With the hesitancy of almost paralyzing awe, millions of Christians will approach Bethlehem this Holy Night, because, for all our spirited caroling these past weeks, we feel unprepared to stand on holy ground.

True, we’ve learned the phrase, “Love is the reason for the season,” but what does that really tell us if we stand mute before the implications of its power?

Perhaps, we must begin, not at the university level, where words are weighed, measured and assigned unique tasks, but in the rough-and-tumble village squares of daily living, where they are shaken out and chosen quite at random to perform rudimentary tasks, and are, therefore, more comprehensible to God’s everyday people.

In the Winter edition of Spiritual Life, there is an article titled “Spirituality Down Here Between the Cracks,” by Aldo Gallo, a recovering mental-health patient, using his pen name, who is a tenor in the parish choir, and a wonderful joke teller.

Gallo says that when you get sick in church from the medicine you’re taking, someone calls the cops, and they lock you in a hospital, when they should have tried using kind words, so that when you come back home, you will feel welcomed.

And when you need the sacraments, he says you can’t get them because the priests are too busy or don’t have the patience to hear the confession of someone in a state of anguish, or maybe they are simply afraid. But to have the sacraments withheld when you need them most is rather like having a parent punish a child by withholding love. It is sick making. (italics, mine)

The writer goes on to say that people can commit sins because of their helpless anger. They may not be serious sins, but that they are still wrong. Then, he makes a startling plea: “Some religious people in well-meant compassion trivialize these things. But precisely because they are signs of bigger issues, in a relationship with God, they loom large. How can I say I want God’s love when I do these things? How can God love me?”

How many of us have trivialized the anguish such people present to us in ordinary conversations because we think we are mirroring Christ’s love, when what we should be doing is listening below and behind the words to the soul-shaking terror of unresolved search for forgiveness?

Along that line, Aldo talks about reconciliation and making amends, especially with regard to strained relations with a lot of people, many in his family. Even though he tries, he is often rejected, and that hurts.

Then, he turns to Scripture: “If your brother has any thing against you, leave your gift at the altar and go first and be reconciled with your brother. Does this mean that God won’t hear me when I pray because of my inner turmoil about reconciliation? They tell me God does hear me, but sometimes I feel awfully much alone.” (italics, mine)

That “awfully much alone” part should make most of us pause. We might not have had the kind of education that would make us professionals to serve the Aldos kneeling at Bethlehem, but there is the universal language of a smile, a pat on the shoulder, an inquiry about the person’s health, what he likes to do, etc. Anything to form a connection with those who ache to be connected with someone who cares.

How about this for desiring holiness? Aldo writes: “Jesus gives us the beatitudes and some wonderful teachings about trusting, about not judging, about doing good for others. How do I put these into practice in my life? How can I help others when I can do so very little for myself? I need a spirituality that gets down to basics.”

In the quiet and stillness of the manger scene, we may all well be asking with Aldo “for a spirituality that gets down to basics.” For housing for our homeless; for sufficient food for everyone; for real education that graduates students prepared for demanding jobs, marriage, and rearing children.

Lord, You have come in poverty to teach us that it is not what we have that makes us rich, but what we are in Your love and grace. Be with us, Lord, for we hunger to be with You until this Holy Night gives way to Everlasting Light.

Amen

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