From the Improvement Era, December 1957 –

No Room at the Inn

By Frances Yost

NOTE: Down through the ages people have come to believe that the innkeeper at Bethlehem was a mean and hateful person. Yet the Bible itself does not imply this, merely that there was no room at the inn. Today we do not consider every innkeeper who puts out the “no vacancy” sign as cruel and hateful. Perhaps it really happened like this:

Sarid had never been so meticulous. Today she had scrubbed and polished not only the tables and benches, but also the moldings and the casings. Now she was on her knees scrubbing the rough floor of the inn. When one is scrubbing, there is much time for thinking.

Only this morning while Raham was at the stable gathering milk from the kine, Sarid had read from the holy writings of Isaiah a passage which was so beautiful she had read it again and again. Now the words kept coming back as she cleaned and scoured: “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”

“Ah,” said Sarid, “if only the Prince of Peace could come and free the Jews from bondage. It would be wonderful to be the hostess of the inn for the Prince of Peace.” Her scrubbing brush flew as with wings.

The big walnut door of the inn opened. Raham, returning from the market, entered with fresh bones with which to make broth for the evening’s tired travelers. He also carried a rolled parchment in his hand.

“It is news I have,” said Raham; then at sight of Sarid on bended knee scrubbing the large rough floor of the inn, a look of concern came over his countenance. “Why do you wear your fingers to the bone, Sarid?” Raham asked kindly. “Caesar’s legionnaires will neither see thy clean floor nor honor it. Wine will flow freely; brawls will be common while they drink and make merry. Save your strength, my wife, for the evening’s work of waiting on tables, and lighting the upper chambers.”

“What was the message on parchment, Raham? Surely Caesar will not raise the tax on the already burdened Israel!” Sarid lifted her weight from her arms and flourished the scrubbing brush as if shaking it in Caesar’s face.

“It is a message which commands me to reserve food and shelter for thirty of Caesar’s legionnaires,”

Raham said. “I loathe having the inn full of these Romans. If only a ruler of the Jews would rise up and free us from this Roman tyranny!”

“Raham, it is written by the prophets that a Prince of Peace will come. Who knows, he may come now when Israel is under bondage and free us all. He may even stop at our humble inn. My thoughts were on this great prince; that is why I scrub the floor on bended knee.”

“By eventide the place will throng with Roman guards and tax assessors, and each one will think he is a prince,” Raham laughed.

“Raham, my beloved, it is not a Pilate or a Herod I speak of,” Sarid pleaded, her eyes like placid pools. “Scripture reveals that a lawful successor to the throne of Judah will come, a king of the Jews! The words are so beautiful I have committed them to memory, ‘The government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called the Prince of Peace!”

“Sarid, is this a trick to get me to whitewash the front of the inn?” Raham asked.

“Time passes too quickly to whitewash the inn today, but we can air the mats in the chambers and sprinkle new straw on the barn floor.”

“Ah, woman, now even our stable is not fit for your dream prince’s camels. The life of an innkeeper is hard at best, but with a dirt-chasing wife, there is no rest.” Raham was teasing. He lifted Sarid from the floor and, giving her a light tap with his hand, exclaimed, “Go to thy stew pots, woman. I shall finish this scrubbing though it will not be done with equal skill. Then I shall clean up the barn like a good husbandman.”

“And I shall help scatter straw with thee, Raham.” As Sarid prepared the broth, she crooned a little overture from the Psalms.

Later when the inn and surroundings were in order, Raham and Sarid sat on a bench beneath the row of fig trees at the entrance to the stable. It was a quiet, secluded place, cool and pleasant, yet offering a convenient view of the passersby and the front door of the inn, should anyone seek lodging.

Together they watched the weary travelers wending their way into the city of David. Since the word of Caesar Augustus had been heralded in every kingdom and province saying the people must report for taxation, enrolment, and registration, men, women, and children traveling on bare and sandaled feet had passed the inn. Others with moderate means traveled on donkeys. Still others more fortunate traveled in camel caravans, wearing colorful cloaks while their women hid their faces behind dark veils. All came to be taxed, everyone into his own city, for a census under Roman rule.

“Israel, our beloved people who are usually so content to stay at home and tend the flocks, have become as swarming bees flitting hither and yon,” Sarid said.

