It’s a tradition in my parish to hold a special evening Mass every December, when we gather in a barn instead of at the church. Sometimes there are barn animals in attendance, and pets are welcome. What better way to celebrate the birth of Baby Jesus than in a place not so different from the stable where he came into the world that first Christmas? It’s one of my favorite events of the holiday season, and I try never to miss it.
So imagine my disappointment the year I got to the barn late. Our congregation, the choir, the animals—the barn was overflowing. Some folks sat crowded on hay bales. Others stood shoulder to shoulder. I caught only a glimpse of the priest at the makeshift altar when I tried to squeeze in the door. The Holy Family stayed in the manger because there was no room at the inn, I thought, but where do you go if there’s no room in the barn?
I stepped back outside and spotted an empty picnic table under the overhanging roof. I wouldn’t be able to see the service, but at least I could hear what was going on. I settled myself at the table alone.
It wasn’t so bad attending Mass outside under the stars, but when it came time to say the Lord’s Prayer, I knew I was missing out. We held hands during that prayer, then turned to one another and offered a greeting of peace. Alone on my bench, I felt disconnected from my church family. I didn’t know what else to do, so I closed my eyes and held my hands out to my sides, palms up.
I’ll just pretend….“Our Father, who art in heaven—” Something touched my left hand, and I opened my eyes in surprise. A big white dog sat on the ground at my feet, one paw resting in the palm of my hand. He seemed perfectly content in that position while I finished the prayer. My companion didn’t budge when I said, “Amen.”
Inside the barn, a murmur spread through the congregation as everyone shook hands and wished one another peace. The dog cocked his head at me as if to say, “What are you waiting for?” I gave his paw a friendly shake. “Peace be with you,” I said. Only then did he take his leave.
There was no room for me under the rafters of the barn that Christmas. But my prayer companion had shown me that God’s house is bigger than any barn or stable or church, and his family comes in all shapes and sizes. There’s room for us all under the stars.
