The Holy Family
Luke 2: 1-7
“And all went to be enrolled, each to his own city.”
It was December 22, 2000. I was sitting at my desk proofing a service bulletin when a call came in. The receptionist said someone wanted to talk to “the pastor.” That usually meant: someone wants money. This bulletin was past deadline, I had two home communions to deliver before Christmas, and I hadn’t even started my sermon, but reluctantly I took the call.
The story came pouring out. He and his wife had come up from Florida to visit a sick relative. But then their car broke down and they spent all they had to fix it. Some church had put them up in a motel and given them something from the food pantry. They were ready to go, but—no gas. He figured they’d need two and half tanks. They wanted to be home for Christmas.
I didn’t know if I believed his story, but I said, “Let’s get you some gas, and some meal money, and you’ll need a night in a hotel.” I gave him directions to the church so he could come pick up the money. He thanked me.
Then, just as I was about to hang up, I said, “Wait—I didn’t get your name.”
“Joseph,” he said. “Joseph Visucci.”
“All right, Joseph,” I said, “and your wife?”
“Mary,” he said.
I paused. Was he kidding me? Let me guess—his wife was expecting a child. But I gathered my wits and said I’d see him soon, then hung up.
Was it merely a coincidence that, just as I was trying to manage Christmas and make it “happen,” I should get a call from a man named Joseph with a wife named Mary, trying to get back to their hometown? Part of me believed this was a sign. Another part thought it was just two drifters scamming me.
When I finally met Joseph, he did not have a lovely beard or any sign of preternatural presence. He was just a friendly man in a hurry. Mary waited in the car. We talked for a minute, and then they left.
Standing there in the parking lot, I decided it was a sign, perhaps, of Christ’s presence. What else was I waiting for?*
Prayer: Lord Christ, your coming is always both manifest and hidden—we cannot see it without faith; open the eyes of our hearts to see and welcome your surprise comings. Amen.
*Adapted from “The Christmas Visitor,” in my book Breakfast Epiphanies.
Oh David I love being reminded of this story today…God’s timing is perfect and you needed that visit from Joseph and Mary just as you were trying to make it all happen. Open the eyes of our hearts indeed!
Signs abound, if we have eyes to see – and you did. Peace, Johnna
David, this reminded me of giving the Saab to that sweetheart of a guy (was he Haitian?) at your request and then the poor guy totaled it in like a week!
Don’t remind me! Yeah—but that’s really the point, isn’t it. That all these encounters can go any which way, and they don’t always end the way we planned. Yet—All Good.
David, I signed up for your newsletter yesterday after a friend sent me Bethlehem. In the back of my mind I reminded myself to google you. After reading The Holy Family this morning your familiarity was solved. I read, enjoyed and passed on your book “Breakfast Epiphanies.” Happy to come across you and your pleasantly soulful writings again. Merry Christmas! Mary Ann
That’s so good to hear—and Merry Christmas to you as well.
Hey David, I got Breakast Epiphanies off my shelf and read the whole story. So glad I did.
Here’s the passage that really moved me:
“These are the wild stories I always share with people in my office. It’s church watercooler stuff–we’ve heard every scam in the book. But I sat on this one. I couldn’t tell anyone this story because–my silence was telling me–I believed this man. I believed his story. I believed his name and his wife’s.”
I’m trying to figure out why this moves me so: your silence. Something like this has happened to me, too. But I can’t remember. It’s an echo of something that happened to me a long time ago. But I can’t remember.
I thought of the Messianic Secret, Jesus revealing to Peter his true nature but then saying, “Don’t tell anyone.”
Or, “You can talk to the President or about the President, but not both.”
Or what Hemingway–and many other writers–have said: As you’re writing a story, don’t tell it, don’t talk about it to anyone. Keep it a secret lest the energy drain away. Keep it hidden. Keep quiet.
And I thought of St. Paul, caught up into paradise, hearing “inexpressible things, things that no one is permitted to tell.” Not just the inexpressible but the impermissible.
Maybe that’s why you kept quiet, David. For all these reasons. Maybe that’s why, at the water-cooler, you kept quiet.
Isn’t it this we long for? Isn’t it this that drives monks and nuns to their cells? The chance of hearing the unrepeatable, the evangel’s opposite, the impermissible?
Brings to mind, “But Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart.” She who had experienced this whole mystery–in her body and not just her soul–she kept quiet about it all. And that brings to mind that old saying, Those who say do not know; those who know do not say.
I really enjoyed that story David! Thank you.
“Was it merely a coincidence that, just as I was trying to manage Christmas and make it “happen,” I should get a call from a man named Joseph with a wife named Mary, trying to get back to their hometown? Part of me believed this was a sign. Another part thought it was just two drifters scamming me.”
Personally, I believe there is no such thing as a chance encounter; even if the encounter is an ever so slight brushing of the elbows. I believe all encounters are directed by Jesus.
I live in an historic district of an old town that is incredibly diverse. Because of where the various agencies that administer to the homeless and down and out are located near the historic district, there is a constant flow of homeless, or otherwise challenged individuals coming and going throughout the neighborhood. Of course, anyone that happens to live in this neighborhood is frequently approached by someone in need of something. Because I live and work in the neighborhood fixing up these old homes and I’m very visible, I am constantly being approached by folks in need of some help. There’s only so much a person can do and withholding help for another can really turn on the guilt.
The guilt at not helping some of these people became so acute that I finally had a talk with Jesus about it. He said he would take care of it i.e., he would tell me who to help and who not to help. I was concerned about not helping someone and he assured me that, in some cases, that seeming to not help someone was actually helping them.
Over the past few years I have developed a trust in Jesus. When he tells me to help someone, regardless of what I might be thinking about the person or situation, I do so. That said, there has been times when he has had me chase down some people to give them some money. Would I have done this on my own? Hell no I wouldn’t have! Thankfully, what I happen to think is out of the equation.
Jesus really has a sense of humor!
That’s a beautiful and wise practice, Monte—to leave it to Jesus, to know who to help and who you can’t—or maybe even shouldn’t.