A NEW READING WITH APOLOGIES TO LUKE

During the height of the Covid-19 pandemic, a clergy colleague asked me to write a new version of the birth of Jesus that might preserve the radical message of Luke but translate it into more contemporary metaphors. I gave it a shot, and then read it to two of my three granddaughters on Christmas Eve. It is fiction of course (but so was the original), and as we all know, when a story grows stale and sentimental by constant retelling, we can go deaf—which is the first symptom of spiritual atrophy. This isn’t how it happened, of course. But this is how it is always happening.

Luke 2:1-20

In those days, a plague had come to the land of milk and honey. Many had died, alone and gasping for breath—wondering anew if God had died. People wore masks and could not hug each other. Our fearless leader told us it would all be over soon. In fact, he guaranteed it. Then we could start shopping until we dropped again.

In the middle of it all, a decree went out from the Census Bureau that all legal residents should be counted so they could be taxed. It was a regular census, and most people stayed in their own towns to be registered. But some, who were called “illegal aliens” (even though they were all from planet earth) took the dangerous journey across the border from the town of Juarez, Mexico to the town of Bethlehem, Texas.

Among them was a roofer named Jose, and his pregnant wife Maria. After a shotgun wedding, they decided to make the dangerous journey even though their friends tried to talk them out of it. “You are hitting the road with a pregnant woman, are you kidding? To which Jose replied. “We don’t just want to be counted. We want to count.”

After crossing the Rio Grande, Maria went into labor, and gave birth to Jesus, squatting behind a trash bin that reeked of Taco Bell wrappers in the Lone Star State Park. No one was taking notes, of course, and so the whole story would have to be invented later, like a prequel.

Maria was not completely alone, however. The women traveling with her acted as midwives. They held up a blanket for privacy, while Jose tried to stay out of the way. Then they swaddled the baby in an old hoodie and the women laid down beside Maria to keep her and her baby boy warm. There was not a Model Six in sight.

In that region there were cowboys, “essential workers” living in their cars and drinking tequila. Why? It’s not easy to work cattle without fences. Try it some time. Besides, since the plague made their work dangerous, they considered quitting altogether. And then, right in middle of doing shots they heard something. Then they saw something—standing right in front of them—an elderly woman with short, snow-white hair and red glasses.

“Boys,” she said, with that stern confidence that elementary school teachers possess who can’t fool around. “Don’t sleep through this. Something big just happened down by the river. Born to us this day in the Texas city of David, a savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.”

One of the men belched and said, “Who the hell are you darling?” His friend grabbed him by the arm and said, “Would you just shut up and listen! For once in your life, can you just listen?”

“Don’t take my word for it,” she said, “Go have a look for yourself, down by the river. You will find a little brown boy there, wrapped in a hoodie and howling against the night.”

And that’s when it happened. That’s when the men heard music coming from somewhere, even though there wasn’t a radio station for a hundred miles and their car antenna was broken anyway.

But they heard it. They all heard it—like a symphony in the middle of nowhere, and a chorus of voices singing, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!”

The angel with the red glasses suddenly vanished, and one of the guys said, “I think that was my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Gabriel.

“Whatever,” his friend replied. “Let’s go have a look for ourselves. That is, if this piece of junk car will start.” It cranked once, then twice, then roared to life in the silent Texas night.

When they got down to the river, the women were not at all happy to see them. They were strangers, hobos, and had absolutely nothing to contribute to the situation. So, the men stood awkwardly at a distance, feeling as useless as they looked. Then they all took off their hats, which in Texas is a gesture of respect.

They had no idea what to say, because they had no idea why they were there to begin with. Finally, one of them, staring at the ground, broke the silence.

“That’s a beautiful baby ma’am. You must be proud. Word has it that your little boy is really going places.”

Maria said nothing. Then the one who thought the angel was his third-grade teacher said, “We sure did hate to bother you, ma’am, but a stranger told us we had to come, maybe to ask if there is anything you need? We think it might have been an angel, but we’re not sure what an angel looks like exactly. So, we all agreed that, just in case it was an angel, it would be better not to start an argument.”

Maria said nothing. She was exhausted, but she listened. Then she did what women have done since the beginning of time when they are overwhelmed by the world—she pondered.

Then the essential workers—those day laborers with mud on their boots and no option to quarantine—turned and got back into their car. In a cloud of nasty exhaust, which Maria did not appreciate, they rumbled away, their red taillights growing smaller and smaller until they disappeared into the night.

After a long journey, they returned to the place from which they had come—to sleep it off. But in the morning, over their cowboy coffee, nobody said a word. Then one of them took off his hat again, followed by the others. Finally, he said what all of them were thinking.

“This is not the same place we left.

We are not the same people we were.

Nothing is the same, or ever will be again.”

Then without another word, they agreed to work the rest of the day without their hats on.

That night, around the campfire, they raised their glasses full of tequila and made a toast, unaware that they were about to invent communion.

“To Jesus!”

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