Would we have reported on the Nativity?
Put us -- Big Media -- back in starry Bethlehem 2,000 years ago, and would we have noticed? Dispatched reporters? Sent columnists?
I doubt it.
I think we would have missed it.
We probably still do.
There is a significant disconnect between the headlines and the heartlines. Make a list of the most important days of your life, and chances are, nobody in journalism was there watching.
We aren't looking in that direction.
Maybe that says less about journalism, and more about God, who seems to always sign his name on the small moments of life.
The birth of Christ is one of the most significant events in human history. Whatever happened that night was like an unfolding, as some magnificent wings began to spread, altering more human hearts than there are numbers to count them.
And who witnessed it? A couple of frightened teenage parents, some barnyard animals snorting their bovine breath into the night, and three strange men who came out of the cold with gifts under their arms.
We imagine that night contained a chorus of angels, but we forget the ominous hum of violence in the background. The infant Christ was born with a price on his head; Herod wanted him dead. Mary and Joseph were on the run.
The meek and mild Nativity scenes on display each December tell only half the story; there needs to be some look of horror, some very tangible fear there among this birth. Only then does it all make sense: the prince of peace, born amongst such fear.
Are there mangers of today?
I wonder if we'd notice.
Years ago, I asked some students to rewrite the birth story in a modern context. If Jesus was born today in Chattanooga, where would it happen?
Who would be chasing Mary and Joseph?
Who would give them shelter?
It can't hurt to imagine:
Mary and Joe were down to their last $50. He lost his job at the slaughterhouse; she'd dropped out of school and couldn't work, suffering from such nausea and morning sickness.
The night before, someone had slashed their tires and thrown rocks through the windows of their Section 8 rental. It was Zeke, or one of his gang. Mary had long ago broken up with Zeke; she'd found out he was dealing meth, and wanted no part of it. But Zeke couldn't let go, and when he found out she was pregnant, went crazy with rage.
Joe knew they had to run.
But where?
No homeless shelters for miles. The state had dropped their health insurance. Family had disowned them. The church turned them away, especially since Mary was white, and Joe, black.
Ten dollars for bus tickets that took them north into the city, into Chattanooga. Three dollars at the bus station vending machine for dinner; Mary couldn't eat. Joe stuffed the Cokes, peanuts and wafers into his backpack for later.
She began to moan. There, on the bus station floor, her water broke.
The bus station manager shook his head.
"Get out," he said.
They walked a half mile, and Joe carried her the rest of the way to the flimsy motel.
"Thirty-five for a night," the man behind the glass told them.
With two dollars left, Mary and Joe stumbled into Room 7; he turned on the baseboard heater, which spat warm air into the stale room. There was one towel hanging in the bathroom. Joe soaked it in warm water; Mary lay on the bed and prayed.
Her cries woke the woman in the next room. She was a prostitute, between clients. She got up, went outside, and knocked on the door to Room 7.
"You all right in there?" she whispered.
Joe opened, but just a crack.
"You need help?" she said.
The answer was obvious: there on the dirty bed sheets, Mary was giving birth. The prostitute gasped, and in her heart felt a swell of fear and love she, too, was a mother. She, too, knew the preciousness of what was happening. (Later that night, she would give Joe all the cash she had and the gold necklace from around her neck, insisting he take it. "That baby," she'd tell Joe. "That baby matters.")
Outside near the dumpster, a pack of stray dogs began to whine, snouts raised to the moon. In the eastern sky, a star rose.
There in Room 7, a child was born.
And in the heavens, God wept those divine tears.
A few hours later, the morning newspapers hit the driveway. The headlines looked elsewhere.
Contact David Cook at dcook@timesfreepress.com or 423-757-6329. Follow him on Facebook and Twitter at DavidCookTFP.