Unto us a child is born

Jesus, Saviour of the world, was born in Bethlehem 2000 years ago. Today the reality of his birth is often lost in a sea of tinsel and fake snow. That is why we invited four Christian writers to consider that momentous event through the eyes of four very different characters of that time . . . . .

'She burst into song in this house and danced all over the kitchen'

Mary's had her baby; Reuben, our neighbour, called in last night to tell me. He'd been to Bethlehem, for the census. He's known Joseph for years of course, they grew up together. He said he was sorry, for knocking on our door so late, but that he'd seen the lamp. It was all right, I was feeding John. I never thought I'd get used to all these scrappy bits of sleep you have to put up with when there's a baby around, not at my age, but I have. I like being all on my own with him, in the small hours, just him and me, and it won't last long. He's growing fast, my John is.
Reuben didn't give me any details, except that it was a fine boy. I hope Joseph found a comfortable place for them to stay, Mary wanted everything just right for her little one, she's very fastidious.

We got to know each other so well, the three months she stayed with me; it was a lovely time. Do you know, people are still saying that my husband had a stroke, because of that time before John came, when he couldn't speak, and Reuben hinted last night that there was gossip about Joseph too, his being an older man and everything, hints that the little one was probably someone else's.
I hope I see the baby soon, I want him to meet John. They could play together. He's a solemn little thing, my bairn. If Mary's child takes after her he'll have her infectious laugh and her sense of fun. I'll always remember how she burst into song in this house and danced all over the kitchen. She's a lovely lass.
I've counted back and the baby was born six days ago. I remember that night because John was tetchy and I carried him into the courtyard and showed him the stars. It was hard to believe there was no moon because the sky was so light, but there wasn't. There were just stars and in particular one that was enormously bright. I wish I knew more about the heavens; I meant to ask Zechariah about it.

John calmed down the min-ute he saw that star and wriggled and kicked and stretched out his arms; it reminded me of the day he first moved in the womb, the day Mary visited, and told me her news.

Ann Pilling is a writer of children's books, novels and short stories. Her most recent book is Amber's Secret (Harper Collins £3.99) described by The Guardian's critic as 'a beautiful quiet book about faith, miracles and the kindness of strangers'. Ann lives in North Oxford and attends St Andrew's Church.

'My men are down town drinking

and blaming it on the angels'

You can't pull the wool over my eyes. When I find my shepherds downtown carousing, it's not angelic visitations to blame; they're skiving, plain and simple.
It's sheer chance I discover them. I've been doing business in Bethlehem, and this census means what seems like the entire population of Judea is cramming the streets like olives in a press. I take a detour round the back of an inn riotous with travellers, and find even the stable has been taken over.

As I glance in, I recognise faces. 'Shem! Simon! What are you doing here? You're supposed to be watching my flocks.'
Shem looks sheepish, then grins and starts babbling about a star and angels and a baby . . .
'You must have had a skinful, to think I'd be taken in by such gibberish,' I say. 'Get back to work!'
Then I spot Zeb further in, talking to the tired-looking girl who's leaning over the manger.
'Don't tell me you're all here?'
'We left Bart,' says Simon.
'But he's only ten! What if wolves come? What about my lambs? That new one that needs keeping warm?'
'Zeb has it, in his robe.'
Zeb is making his way towards us.
'Where's my lamb?' I demand.
'I gave it to him.' He nods back at the man standing beside the girl. 'For his baby.'
'It's not yours to give. What's with you tonight? You're drunk, you're incompetent, I've a good mind to sack you . . .' I only mutter this threat. Good shepherds are scarce these days.
I fight my way over to the manger, where a crumple-faced, new-born baby lies swaddled on the hay.
I'm more interested in the lamb the man holds:
That's mine!'
'Here, take it,' he smiles. 'I've already got one little one to carry home, I don't want another.'
Outside, my shepherds are waiting, unseasonably cheerful.
'You'll get no pay tonight,' I announce. But it doesn't stop them singing as we take the track up out of Bethlehem.
Something prompts me to look back. Funny, from this angle, there's a peculiarly bright star directly over the stable, almost as if it's trying to draw attention. Maybe Shem wasn't so drunk . . . maybe I missed something in there.
I think of the girl, and the man, and the baby, and the travellers settling down for the night. No, nothing out of the ordinary there, not that I can see. And no one pulls the wool over my eyes.

Dr Anne Borrowdale is a freelance theologian and writer. Her second novel, An Inspector Falls, has just been published.

'No,' I said, 'you're not mad . . you're stupid!'

