touchstone of her character. That
is a narrow steep path. It leads out in front of every one’s feet. It is a
lonely path, oft untrodden though never unseen. She trod it, trod it faithfully,
every step of it that opened out in front of a step already trodden. This was
the touchstone of her spirit, as of every true life. So she kept her life pure
inward, warm and simple outward, and open upward. Yet withal the chief
impression she gave was of a simple-hearted maiden, with light step, intent on
her task. This much we learn in Holy Writ of her who was chosen by God to bring
to the birth, and to mother the growing human years of His Only-Begotten. If you
see an apple you know there is an apple tree that bore this bit of fruit. The
apple is the fruit of the tree. All of the tree, from unseen root to outmost tip
of bough, is in the apple. So character reveals itself in the outer ex­pression.
Face and voice, action and pose, are the fruit of the inner life. We all
recog­nize some of the fruit. None of us are very ex­pert in recognizing the
finer fruits. But they are all there for eyes that may be able to see. Her
family was one of the oldest in the nation, and one of the most highly honored.
For she belonged to the royal line of the great King David. The family records
were all sacredly treasured. But the sore straits of the nation, so sadly
commonplace, had affected her family in many ways. In the drift back and forth
under the drive of necessity, the unceasing thought for bed and bread and garb,
her branch of the family had swung far from the old ancestral territory. It was
in little Nazareth of the north that she had grown to young womanhood. Nestled
on three sides of a gentle depression on the hills it yet had a wondrous
outlook. The town crept up the hill as though eager for the best, whatever
neighbors might say. It looked out over that great plain that breaks across the
hills that run from north and south. Esdraelon seems to elude the vigilance of
the lonely Carmel ridge doing sentinel duty by the sea, as though inviting all
men to a truce upon a common level. From the top of the hill just above the town
one could look out over the great stretched out broken plain. Yonder thin moving
line is a caravan of traders, prob­ably from Syria or far Babylonia bound for
Egypt. Over there that is a group of imperial Roman soldiers galloping along in
their reckless aggressiveness, masters of the world. And over yonder that yet
thinner, less distinct line is probably some faithful Hebrew pilgrims coming
from some far exiled colony to one of the feasts at the holy shrine of
Jerusalem. Over on the left lie the hills that rise up toward the historic
fortress city of David. In front beyond the broad broken plain lies the great
blue sea. That sea is the whole outer world. It is indeed the Mediterranean, the
Center-of-the-earth, Sea. All lands and peoples and tongues and warfares and
cul­tures slope down somewhere to its shores. And up here to the right lies
hoary Her­mon in its grandeur, crown of all the north­ern mountains. And at the
back you can see the land sloping down to the yellow-brown, twisting, watery
barrier called the Jordan, and beyond that the hills rising again toward the
sunrising. This was one of the two books in Mary’s scant home library. The world
opened its pages wide at Nazareth. I have no doubt that many a twilight found
her climbing the hill, perhaps with some bit of needlework in hand, to sit and
sew, and look out, and dream dreams and see visions. For she had learned to
read—a little, spirit reading. And she had that gift, that is given to simple,
thoughtful hearts, of seeing through things out and in to the real unseen that
makes and moulds the seen. The other book she had was the Word of God. Two
wondrous books those, the Word of God and the World of God. The first opens the
eyes for the only clear full look at the second. The only clue to the world of
God is the Word of God. Without that it is a hopeless tangle, an enigma without
an answer. But with the clue-book at hand all clears. At least it clears enough
to keep one from being be­fogged, and to hold his feet steady, and make him
watchful for more light. And Mary used this old first book. That is quite clear.
I do not mean of course that she had a scholar’s knowledge and grasp of the old
Hebrew writings. But she clearly did have what was within the reach of any
thoughtful person busy with the daily round of common life. She knew the
language—the phraseology—of the one Book which comprised the whole litera­ture
of her people. She had drunk deep of the spirit of the Book. She knew the past
of her people. She felt to the quick their national humiliation so inexpressibly
deep and sore, and still holding them in its shameful bondage. She glowed over
its picture of the future. She knew Isaiah, and the others, and be­lieved them.
