Matthew 2:1-6
In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.’ When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. They told him, ‘In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet:
“And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;
for from you shall come a ruler
who is to shepherd my people Israel.” ’
Bethlehem. House of bread. Birth place of Jesus, who says, “I am the bread of life” (John 6:35)—who, on the night before he died, took bread, gave thanks, broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “This is my body, given for you” (Luke 22:19).
You, Bethlehem, are by no means least…
After graduating from seminary, my first call was to Adams Mountain Lutheran Church and Hoff Lutheran Church, Adams, North Dakota. I believe, at that time, the membership of the churches was significantly larger than the town’s population of 200.
I can’t remember all the details now, but I do remember the frustration that arose when we learned that the bread truck would no longer deliver bread to our community. (Perhaps someone from Adams can chime in on the comments here and remind me of the details.)
I wrote a poem in response to that grief, the first line being: “we live in a town where the bread truck doesn’t come.”
Perhaps it wasn’t just that the bread truck didn’t come. It was that the bread truck stopped coming. It was a tangible sign that we were already diminished from what we once were and growing smaller day by day. We were no longer worth even the bread truck’s time. And yet, we were nourished by the bread of life; Jesus dwelled among us. We were worth God’s time.
You, Adams, North Dakota, are by no means least…
People experience themselves as forgotten, too. Sometimes that feeling that we don’t matter is reinforced by reality; sometimes I think it serves as a defense mechanism. If we name ourselves as insignificant, we think we might shield ourselves from the pain of someone else communicating to us—in words and in actions—that we aren’t worth their time.
Lately, I confess, I’m sure I’ve inadvertently communicated to beloved ones around me that they aren’t worth my time. I haven’t returned phone calls. I haven’t responded to texts. Christmas cards are once again arriving and I can’t even remember the last time I managed to send cards. People I care about deeply have experienced significant loss and I’ve failed to respond. I haven’t initiated plans. There are friends I love that I haven’t seen in months. And I deeply regret it all.
The last thing I would ever want to communicate to anyone is that they aren’t worth my time. If you are someone I’ve wounded during this season, I am so sorry.
You, Beloved of God, are by no means least…
Today I’ll struggle to claim that word of grace for myself as well. I’ll forgive myself. This has been a season, for me, of cocoon-making and cocoon-dwelling. Leaving parish ministry has disrupted my life. It was the right decision, and it is still one of the hardest things I've been called to do. I’m becoming. And it takes up so much of the energy I’ve typically given to others. My worth, I’m learning and re-learning, is not dependent on my capacity to achieve or to produce or even to care for others.
Neither is yours.
You, Beloved of God, are by no means least…
Milkweed—bread of life for the monarch butterflies. In a different season of cocoon-dwelling and transformation some years ago, I was fascinated by the milkweed in the ditches and wrote this poem in response.
In the cocoon-dwelling days and in the seasons where you emerge and take flight, you are cherished. Jesus dwells within you. You are nourished and sustained by the bread of life.
You’ll be bright.
You are bright, shining with the light of Christ.
Travel safely on this transforming road through the life you’ve been given.