“The time came for Mary to be delivered. And she gave birth to her first-born son and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn” (Lk 2:6f.). These words touch our hearts every time we hear them. This was the moment that the angel had foretold at Nazareth: “You will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High” (Lk 1:31).

This was the moment that Israel had been awaiting for centuries, through many dark hours – the moment that all mankind was somehow awaiting, in terms as yet ill-defined: when God would take care of us, when he would step outside his concealment, when the world would be saved and God would renew all things. We can imagine the kind of interior preparation, the kind of love with which Mary approached that hour. The brief sentence, “She wrapped him in swaddling clothes,” allows us to glimpse something of the holy joy of that preparation. The swaddling clothes were ready, so that the child could be given a fitting welcome.

Yet there is no room at the inn. In some way, mankind is awaiting God, waiting for him to draw near. But when the moment comes, there is no room for Him. Man is so preoccupied with himself; he has such urgent need of all the space and all the time for his own things, that nothing remains for others – for his neighbor, for the poor, for God.

I am always struck by the Gospel writer’s almost casual remark that there was no room for them at the inn. Inevitably the question that arises for us in this Christmas is:  What would happen if Mary and Joseph were to knock at my door?  Would there be room for them?