She took at full value all the old visions of a wondrous future with a wondrous
King, and all that. She couldn’t make it fit with present con­ditions. She
couldn’t figure out how the change would come. She did not try to. Orientals
don’t go to figuring out processes. They leave that to the Westerner. ’Twere
blessed if more of us were more Oriental in this regard. But she believed. In
her simple heart she thought and longed, she burned and glowed, she prayed and
expected, really expected. This much is clear. She went her daily simple round,
house­hold duties, the trips back and forth to the one village spring where all
went for their water, synagogue service on the seventh day, neighborly
intercourse, and so on. But her heart was full of deeper things, of which she
knew, she understood, little but believed and hoped and yearned and brooded and
expected much. Her family had arranged her betrothal in accord with the customs
of her people. She had come to the age when this should be done. And, no doubt,
after much thought and interchange, arrangements had been begun and carried
forward until the be­trothal was duly arranged and celebrated with all the
formality common among her people. Her betrothed would naturally be a fellow
tribesman of the same famous tribe of Judah to which her own family belonged.
Things have come up to this point in her life when our story opens.


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  CHAPTER 3: CHAPTER 2: GABRIEL THE MESSENGER
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Chapter 2: Gabriel The Messenger ONE day she was sitting alone within the house
busy at her task of the moment, perhaps sewing, when her quick eye noted a
shadow on the floor at the street door. Looking quickly up she sees a kindly
faced man standing in the doorway, a stranger to her. He is not of the village,
nor yet any of her more distant kinspeople whom she had seen. A glance tells her
this. Before she can rise hastily and offer the cus­tomary hospitalities he
speaks and her quick ear notices the grave, singularly clear tones of his low,
kindly voice. He utters a simple brief gracious salutation: “Hail, thou one
endued with grace. The Lord with thee.” And Mary’s heart is at once all in a
flut­ter. A great sense of fear takes hold of her. She reveals deep agitation.
Who can this stranger be? And what sort of a salutation is this? And there’s an
undefined something about this stranger that she feels, with a sense of
deepening awe. And all this is in a mo­ment. And at once the kindly voice goes
on in quiet and quieting measured gentleness: “Fear not, Mary: for thou hast
found favor with God.” And a quieting comes over Mary’s spirit, stilling her
agitation as the words are spoken. And again she is half conscious that the
quiet­ing is not simply in the words but in the presence of this stranger. And
so the words that follow fall upon a quieted, and so a more attentive, a keener
listening ear. And then she hears the most startling announcement of God’s plan
for her. A son was to be born. The name was given by which He was to be called,
Jesus. This itself is startling to her. But it cannot compare with what follows.
This son would be great. He would be the Son of the Most High. He would revive
the ancient throne of David, and reign over the renewed nation forever, and
there would be no limit to His Kingdom. Such was the startling message so
quietly spoken by the stranger in the doorway. And with the words came a
peculiar sense of certainty. The thing would really be so. Does Mary’s thought
go with lightning swiftness back to Sarah and the word spoken to her about a
son? Does she think of Hannah and her promised son? She knows both incidents
well. She has often brooded over them. If they do come to her now it is with
that peculiar lightning swiftness of thought like a flashlight picture. But a
simple question is all that comes from her lips. Her great strength of character
is revealed in the very simplicity of her response, her brief, direct question.
There is no amazement expressed, no ques­tioning of this startling thing told to
her. Only a bit of information is asked for. It was concerning the one natural
thing for a woman to think about. There was an impression of immediateness in
the man’s speech. The thing was to hap­pen at once in its beginnings. And her
mar­riage was probably not yet arranged as to time. These early Orientals
thought and spoke of this sort of event with a primitive simplicity which has
largely been lost. And so this maiden, who had so faithfully followed all the
light that has come to her, now asks for a bit of light. What would be the
method whereby this great event would be worked out? And at once the question is
answered, the desired light is given. This is characteristic of God in His
dealings with an obedient human spirit. And the sought for light brings another
startling announcement. The result spoken of would come by God’s own Holy Spirit
coming in a special overshadowing way upon Mary. So there would be begotten a
man child. And so He would be the very Son of God. This is the second startling
announce­ment, aye, more than that—stupendous. And at once, quietly, clearly,
Mary under­stands just what is meant. At last the dream of her people is to come
true. At last—de­liverance. The old pictured glowing visions of the prophetic
rolls are to become real. The time has come. And she—she—has been chosen by God
as the one to be used. Some one had to be when the time did come. The time was
come. And God has chosen to use her for the simple, holy task. Not as Sarah, nor
as Hannah, something much more. He had given much grace. He would give more, as
much as she would need. Mary’s very quietness of spirit reveals both her great
strength and the great grace given her, But the heavenly visitor is still
speaking. While these thoughts flash through Mary’s mind with more than
lightning swiftness and simplicity and clearness, she hears the further word.
