I’ve heard it before. The angel, the virgin, the star.
But for the first time, I ask myself, “Where am I? Which figure most reflects my soul? Am I Mary, contrite and brave? Or a Wiseman, seeking Him to bring my gold?” None of the parts are not quite right. As I try to cast myself, I’m not the Joseph, Shepherd and certainly not the angelic-type.
Then, I realize I am the town of Bethlehem. I am not in the story, but rather the story is in me. As a savior seeks me out, I have not the room for him. For his persistence, I grant him a leaky stable, more suited for donkey than King. There are Herod-like forces within me that would vanquish him for fear of the change He threatens. I busy myself with census-taking and the shop keeping of my soul, unaware of the Universe Superhero who has just landed in the back room.
In this pageant of my life, this nativity of my everyday, I must be mindful of the star of the show; perfectly cast to redeem this shoddy production, even though He chose a lowly setting, like me.