'You're mad!' I said. My friend Joseph the idiot.
Nearly all my life I'd known him. We grew up together, went everywhere together, shared our bar mitzvahs. I used to tuck into his mother's lokshen soup, he used to love my mother's gefilte fish. We once even shared a little piece of pork between us, just to see if Jahweh really would strike us dead.
He was best man at my wedding. But Joseph, he'd never married.
Not for want of opportunity, let me tell you. My life, with a business like his, who should be short of a wife? Tables, chairs, cabinets, coffins - a carpenter is never without work.
And now this...
I changed my mind. 'No,' I said, 'you're not mad. You're stupid!'
He agreed, cheerfully. 'You're right. We should have set out earlier. Then we could have stayed in a proper hotel like you and Rebecca. But . . .' He grinned and shrugged one of those infuriating shrugs he was so good at. 'God will look after us.'
I looked round to make sure his . . well, this Mary, this young woman he was with, this enormously pregnant young woman he was with . . I didn't want her to hear. I dropped my voice. 'That's not what I was talking about.'
'Warm and dry,' he said, looking round him. 'And cheap. What more could a man want?'
I moved close to him. 'It's a stable,' I pointed out. In my agitation, I'd stepped in something squidgy. Picking up a handful of straw, I scraped it off my shoe as best I could. 'For God's sake, it's full of animals! Is this any place to bring a baby into the world?'
Again, he grinned and shrugged. I hate it when he does that. 'The angels aren't complaining. You want I should argue with them?'
'Angels, schmangels!' I said. 'Too many bagels before bedtime, and you're dreaming about messengers from God! Enough, already.' I laid my hand on his arm. 'Joseph,' I told him, 'this is the real world. We're here in Bethlehem to be counted. It's a census. It's bad enough that they count you as two. If Herod should demand a recount, God forbid, you could already be three.'
'So,' he said, 'I pay taxes for three instead of two. It's only money. If Caesar wants it so much, let him have it.'
He made me so mad, I had to speak. 'For God's sake, Joseph, the baby isn't even yours!'
He didn't speak for a long time. Then he nodded. 'You're right,' he said. 'He's not mine. He's ours. All of us.'
I stared at him. 'Don't try and blame me,' I said. 'I don't know what you're talking about. And don't ever even suggest that in front of Rebecca!' He grinned again and shrugged the way he does.
'Trust me,' he said.
My friend Joseph the idiot . . .

Peter Mottley was first a professional actor and then a scriptwriter. His plays include Before Nell and A Matter of Etiquette. He lives in Pangbourne and worships at St Mary's, Whitchurch-on-Thames.

'I signed the death warrant for a generation'

You probably hold me equally guilty of infanticide, a nonce to be kicked around the prison. Put glass in his porridge, it'll serve him right. But I had no alternative. However you construe it, there was nothing else I could do. If you've ever worked for a control freak, a little Hitler, then you'll know what mean. I sleep in an adjacent room with the protection guys and their dogs. We hear him through the night ranting and raving in his sleep: 'Fie, losels and liars, knaves everyone. Let them go hang. Fie on the devil.' Even the children chant in the street, 'There goes Herod, King of Thunder, He will break your bones asunder'.
I observed to his Majesty that the so-called 'king' was but a child, unable to stand on his own two feet let alone wear armour.
'These knaves and scoundrels will rally behind any banner, God damn them. What could be sweeter than an infant saviour to melt the hearts of the people?' he growled. 'Truly, Sir, prophecy is not blind,' I counselled. 'Isaiah says clearly Virgo concipiet, natum pariet - a virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and his name shall be called Emmanuel - God with us'. 'So now you say he's a god?'
'Not a god, Sir, but that in him we are likely to see the character of godliness. Elsewhere the prophet implies, if I may humbly suggest so to your Highness, that godliness will be expressed through service rather than power, through sacrificial suffering rather than aggrandisement'. 'Fie, you dissembler, you mountebank, you theologian. You don't pull the wool over my eyes with your sophistry. Politics is decision and cannot wait on dreams.'
What makes a king? Some say that mercy is enthroned in the heart of kings. Others that kingship is the ultimate self-denial. Melchior, Balthazar, and Caspar were full of graciousness and humility, but their intervention was not helpful. The notion of omens in the heavens and talk of having come to worship simply confirmed my master in his paranoia. The rest you know: his brilliant ploy, safe passage in exchange for information, backfired and his ire was unconstrained.

'My guts will out-thring
But I this lad hang . . .
Spare no kins blood,
Let all run on flood.'

So you see, I had no choice. I signed the death warrant for a generation of our male children. Now it is I who shouts out in the night, while my master snores.

Brian Mountford is Vicar of Oxford's University Church and author of Stars of Wonder and The Sower, Mrs Noah, and a Dentist for children; and Changing Faces and Postcards on the Road to Heaven for adults. (All available at the University Church Shop)

The quotations are from 'The Wakefield Pageant of Herod the Great'