One of my professors for some sort of practicum (worship, I think) in seminary loved to talk about Advent. He was this prim and proper guy, a senior pastor of a big UMC church in the burbs of Washington DC. As we explored the theological meanings behind the seasons in the life of the church, he explained why his church community always did a service of healing around Christmas time.

I’m sort of paraphrasing here…

It’s our biggest service of the Christmas season - people love it, because most people’s lives are filled with chaos, pain, confusion, and loss. We invite people to come forward to be anointed with a bit of oil and prayed for by folks who love to pray. We always pray specifically for the things in their life that they want to lift up. It’s simple and powerful.

We forget that Jesus wasn’t born in a nice hospital on the good side of town. Jesus was born in a barn, surrounded by animal feces. He was literally born in crap.

That resonated with me, because I’m never quite sure what to do with stories of angelic messengers, shepherds, miraculous births, and jealous kings. Sure, there’s a lot of intriguing stuff in there, but we tend to lift up the scripture in our churches in reverent tones or dress it up with red and white trim. We forget the weirdness of them. We forget that the stories were about injustice and hardship - that God moved in people who didn’t have money, not even a ride (yep, no mention in any of the gospel stories of a donkey or horse for Mary or Joseph).

Out of that came some sort of hope that took flesh - a child who grew to be a man - a guy who people kept encountering in their lives, who said and did the most intriguing things, or who made them want to leave everything behind to follow. And he too died without money or status or power or privilege.

Look, I admit I am in a major place of privilege. I am typing this on my computer, with great internet access, electricity, and resources to pay for all of that - I get it. Maybe that’s why I need to remember - maybe that’s why every Christmas I still search for something a little different, be it a song or a story or a piece of art, that connects me back to that smelly stable where a young, poor family had a baby. Could that be the real smell of Christmas?

May that smell - the smell of oppression, injustice, violence, and hate in our world - move me from my comfortable place and into loving action.