The Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head, said Jesus.
This particular idea, of the restlessness and transient nature of life, strikes especially close to the nerve for those of us who do not make it home for Christmas.We uprooted types read the Christmas story with perhaps more appreciation than those dug in back at the old home place, the latter not realizing, as we do, that the life that has changed so many lives over the past 1,960 years or so was the life of a lonely wanderer.
As it is written, the celebrated birth took place while Joseph and Mary were on a road trip. This was a journey neither had wanted to take: A census had been called by Caesar Augustus that required Joseph to return to his city of origin.
Caesar's decree meant a trip from Nazareth to Bethlehem, which looks to be about 80 miles as the crow flies, and which is no doubt longer on the back of a mule. Mary, of course, was particularly ill-suited for mule riding, being ready to give birth at any time.
The life of Jesus continued in much the same way. According to the traditional account, a very paranoid Herod sent his agents to fetch the youngster's head, which was a fine way of welcoming the lad and his family to Judea.
Jesus also had something of a transient childhood.
As his popularity grew, the young teacher was set upon by lepers and other miracle-seekers, along with a persistent group of religious stiffs hoping to catch him in a variety of doctrinal slip-ups.
Most of us, if similarly hounded, would retreat to a secure homestead, draw tight the blinds and throw rocks at all trespassers.
Not so for Jesus, who persisted in his wandering ministry of salvation, which led him to consort with tax collectors and whores, break the Sabbath, drive out money changers and otherwise put the authorities in a bloody frame of mind. A company man he wasn't.
He was soon enough betrayed and deserted by his friends, some of whom denied knowing him. Then came the trial, the scourge, the howling mob and the climb up Golgotha.
In everyday terms this saga reminds us that a good man can have a rough time of it in this world, especially should he go about challenging the conventions of his day.
Back at the old home place, such thoughts are blunted by the presence of familiar things: big oak trees, soft sofas, old faces, the same creaking furnace. After the big meal, the soul curls up by the hearth and dozes till morning.
Out in the diaspora, however, the vagabond studies the stars and considers himself sadder, but perhaps wiser, than the ones left behind. At least regarding Christmas. But he'd still greatly enjoy some of mama's apple pie, which quietly cools in a cupboard, many miles away.