Searching for Jesus – Dec. 12

Although lacking in wisdom, sadly, I felt a bit like the wise men in the Nativity story Wednesday. In Tegucigulpa there is a statute of Christ, the Picacho Statute, that towers above the city. You can see it from miles away ... so it does exist. Our meeting was at the top of the mountain on which the Picacho Christ resides. We wanted to make sure that we saw the Christ on this trip. All the way up the mountain, curve after curve, mansion after mansion, stone wall after stone wall, we looked for signs to tell us, “Where is the Christ?”

One sign got our hopes up and we stopped to check if the Christ was nearby. Alas, they sold souvenirs of the Christ and snacks to help you on your way ... but no Christ there. We passed the entrance to a National Park, the same road as our meeting place and headed up the mountain. Near the top we stopped to ask, “Where is the Christ”. “Not here, you missed it back down the mountain.” So, back we went. Jerusalem gatherings and sage scholars had nothing more to contribute to our search. Along the final stretch to our meeting site, we asked again. “Yes, the Christ is straight ahead.” No sign of the towering statute though. Seen from miles away but not metres? There must be a lesson here somewhere.

We got out of the car and began walking. Still no sign. The road began to be bordered by hedges, green trees, benches and paved walkways. Still no sign. We burst out on the edge of the mountain and saw miles and miles of city, tracks of thousands of lives being lived in insecurity and uncertainty. Still no sign. The path seemed to end but, by walking right up to the wall, a doorway appeared. We asked a man standing by where the Christ was. “Right there.” And, passing through the doorway, there the Christ was, arms spread out above us, the city at his feet. Truly remarkable, almost missing something so obvious, so ever present, so much an integral part of the landscape.

Bethlehem means “House of Bread” or, in layman’s terms, and not as romantic sounding, “Bakery”. As we drove along, I thought of all the people involved in making a bakery a success. Not very many extraordinary, well-placed folks but, certainly, lots of ordinary people in ordinary, very commonplace jobs. The wood cutters blunting easily dulled iron axes and slivering bent handle shaped fingers; donkey drovers with dusty feet scarred from missteps on rocky trails; rope makers scything tall grasses on dried stream beds; oxen drovers yoking up patient pairs for another day of ploughing dusty seed beds; itinerant, immigrant harvesters with blackened, creased necks, bent backs and sack cloth mattress bundles; stone masons astride butt numbing blocks of uncarved millstones eyes squinting from spurting chips and quarry reflected rays; shrouded winnowers enduring the maddening barley hull itch; water carriers’ chaffing backs cool under bulging goat skins; carpenters chipping and drilling at handles, bowls, mortars and pestles; stove masons, roof thatchers, adobe brick makers and layers, cattle herders, milk maids ... oh, yes, ... finally the baker. These are who were there to welcome God to earth. These are who we need to walk with if we want to find God still.

Bryan