They Celebrate My Coming

Christmas promises to fill my phone and email inbox  with kind and loving messages . Most of them will be identical messages, zipping out from and to phones, computers, only occasionally touching hearts and minds.

God's messengers have come and gone, and only the fortunate have been genuinely touched, the majority of us remain asleep.

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Dusk enveloped the city but it did not dim the the celebrations. The lights in huts, mansions, and places of worship and work twinkled, as if to keep time with the singing and celebrations.

Avoiding the throngs I walked alone towards the park contemplating the Man whose greatness they were honouring. I meditated on the genius of the ages, born into poverty, lived virtuously and died on the cross.

I sat down on a bench and from afar looked at the crowded streets and listened to the hymns and songs of the celebrants. How long I sat I do not know but was jolted out of my reverie by the realisation of the presence of someone else sitting on the same bench.

After getting over my surprise, I studied my companion. Strangely clothed and dignified looking I said to myself "He is solitary, as I am." I greeted him and he replied "Good evening my son."

"Are you a stranger in this city?" I asked

"Yes I am a stranger in this and every city."

Consoling him I said " A stranger should forget that he is an outsider in these holy days, for there is kindness and generosity  in the people."

His eyes looked to the sky as if focused on a distant land and his lips quivered and he said in a sad voice, "I am more a stranger in these days than in any other."
"This is the time of the year the rich remember the poor and the strong have compassion for the weak."

He returned "Yes, the momentary mercy of the rich upon the poor is bitter, and the sympathy of the strong toward the weak is naught but a reminder of superiority."

I affirmed, "Your words have merit, but the weak poor cares not what transpires in the heart of the rich, and the hungry do not care how the bread he is craving is prepared."
And he responded, "The one who receives is not mindful , it is the giver who has to be mindful of the intent of giving,  that it is love and compassion given and not to build self esteem."

I was amazed by the wisdom and said, "It appears you are in need of help, will you accept some money from me?" And with a sad smile he replied, "Yes I am in desperate need, but not of money, or gold."

Puzzled, I asked, "What is it that you require?"
"I am in need of shelter. I am in need of a place where I can rest my head and my thoughts."
"Please accept this money from me and go to a lodge and take rest."
Sorrowfully he answered, "I have tried every lodge and knocked at every door, but in vain. I have entered every food shop, but none cared to help me. I am hurt, not hungry; I am disappointed, not tired: I seek, not a roof, but human shelter."

"What a strange person he is! Once he talks like a great philosopher and then like a madman!"
With a sad voice he said to me, "Yes I am a madman, sadly even a madman will be denied food and shelter, because the heart of man is empty."
I apologised to him saying, "Please forgive me for my reckless thought. Would you accept my hospitality and take shelter in my home?"

I knocked on your door and all the doors, more than a thousand times, and received no answer, " he answered severely. Then he added "You would not invite me to your home were you to become aware of my identity."
"Who are you?" I asked fearfully.
With a thunderous voice like the roar of the ocean, "I am the revolution who builds what man destroys, I am the tempest that  uproots the weeds so life may grow. I am the one who came to earth to banish war and spread peace on earth. Alas I am disappointed because man is content only in misery."

Then with hands outstretched and tears running down his cheeks he stood up high facing me. I saw the scars on his arms and the marks of nails in the palms of his hands: I prostrated myself before him convulsively and cried out, saying "Oh Jesus, the Nazarene!"
And He continued, in anguish, "People are celebrating my coming and in My honour  they pursue ages old tradition around My name. Yet I remain a stranger wandering from East to West upon this earth and no one really knows of Me. The animals have their burrows and the birds have the skies, but the Son of Man has no place to rest his head."

At that moment I lifted my head, and looked around and found only a column of smoke before me. In the relative silence of the park I heard the voice resound as if emerging from the depth of eternity. "The song of the voice may be sweet, but the song of the pure heart is the voice of heaven."


Adapted from 'Eventide of the Feast' by Khalil Gibran