“Look at them come,” Raham replied, “men, women, and children from all walks of life and from all provinces. How glad I am that we are of the city of David and need not seek taxation in a far-off city.”

“Yes, we are fortunate indeed, Raham. Perhaps among these moving people will come the Prince of Peace, the wonderful counselor, to rise up and free our people from Roman tyranny.”

“Reading the scripture hast made thee a woman of dreams.” Raham said reprovingly. “Come, let us prepare ourselves lest travelers stop and find us sitting like beggars under a fig tree.”

The afternoon wore itself away; still weary travelers entered the gates of Bethlehem. Raham washed and anointed his beard and long hair with a cinnamon perfumed oil which Sarid had prepared for his anniversary gift. He washed his feet, put on his sandals and a brown homespun robe flecked with red; this, too, the work of Sarid’s hands. Raham was dressed to welcome his patrons. He hoped that his appearance and the first impression of the inn would be that of a modest, industrious innkeeper’s establishment.

Raham looked about the entrance hall. It was clean. Sarid had dusted the cobwebs from the log beams overhead. She had even cut curtains of parchment to hang at the bare windows. Every table boasted a lamp and every lamp a clean wick and oil to feed it. Sarid had placed clean robes on the lounges about the walls. Many guests liked to lounge as they supped of their evening broth. Yes, Raham thought, Sarid is a good wife.

Sarid entered the long entrance hall of the inn. Raham caught his breath at sight of her. No longer was she a humble scrubwoman. Now she stood tall and slim of waist, wearing a black bodice, white blouse, and full green skirt. She had draped her hair with a bright red scarf, pinning her dark tendrils under, except for a stray curl or two about her face and forehead. He felt that no man had a more loving or more beautiful wife than his Sarid. He must try to make this day easy for her. He stopped polishing the goblets and walked across to her.

“Ah, Sarid, you look like a girl.”

Sarid’s face took on an almost sacred appearance. “Tell me, has anyone come seeking shelter while I was washing and dressing?”

“Not yet, but daylight is still with us,” Raham replied. “Travelers on foot cannot stop while the sun is still high; it would make their travels too short. Yet wise is the traveler who seeks shelter before the owl hoots.”

A rap sounded on the big walnut door. The hinges squeaked as Raham pushed it open. “Welcome to the Inn of Raham,” he said, then stopped short, for the sight before his eyes was appalling. A blind man in beggar’s garb stood in the doorway.

“Ah, kind sir,” said the beggar, “I have no money for lodging since all I possess I must pay as tax. My bones are weary; the heat of the day, the cold of the night, and the long distance are great for the poor and the blind. Please give me of your alms.” The beggar held out both hands.

Raham stood speechless. I am a businessman, he thought. I cannot afford to shelter nonpaying guests, much less lower the inn’s standards with blind beggars. He lifted his arm to shoo the beggar from the door when Sarid stepped forward.

“Let him stay, Raham. He needs rest and food. There is the small room under the stairway which I have prepared.” Then turning to the beggar she said: “Take my arm. I shall lead you to the table where a bowl of steaming broth and fresh mealcakes await you. Then there are warm water and towels, and a bed with clean linen for you.”

The beggar stood speechless and allowed tears of gratitude to surge from his sightless eyes. He permitted Sarid to lead him to the table where he devoured the hot soup hungrily.

A second tap sounded on the inn’s old creaking door, and three travelers entered, each in different stages of palsy. Raham, seeing .their floundering, thought: Perhaps it is only drink which these sad characters seek. I shall treat them kindly and hope they will travel farther while day is still light.

“Please, kind innkeeper of Bethlehem,” one of the three said, “we can pay but a mite. My friends are in need of rest; their suffering is great. We seek only the barest of comfort and the meagerest of refreshments.”

“Our inn is reserved for the guards of Caesar,” Raham replied.

Sarid came hurriedly to his elbow and whispered, “Let them stay; just off the kitchen there is a room I have prepared.” Turning to the palsied, she said, “Come, rest on the lounges, and I shall bring you warm food.”

Raham shuddered as he saw the three afflicted travelers stretched out on the lounges which Sarid had covered with her most beautiful robes. He suddenly remembered the kine which had that morning presented him with twin calves and went at once to the stable.

When Raham again entered the inn, Sarid was washing the feet of the palsied travelers. Surely this was righteous indignation which surged through his veins at the sight of her there on bended knee before them! Raham called her to him.