This is a word to strengthen and encourage Mary in accepting readily,
unquestioningly, what has just been told her. God is at work elsewhere in a
wondrous way. She can see His power in action among her own people in a very
unusual way. Elizabeth her kinswoman is even then know­ing the direct touch of
God in her life, in a most unusual, most remarkable way, and has known it so for
some time. God is at work. The time is ripe. And then comes the sen­tence so
simple, so tremendous, that no one has yet taken it in in the fullness of its
meaning: “no word from God shall be void of power.” And the angel waits a
moment. He waits Mary’s answer. This was God’s wondrous plan. It waited now,
waited upon her consent So all God’s plans wait on human consent Every one has
the privilege of saying “yes” to God some time in his life. It may not be at
such a turning point in history as this. It will be as much of a turning point
for the man answering. It will be the point of turning in and up to God’s plan.
And one never does know how much may turn on his simple glad “yes” to God. Other
turning points in history will come. Other crises draw on. There will be need of
men again. And Mary answers. The waiting is only long enough for the will to
shape the lips. There is a simple assent. There could be no less, with a true
heart; and there could be no more. There is no hesitation, no questionings, no
figuring out of probabilities and possibilities, no consideration of coming
difficulties and embarrassments and sore misunderstandings which may likely have
come swiftly to her womanly thought. Just a quiet, strong, simple “yes”; “very
well”; “behold the bondmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.”
Of her own sweet glad consent, like the Hebrew bondman of old, she has become
the voluntary bond-slave for life of her Lord. She yielded her strong will to
His. In this particular thing He had asked of her she had yielded herself, her
all, in the most sacred sense to the use and control of God as her Lord and
Master. And already her Lord has put upon her the fresh mark of His ownership,
in His choice of her for His plan, which can now be carried out. Do you recall
the old primitive custom among the Hebrews regarding slavery (Exodus 11:2-6)? A
man might sell himself for six years, but on the seventh new year’s morning he
was free. But he might find himself saying, “I don’t want to go away. I love my
master; this is home to me. I want to stay for always.” And he would plainly say
this to his master. Then, you remember, the old simple cus­tom was like this:
his master would take his slave out to the front door of the home, in the
presence of the chief men of the neigh­borhood. And he would pierce a
sharp-pointed awl through the lobe of the man’s ear and into the door-jamb. The
man was fastened for the moment to his master’s house. So the man became his
master’s bond-slave forever. It was a going into slavery. It was volun­tary. It
was for love’s sake. It was for service. It was for life. It was after a six
years’ testing. It was of his very self. This was what Mary’s divine Son did
years after. The Psalmist’s words,—“mine ears hast thou pierced,” (Psalms 40:6,
margin) in their connection, clearly find their fullness of meaning in Jesus.
