Tradition is a fine thing. It’s comforting; sort of like the rituals of faith. Once begun, though, tradition must be maintained.

Five Christmases ago, The Catholic New World began the tradition of “interviewing” players large and small in the Christmas stories of our culture. Over the years, each has given a unique—even challenging—perspective.

First was Santa Claus, the Big Guy himself, who talked about “gift,” but not just the one beneath the tree. Then came a bit player—the donkey who carried Mary from Nazareth to Bethlehem. It turned out his role wasn’t quite as minor as it might have seemed.

Next was a little whimsical fantasy, an interview with Melancholy Holly, the Sad Little Christmas Wreath, who hung around long enough to offer a lesson about the role of symbols. A year ago we chatted with the Last Wise Man who discovered in the Holy Land then—and now—some hope in the violent, tortured land of Jesus’ birth.

Tradition now calls for another tale—part fantasy, part faithful lesson, part story of the season. The Catholic New World has turned to a usually anonymous witness of that first Christmas story—the Bethlehem innkeeper who (according to Scripture) first turned away the Holy Family and finally found them lodging in an untraditional place.

It’s a good idea to set the scene. The innkeeper’s place of business isn’t far from the Shepherd’s Field, which still exists in present-day Bethlehem. Today’s Church of the Nativity boasts a big silver star marking the traditional site of Jesus’ birth. In those days though, there was no big church, and certainly no silver star set in the stone floor of the nameless establishment owned and operated by … well, let’s call him Yacob.

Yacob is what you might expect from an innkeeper. He’s unobtrusive, but never misses a trick. And hates anything that disrupts his operation.

The Catholic New World: What’s it like to be a Bethlehem innkeeper? Is it different from today?

Yacob the Innkeeper: Not much. We like things quiet, no trouble. Keeps the soldiers away. Bad for business to be any other way, donchathink?

TCNW: You ran a small place, right? A few rooms for travelers and a place for animals out back?

Y: That’s right. Bethlehem was just a wide place on the road. Jerusalem’s a few miles away—ah, that was where to be—lots of nightlife, religious celebrations, fancy people. Here, just ordinary folk.

TCNW: Just what happened that night?

Y: THAT night? It was busy; we were all full up because of the census. Already turned away a few others. I was behind the counter keeping my head down so I wouldn’t have to say “no” to anyone else. You know, the best innkeepers are pretty bland; we just stand in the background and observe, until we have to do something.

TCNW: What was the first thing you noticed?

Y: When they pulled up outside? They were kinda disheveled, like from a long trip. Then they went and parked in a no-donkey zone.

TCNW: You’re kidding, right?

Y: Not at all. Those Romans, they’re pretty organized. Put up special zones for donkeys, carts and the like. They were trying to keep the census goin’ smooth.

TCNW: And then …?

Y: Hoo boy, was that lady ever pretty … and pregnant. Young, too! The poor donkey carrying her—you should talk to him if you want a real story—was struggling. I learned later they came all the way from Nazareth, up in Galilee—that’s hill country. I don’t know how he did it.

TCNW: They came inside and …

Y: They trooped in and stood there at the front desk. They looked pretty pathetic, let me tell you. I was busy with paperwork—you know, the stuff the tax collector insists on—and hoped they’d just go away—there’s a Motel VI down the path a bit, you know. But they rang the bell and that’s when I realized they had no place to go. Homeless, I guess. Or at least home was a long way off.

TCNW: C’mon. You’ve seen homeless people before. Innkeepers aren’t in the habit of providing free lodging. But you did. How come?

Y: I dunno. They looked like a nice young couple. I didn’t know then … but they seemed different, special.

TCNW: So you found them—these two sort of homeless people, one very, very pregnant—a place to stay. Describe it.

Y: Well … it wasn’t as bad as some of the stories make it out to be. True, my inn isn’t likely to rate four stars in the Michelin Guide, but I run a clean place. I guess now, though (chuckling) it’ll always be just a one-star establishment, right?

TCNW: Cut the jokes and get back to the description.

Y: OK, OK. I found them a place out back, with the animals. Fact is, lotsa people lived like that then. And why not? A cave—actually just a deep place in the hill with room out front for the livestock—is warm. It gets chilly here at night.

TCNW: Did you keep an eye on them?

Y: Yeah, especially after I heard the cries. That kid had some set of lungs. Turned out to be a pretty fair preacher, didn’t he?

TCNW: Yes. Keep going.

Y: Well, I stuck my head in, you know, just to make sure everything was OK. Now, that’s when I knew something special was happening. When I bent over for a better look, I noticed he was wrapped in swaddling clothes, if you can believe it!

TCNW: So …

Y: Hey, poor homeless people didn’t have swaddling clothes; that was for special kids. And then when those kings showed up …. Homeless people don’t usually get royal visitors. Turned out OK, though.

TCNW: What do you mean?

Y: They paid me in gold. Between you and me, I think they kept the frankincense and myrrh for the kid’s education.

TCNW: Look, you’re an innkeeper. Like most, you’ve seen a lot—the good, the bad and the worse than bad. Right here is where I ask you if there’s a moral to your story. And don’t be giving me something theological. Or worse, something gooey and sentimental. You know, about peace on earth and stuff.

Y: A moral, huh? OK, how about this: Be careful when you help a homeless kid; you never know when you’ll discover a king.

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