“Sarid, thou hast worked hard all day, cleaning and slaving to prepare the inn. Please, I beg of thee, save thy strength. These diseased persons, little better than beggars, expect no such privileges, merely board and lodging.”

“You are right, Raham, and yet these poor paralyzed creatures need care. Such gratitude I have never seen expressed in faces of royalty.”

The hinges of the old walnut door creaked and blended their groaning with that of crying children as a woman clothed in black entered with a baby in her arms and five small children following.

“There, there, child,” the mother comforted, patting the baby. Turning to Raham she said, “Please, Innkeeper, I seek lodging for my little ones; they are hungry and tired. I have money to pay if thy rates are moderate.”

Raham looked at the mother, her dark hair plaited in thick braids that wound about her head. Her eyes were tired and lifeless, her clothing bespoke a late sorrow. I shall feed them, Raham said to himself, and then perhaps it will be easier to tell them that the inn is reserved and they must go on their way. Too many crying children are not an asset to an inn.

“We have broth and mealcakes ready for all of you.” Raham smiled hospitably.

Sarid brought mealcakes and a large bowl of broth for each child while Raham took the wooden bucket and drew fresh cool water from the well between the inn and the stable. He was about to tell the young family the inn was reserved when Sarid spoke.

“Raham, would you mind if I gave our chamber to this little family? It is large and airy, and there is room for several mats on the floor for the children. It is at the rear of the inn where the noise of the latecomers will not disturb them.”

“Little chance will I have for sleep with the legionnaires rioting,” said Raham. “But, Sarid, I had hoped there would be rest for you later.”

“These travelers need rest far more than I, Raham.” Turning, Sarid took the baby from the tired mother’s arms and leading her and the five little ones, climbed the stairs to the chamber overlooking the stable. The children responded to her kindness and talked freely; even the mother’s tongue was loosened with Sarid’s helpfulness.

“You are no doubt wondering why a mother and children travel alone. My children’s father died a few days ago on the road. The vast amount of taxation and dragging the children from their homes bore heavily upon him until he gave up the ghost. Now I am a lone woman in a strange country.” Tears which had been held back so long flowed freely. Sarid took a clean square of her dirndl and carefully wiped the widow’s tears.

“Tarry with us while you are in the city of David,” Sarid said. “As long as you are here, this room is for you and your little ones. Now get some needed sleep while the inn is yet quiet. Already I see thy little ones have dropped off to dreaming.” Sarid gave a comforting pat on the widow’s shoulder and closed the door quietly, going below to tell Raham the name of each little child.

Night closed in over Bethlehem. The sky which had been bright blue during the day changed its cloak for a deeper shade. The stars came out, each one taking its appointed place. Still the travelers thronged the roads leading to the city of David. Many stopped at the inn of Raham seeking shelter and food. To each was given warm, rich broth and fresh mealcakes from Sarid’s hands. To each Sarid gave an alcove or a hallway which she had prepared with mats for the comfort of the weary travelers of Israel.

Then as though a cyclone had come upon the inn the legionnaires of Caesar broke through the gates and entered the inn. Each wore a costly, bright uniform of the Roman Empire and swaggered about with sword on hip and medals on chest. With the air of invaders they set themselves down at the tables, pushing and shoving, shouting and quipping.

Watching them, Sarid suddenly felt the fatigue of the day settle in her every muscle. Together she and Raham passed large bowls of broth and mealcakes to the uniformed centurions, but their appetites, whetted for strong drink, pushed the humble food aside, spilling and spoiling it, while they lifted bottles of wine and flasks of liquor to their lips. The air was suddenly foul with their coarse language.

“This is no place for you, Sarid. Why did I let you talk me into letting our chamber go to travelers? Now there is no place for you to lay your head.” Raham spoke softly, lest the legionnaires hear.

“Raham, I was out feeding the lambs and tossing crumbs to the pigeons. The stable is beautiful and so quiet. Noise and foul language do not penetrate. I shall go there to a bed which I have prepared. When the legionnaires are in bed, you also can seek rest in the stable.”

“Ah, it would be well to be out of the loudness of it all, Sarid. Look at the floor which you worked so hard to clean; now it is red with wine and refuse from the streets. ‘Tis a bad life, the life of an innkeeper’s wife.”

