Il dono della tenerezza

Reflections by Luigi Testa*

In a time of accelerated pace, a few more days of Christmas time - which this year ends on Sunday 12 January - is a gift of tenderness.

We can still enjoy it, still stop, still come back. Perhaps more calmly than we were able to do amidst our excited celebrations. Perhaps with less crowds than we would have found in the days that have passed.

Due to the role that hospitality had in that world, and also due to the relatives that Joseph must have had in Bethlehem, his city of origin (Lk 2,4), it is easy to believe that the makeshift accommodation in which Mary gave birth the son "because there was no room for them in the lodging" (Lk 2,7) was only temporary.

After a few days, the three probably find hospitality with some generous family. Which certainly did not lessen the hardships, if you think about the homes and living conditions that could have existed in that context in Bethlehem.

We are used to fixing our gaze on the night di Betlemme, quella del parto, quella dell’annuncio degli angeli e della visita ai pastori. Ma, per grazia, ci è data quest’anno la possibilità di addentrarci e sostare un po’ di più nella intimità e nella familiarità dei giorni successivi. 

Quelli in cui lo stupore di Maria divenne calma contemplazione. Quelli in cui la meraviglia di Giuseppe divenne sguardo di responsabilità e sogni di futuro. Quelli in cui forse qualche pastore ancora tornò, incuriosito dal racconto dei compagni, per portare latte, formaggio, lana.

Quelli in cui i pochi abitanti di Betlemme – vincendo il caos degli stranieri che arrivavano per il censimento – andavano un po’ alla volta a conoscere questo bambino che era nato. Magari anche qualcuno di quelli che Giuseppe l’avevano già visto, chissà quanti anni prima, quando da piccolo tornava nella città dei suoi parenti. «Giuseppe, quanto sei cresciuto! – Questa è Maria, bellissima – E come è bello questo bambino. Ti somiglia!». 

E poi c’è la famiglia che li ospita in casa, dopo i primi giorni nella stalla. Probabilmente quella famiglia non saprà mai quale mistero ha ospitato e custodito.

Anche noi, un giorno, vedremo con chiarezza quante volte Lui è passato, e noi non ce ne siamo accorti; in quante sere è venuto a visitarci, e noi non L’abbiamo riconosciuto; quante volte L’abbiamo ospitato, e non sapevamo che fosse Lui.

Perhaps, we can be part of that family, in this extension of the Christmas season given to us this year – the first Jubilee grace? –, while calm slowly descends on things and the confusion that exists, in the first days, in the homes where a child is born is now dispelled.

After all, Jesus was really born in our home, as suggested by the nativity scenes which we can also choose to leave where they are for a few more days, without rushing.

Like the children who return to that nativity scene to look at it again when the others are in the other room, so we can be the youngest child of the family that hosts Mary, Joseph and the baby.

When the evening comes and the others begin to sleep, we, slowly, on tiptoe, so as not to wake anyone, will be able to get closer to that mother who holds Jesus in her arms.

She will wake up, look at us, smile, while we watch enchanted at the baby, so small, making grimaces while he sleeps, after taking milk from his mother.

And at a certain point, while we are still looking at him curiously but without knowing what to do, she moves as if to sit down, leaning against a wall.

He asks us with his eyes to come closer, and, as we see his arms slowly moving towards us, we understand that he is telling us to pick up the newborn.

The first sensation is that of fear, we would like to say no, "what if I don't know how to hold it?", but the moments are very fast, and we can't hold back.

The baby is in our awkward arms, while we are all in plaster, except for our heart, which we feel is beating faster. We smell his newborn smell – the smell of milk. We feel the warmth of his breath, man cub. We look at his closed fists. The skin on the forehead wrinkles into a grimace in sleep.

If this Christmas, in the evening, secretly, while everyone else is sleeping, we haven't picked up that child – we haven't felt the smell, the heat, the weight – this is still the time to do it. In the heart of God there are no delays: it is always Christmas.

* Luigi Testa è autore di testi a carattere giuridico e scrive su alcuni quotidiani nazionali. “Via crucis of a gay boy"(Castelvecchi, 2024) is his first spiritual book, his other reflections are also published onGionata.org