And the Isaiah reference to the same thing reveals how much of shame and
spitting and worse that volunteer slavery to His Father’s will meant for Jesus
(Isaiah 1:5-7). From India, up in the five-rivered Panjab, a story comes of a
young man who was per­secuted because he accepted Christ. He was seized by his
family and carried far off. And for long no word of him was received. Finally a
letter came to the man who had taught him and led him to accept Christ. Eagerly
the letter was read for some word of his Christian faith. But not a word was
there, to his Christian friend’s deep disap­pointment. Then his eye was caught
by a queer sort of scratching in a corner of the letter. What was it? Was there
something here? And the letter was held this way and that, till at last it was
seen just what that insignificant looking scratching meant. Clearly it was a
man’s ear. There was a hole in the lobe of the ear. And in the lobe a piece of
stick was thrust. So the flood of soft light broke. The young man had been
taught about the old Hebrew custom. Here he was say­ing, “I love my Master. I
have not left His service. I am His forever.” All of this is in one word of
Mary’s quiet, simple answer, the word “bondmaid” That was her bit of etching,
scratched, not in a corner, but out in full view, on the front page of the
epistle of her life. That told her glad slavery of love, free, strong, lifelong
serving love, regardless of misunderstandings and embarrassments and
difficulties; of possible smitings and pluckings of shame that might come to
her. And she offered the sweet slavery of her­self after she knew the particular
plan for her life. So many of us make the surrender in blank, but balk when the
particulars are filled in. Blessed indeed is Mary among women for the
whole-hearted giving of herself to be used as her Lord might choose. And blessed
is she, and he, who join themselves in like manner to the blessed company of
Mary the Virgin. And the quiet, kindly faced man who has been talking with Mary
turns and passes quietly out of the door and out of sight. Just so had the three
men, strangers, pass­ing by, stopped at the tent of Abraham un­der the great
oaks of Mamre in the southern mountains that early afternoon long, long before.
And all unawares of who these are Abraham offers his gracious hospitality, and
then finds himself talking face-to-face with Jehovah Himself (Genesis 18,
throughout). And so God’s companions on that journey, the two angels, come as
two men to Lot at eventide as he sits in the gateway of wicked Sodom (Genesis
19:1-22). So Joshua sees a man standing, sword in hand, athwart his path, and
then finds that it is Jehovah Himself with whom he is talking (Joshua 5:13 to
Joshua 6:2). In the same way a man comes to Manoah and his wife to tell of a son
coming to them (Judges 13:2-21). And in like manner had Gabriel himself, Mary’s
visitor, talked with Daniel about what should happen to his people (Daniel
8:15-16; Daniel 9:21). In just this simple natural fashion does Gabriel come to
Mary, and when his errand is done, her heart is prepared and her con­sent
gotten, he quietly walks out and is not seen again.


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  CHAPTER 4: CHAPTER 3: ELIZABETH THE KINSWOMAN
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Chapter 3: Elizabeth The Kinswoman And Mary is left alone. She glances up
perhaps. Yes, quite alone. Is it a dream? Will she be awaking? Ah! no, it is too
real a thing ever to be ques­tioned. No one who ever had a message direct from
God doubts it. That was a holy day to Mary. She rises to go about her usual
common task. But there’s a touch of sacredness in the day. It has been made holy
to her by God’s choice of her for the simple bit of service she could give. It
had been made holy by this visit of the messenger of God. It was made yet more
holy by her own action, her simple full consent to God’s plan for her life.
Nothing human can make holy like that. That evening in the twilight she sat on
the hill looking out over plain and mountain and sea in holy wordless communion.
Perhaps if she had access to an old Scripture roll in the home she turned to
that Psalm of Asaph’s, the Seventy-seventh. And her slender finger traced anew
the line: “I will remember thy wonders of old” And she paused and mused. Then,
with a holy hush coming anew over her spirit, her finger dropped down and traced
the yet more wondrous line: “Thou art the God that doest wonders” (Psalms 77:11;
Psalms 77:14). That night she knelt by her couch in sacred renewal of her solemn
dedication of herself to such a wondrous God. And she cares for her personal
needs with a new sense of the sacredness of things that can be touched and cared
for. And now Mary’s thought turns naturally to her kinswoman in the southland,
Eliza­beth. She was much Mary’s senior. It is not improbable that there was a
kinship of spirit between them. On some previous visit they may have had simple
fellowship and understanding in the deep things of the spirit. Elizabeth may
have been to her as a wise mother in spiritual things. And now Eliza­beth was
having unusual experience these days of the wonder-working power of God. If she
might have some fellowship of spirit with Elizabeth now. There would be no one
with whom she could commune of what had been told her. No one could understand.