A gentle yet firm knock sounded on the massive door. “Raham, someone knocks at this late hour.” Sarid said, “Yet your sign that we are full has been out long.”

The door was pushed open, and a young man with soft, dark beard and dressed in homespun stood before the innkeeper and his wife. Sarid had never seen eyes such as his. They were beautiful, yes, and loving and wise, and worried. But Sarid saw a sort of holiness in those dark brown eyes, and when the man spoke, his voice carried a reverent tone.

“I saw thy sign, sir, but my wife is ill; her time is spent; she is in need of shelter. We come from Nazareth. I cannot take her one step farther.” The young traveler looked from Raham to Sarid. “She is in need of friendly hands to aid her.”

“I am deeply sorry.” Raham spoke with sincere regret. “Already my wife has given her own bed to travelers. As you can see our inn is filled with Roman guards. Perhaps farther on. . . .”

The Nazarene did not answer. He stood with shoulders slightly drooped. A look of concern masked his face as he again glanced at his wife waiting in the glow of the opened door. Sarid’s eyes bypassed the Nazarene and rested on the young woman mounted on the donkey. Her face was wreathed in pain, yet had a tenderness resembling the glow of a lighted candle. These people, Sarid thought, would welcome the barest of shelter and warmth.

“Oh, traveler from far-off Nazareth, it is true we have not even a closet to offer thee, but our stable is warm. Why only this day we placed fresh straw on the floor, and the manger is wide and restful.” Sarid took a lighted lantern from the table where the Roman soldiers still sat drinking. As the lamp was moved, the raucous laughter ceased. Sarid’s heart stopped. Was the legionnaire going to reprimand her for this offense? Then as though he had been smitten, his head dropped over in a stupor of drunkenness.

“Come, follow me.” Sarid, sure of foot with lighted lantern, led the way to the rear of the inn. The young Nazarene leading the donkey guided its precious burden to the entrance of the stable.

“Be of good cheer.” Sarid spoke softly, almost reverently. “Here are rest and comfort for you.” She gave them of her courage and strength, in this their hour of need. Trip after trip Sarid made from the inn to the stable, bringing basins of warm water, comforters, and swaddling clothes.

Much later, weary with the long day and the busy night, Sarid wrapped the newly born infant in clothing she had hoped one day to place on a child of her own. With comforting hands she spooned warm broth to the tired mother’s lips, as the words of the Prophet Isaiah coursed through her mind.

Then it was that the mother uttered those self-same words: “Unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and his name shall be called the Prince of Peace.” The mother’s soft warm hand found its way from under the warm comforter and rested on Sarid’s shoulder. “You knew not, yet you took us in; blessed art thou, Sarid, thou beloved wife of Raham.”

“Beloved wife,” Mary had said. Sarid felt warm tears coursing down her cheeks. She dropped on her knees by the manger bed.

Then Sarid heard a small but penetrating voice, “This night, Sarid, even the hosts of heaven call thee beloved, and from this night forward, in Bethlehem, and even throughout all Israel, yea, throughout all the world, thy humble stable shall be known in holy writ.”

Sarid looked up from her place on bended knee by the manger bed. The lamp hanging from the beam became as though blotted out, with its need completed. A wonderful, heavenly light brightened every corner of the stable. Sarid looked out the window to see the source of the brilliance.

There was a star, a star so large and beautiful and bright that its points seemed almost to touch the stable roof.

“I must tell Raham of this star and this Prince Child in our manger.” Sarid slipped quietly to the door of the stable, then stopped short, for the sight before her eyes was astonishing. There at the entrance to the stable was Raham on bended knee, a love of all fellow men on his countenance.

Beside Raham, each in the attitude of prayer, were the widow and her children, a light of joy replacing the sorrow that had been in their eyes.

Kneeling in the same circle of worship, Sarid saw three others. Yesterday their bodies were mangled with the dread palsy, now they were straight and strong. Thankfulness shown from these three faces.

Sarid saw still another in the circle on bended knee— the man, once only a blind beggar whom she had befriended. His eyes were alight with restored vision, and they were raised to the beauty of the star above.

Sarid looked from one to another in the circle, then she spoke softly, “Others will come here to join the circle of worshipers. Humble shepherds, and even the wise ones of the world will come here to behold the Prince of Peace.”