And it was a very holy thing to her, that interview. She could tell only words.
She could never tell the sense of reality and power that had come. And one
shrinks from letting out the inner sacred things to those who do not
under­stand. If she might commune with Eliza­beth. And as she thinks it over it
comes strongly to her that this is the Spirit’s sug­gestion and plan. And so
speedily the visit is arranged. And the journey south is made. And no one
suspects how much this quiet young traveller knows in her own spirit of God’s
plan. Just so is God ever at work, while the busy crowd hurries on its important
small way utterly oblivious of the great things being done. And now as she
enters the home of Eliza­beth, perhaps unannounced, the unusual salutation of
Elizabeth strikes her ear. It comes as a gracious assurance that she had indeed
understood aright what had come to her. If there had been any questionings; if
any wonderings had come; if indeed it could be true that one so simple as she,
so unworthy, was in the plan of God so intimately; if any touch of dreamy
unreality had come in; any thing of this sort is now quite removed. And as she
listens to the words from her kinswoman’s lips her whole being responds afresh
to God’s call. And the touch of the Holy Spirit comes anew upon her. And she
breaks out in the simple rapturous song of worship and praise. That song is
Mary’s spirit photograph. Her whole inner heart and life are laid bare in its
simple, reverent, joyous words. Wondrous communion that was between the two
kinswomen. And for three months they have sweetest fellowship together. And Mary
is immeasurably strengthened by this sweet intercourse of spirit. And now she
returns to her northern home, and picks up again the thread of her daily task.
And none know of her sacred secret. And evermore that lingering brooding mood
grows upon her as she goes about the home and village on her common round. Do
questionings arise in her mind to harass and tease as the days go on? If so she
simply leans harder in spirit on Him whose bondmaid she is. This is His matter.
He will look after it. Her part is simple obedience, as she goes on her natural,
accustomed way.


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  CHAPTER 5: CHAPTER 4: JOSEPH THE FRIEND
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Chapter 4: Joseph The Friend And now as time goes on Joseph be­comes troubled.
He broods much, sore troubled. Something seems wrong, grievously wrong. The
evidence seems unmistakable. He was a good man, rigid in his sense of right,
stern in his sense of duty, having withal a certain kindliness of spirit. He
would not make trouble. He would not make matters worse by any open action. But
certainly something must be done; so his thoughts ran on. He was sore troubled.
And poor Mary goes quietly on her way. She senses all, though no word may have
been spoken. She feels keenly, how keenly no words can say. Yet she stays her
heart on Him whose bondmaid she is. This is a bit of that voluntary slavery she
had accepted. She would be true. Her Lord knew all. He could be trusted to make
things right. He would be trusted to do it in His own time and way. Do some
strains of her “magnificat” sing themselves now that the shadows of the valley
are upon her? I think likely, in soft, subdued, sometimes whispered tones. Then
Joseph has a dream. The angel of God comes now to him. And he learns Mary’s
wondrous holy secret. And, as he wakes, instantly he knows that this is no
passing vagary of sleep, but a dream with a meaning, a dream that is a message.
And a great sense of relief blends with a sense of being trusted with a great
responsi­bility. Mary is the pure maiden he had thought, and more, so much more
than he could have dreamed; she is God’s chosen one. The time is come. The
nation’s deliver­ance is at hand. And he is to have a share. He is to do the
part a man may do in the great events being worked out; only the in­cidental
part; yet what a privilege to have even that part. And he accepts gratefully the
sacred trust committed to him of being the friend of the holy woman through whom
God is working out His great plan. Friendship never had holier, sweeter task.
The incident reveals the difficulties—shall I reverently say God’s
difficulties?—in work­ing the plan out in its true human setting; the human
difficulties in working out the divine plan. Naturally the child must be born in
technical wedlock. The proper human conventions demand that absolutely. Yet no
human conventionalities must be allowed to mar the great plan of the new man
coming in a new distinctive way. The whole plan of God for a race centered in
that. Why was Joseph not told earlier? Would it not have saved Mary much—the
word “needless” comes—needless pain of spirit? But we remember there is nothing
needless with God, especially when it concerns pain for any child of His. Why
not? I think simply because he could not have taken it in. What had been
accepted by Mary would have seemed utterly impossible to him, wholly outside the
range of his imagination. But what troubled him took great hold of him. His
whole inner being was stirred. There came a shock. And it worked changes within
not otherwise reachable. When that dream came it was to a man strangely wrought
upon in his spirit, open now, suscep­tible. That was a wondrous morning for
Mary, that morning of waking after Joseph’s dream. As he came to her home, his
face instantly told her of the change in him. She had a friend now in her
betrothed. She would have a true understanding friend in her husband. He had
accepted his part of the sacred trust God had been true. All this, one glance
into Joseph’s face told her sensitive spirit And her heart leaped anew even as
when Elizabeth’s salutation drew out the wondrous song. But there is a new
tenderness of gratitude in this song of her heart, this new unwritten magnificat
And the arrangements are quickly made, and the betrothal is perfected into
marriage. And Joseph begins his holy task, such as man never had before, nor
since. The hearth-fire of a new home is kindled, that most sacred of all human
altar-fires. That sweet word “home” was never more sweet nor hallowed. “The wind
from out the west is blowing; The homeward wandering cows are lowing; Dark grow
the pine woods, dark and drear— The woods that bring the sunset near.

“When o’er wide seas the sun declines, Far off its fading glory shines,— Far
off, sublime, and full of fear,— The pine woods bring the sunset near.

“This house that looks to east, to west, This, dear one, is our home, our rest;
Yonder the stormy sea, and here The woods that bring the sunset near.” (Richard
Watson Gilder.) And that word husband took on a new fine­ness of meaning as
Joseph became the friend and protector of the woman whom God had chosen to bring
to the birth His own Only-begotten. And the word friend was seen in its fine
holy meaning in the new peculiar relation­ship of those holy months. So the days
grow on. They grow in a new tender rich­ness to Mary now. This friendship of her
husband means much to her.


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  CHAPTER 6: CHAPTER 5: BETHLEHEM THE BIRTHPLACE
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Chapter 5: Bethlehem The Birthplace BUT now a new difficulty arises. There sifts
into this little hill-village from far­away Rome an imperial edict There is to
be a new taxation census taken. Every one must be enrolled. The edict is
imperative. This was most embarrassing. It would necessitate a journey to
Bethlehem, the an­cestral centre of their family. It would at best be a tedious,
slow journey. It came at just the time when Mary would naturally have avoided
travel, and longed for the quiet and seclusion of home. This would be the
natural first thought to come. Yet this thought may not have come. For Mary was
the kind to think ahead into things in her thoughtful, brooding way. This
un­usual Son of hers was to sit on the throne of His father David. And it would
be the ap­propriate thing that He should be bom in the city of David, Bethlehem.
And her mind very likely had gone to Micah's word: “Thou Bethlehem, once called
Ephratah . . . out of thee shall one come forth ... to be the ruler in Israel”
(Micah 5:2). But apparently the old home possessions had quite passed out of the
family, in the vicissitudes and strange mix-up of the gen­erations. She may have
been wondering through those waiting months if indeed this were a part of the
wondrous plan. But how it would work out she could not see probably, and had
been content to leave this in her Lord’s hands as so many things had been left.
And now very simply and naturally it is all working out. The whole governmental
ma­chinery of Rome is set in motion that the way may be made open for the plan
to work out fully in every important detail. And the news that might have seemed
embarrassing and troublesome to another brings another quiet singing of her
magnifi­cat. Here is another bit of evidence that God is indeed in action. His
plan is natu­rally, simply working out. And everything needful is made to bend
and help. And so the journey is prepared for. The preparations are made
thoughtfully and thor­oughly, for nothing must be loose or slip­shod on the
human side. But they are made with a song of praise, while maybe the neigh­bors
wonder a bit over Mary’s spirit under what seem like very embarrassing
circum­stances. And so the journey is made. By slow and easy stages, probably,
they make their way southward to the ancient ancestral seat of their family. And
one day they came in sight of the old town lying yonder upon the southern hills
surrounded by olive orchards and green fields and fertile lowlands. They ride in
past David’s well and on into the narrow streets of the city. Joseph doubt­less
longed to take Mary to a home but none is open, and they ask their way to the
travel­lers’ inn. And now another really annoying embar­rassment comes. The
innkeeper comes out and earnestly assures Joseph in answer to his questions and
pleadings that there really is no room at all to be had. The census has brought
an unusual number of old Judah people. And the inn is crowded, quite
over­crowded. This is indeed embarrassing. But a great peace fills Mary’s heart
as she listens to them talking. He who has led will lead. All will be well.
Nothing has escaped His eye. It will be as He has arranged. And she would not
have it otherwise. Then the innkeeper suggests that as night is drawing on they
might find shelter and rest in one of the outer buildings. They really could be
made quite comfortable for a makeshift. And perhaps on the morrow something
could be arranged in the house. And so it is arranged. And there Mary rests a
bit after her journey, and likely as not there’s another soft singing, aye,
joyous singing, of her wondrous song.


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  CHAPTER 7: CHAPTER 6: JESUS THE BABE BORN
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Chapter 6: Jesus The Babe Born And so there the world’s wondrous new babe was
born. And Mary wrapped Him in swaddling clothes, and laid Him tenderly in a
little improvised cradle of fresh straw in the manger, because there was no room
for them in the inn. And over all broods a wondrous unseen Presence,
strengthening, soothing, smooth­ing, comforting—a wondrous Presence that. And
all is still. The world’s lights were all out. It lay asleep, doubly asleep, all
unsus­pecting the world-event of the night. So does the world in its small,
self-satisfied wisdom sleep while God’s events are taking place. But the
stillness was not for long. The upper world is awake. Heaven is always bending
down in brooding concern over the old earth. This means much to the upper- world
folks. The stupidity of earth may shut its eyes to the real things. But heaven’s
heart is awake and alert. Just over that softly rounded hill yonder you see a
little group of shepherds keeping watch over their flocks. They are asleep or
half asleep. But now they are gently startled to see a wondrous glow of soft
light about them. What is this? And they rub their blink­ing eyes. Not moonlight
that, nor starlight; something quite different. And now as their eyes get used a
little to this new sort of light they see some one standing like a man, but with
a glorious appearance unlike any man they ever saw. And there came to them that
sense of dread that men always seem to feel when a touch of heaven comes. And
then this won­drous man of glory speaks quietly : “Be not afraid; for beholdI
bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all the people. For there
is born to you this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.
“And this is the sign unto you; ye shall find a babe wrapped in swaddling
clothes and lying in a manger .” And as the shepherds listen with astonished
staring eyes and open months, they are start­led yet more with a great outburst
of rap­turous singing. And they see a great com­pany of bright angel beings
standing round about this one who has been speaking to them. It is they who are
singing. And the re­frain of their song comes clear and distinct on the night
air: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”
And the shepherds listen and look. And the company of angels move up and away
singing as they go. And as quickly as they can recover themselves the shepherds
hasten in by the nearest road to town, and go inquiring about till at last they
come to the inn, and then find the manger and the babe just as the angel had
said. Their coming has aroused the inn, and as the people come crowding out they
tell of the happenings of the night, the angel mes­sage, and the wonderful
singing, and the story of the wondrous light, until the whole town is astir and
talking. And the babe’s mother listens. She understands. It fits in perfectly
with all she knows. And she broods in her heart over these great things that are
come to pass, and sings a bit of her joyous song as she cares for her pre­cious
babe. Meanwhile as the day wore on something was happening over the hills yonder
to the north in Jerusalem. Three distinguished looking strangers came riding
into the city on their solemn camels. They wear strange garb. Evidently they
came from some far country and are persons of note. They ask their way to the
chief of the city and nation. And their question startles every one: “Where is
He who is born King of the Jews? For we saw His star in the east, and are come
to do Him homage.” And all the city is set agog, from Roman palace to chief
priest’s palace, and every­where else. And to the Roman ruler’s in­quiry the
chief priests of the nations point to Bethlehem as the place foretold in their
writings. Thither now these three travelers from a far country turn their steps.
And when they find the babe they fall down and do Him homage, and offer rare
gifts of the treasured things of their country. And all the people wonder and
talk. And Mary sings again a bit of her holy hymn with a new hush of joy in her
heart, as she cares for the creature needs of her holy babe. IS it not a winsome
Christmas story? this first one? And as one reads it anew, with the Christmas
time drawing near, once again like a refrain of sweet music come the words from
out the old pages of Isaiah: “Unto us a babe is born.” Aye, unto us. Out from
the presence of God, into the sacred womb of a pure virgin, and so into the life
of our race, this babe came unto us. He is ours, this babe. He is our heir
leading us into all the heritage that is ours by divine gift. He is our link
back to God, and forward to the new future, the real life that is ours. Unto us
is this new-born babe come. A babe includes all of both family lines. It is more
than either line, for it is all of both. So in this new-born babe there comes to
be a new lineal union. All of God is in Him. And all there is of man, true man
unhurt by the hurt of sin, is in Him. All the real humanity, the purity, the
strength, the gentleness, and sympathetic touch that belongs to our humanity, is
in Him. All of our hope lies in Him, the taking possession of the racial
heritage lies in this new-born babe, our heir. He is indeed a new-born babe, the
new-born babe. The newness of purity and strength and of realizing all that is
ours comes in this birth. And how simply and fully and naturally this new-born
babe touches all our human life. And in touching it how He enriches life. He
uncovers to us the riches that are there. And He leads to new riches that He
puts there for us. Run through the story again as we have it here, and note the
rare humanness of the doorway through which He came. There is modest womanhood
with all its winsome fineness of texture. There is gentle wifehood with all its
sacredness of faithful relation. There is the never ceasing wonder of motherhood
with its holiest obligations and privileges. And there is human friendship in
its highest setting, with all its rarest oppor­tunities. And there the unceasing
wonder of all miracles—babyhood in the likeness of those begetting the babe. And
there is the one sacred word that sums up all this, the word home, with its true
atmosphere of pure strong unquestion­ing love. What a doorway it was through
which this new-born babe of God, and of the race, came “unto us.” In Eden God
stooped down and breathed upon the dust of the earth, and man came and took on
God’s image and came to his full life. In Nazareth-Bethlehem God stooped and
breathed again that creative breath upon a woman, and forth came a new Man, who
will yet lead the race into its full life. Yes, the shadows are there. It is a
part of life as life actually is. The shadows crept into Eden, and darkened out
over all life. They crept into Nazareth and Bethlehem and thickened and darkened
over the life of the babe bom there till at length the clouds broke in storm.
And then, breaking out through the storm, the new light came. A new-born light
came in as the life of this new-born babe at its maturity went out And that
light shines out over land and sea. And it will shine more and more till the
noontide brightness shall yet come to all our earth. For that new-born Man is
the world’s Saviour, and ours. Is it not a winsome story, this Christmas story?
And, better than winsome, it is true, both in the story of the past and in the
story it holds for the coming days. But we get its real rare winsomeness only as
we let it tell itself out to us in the syl­lables of life. We may make room
within for the new-born Life of Bethlehem and Calvary and the Third Morning.
Then we shall know the sweet music of Mary’s won­drous song. And the more room
the more life and the more music. “Thou didst leave Thy throne and Thy kingly
crown When Thou earnest to earth for me, But in Bethlehem’s home was there found
no room For Thy holy nativity: Oh, come to my heart, Lord Jesus, There is room
in my heart for Thee.

“The foxes found rest and the birds their nest, In the shade of the forest tree;
But Thy couch was the sod, O Thou Son of God, In the deserts of Galilee: Oh,
come to my heart, Lord Jesus, There is room in my heart for Thee.

“Thou earnest, O Lord, with the living word That should set Thy people free; But
with mocking scorn, and with crown of thorn, They bore Thee to Calvary: Oh, come
to my heart, Lord Jesus, Thy cross is my only plea.” Emily E. S. Elliott.


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Source: https://sermonindex.net/books/quiet-talks-about-the-babe-of-bethlehem/
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