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Tales of Bethlehem:
The Tale of the Empty Innkeeper
By Stephen B. Bagley
Let us talk, good Manius Cassius. It will make the leagues go faster as we travel. Let me tell you a story from my life. You may find it illuminating.
My name is Keloe Diodorus. I am an innkeeper. I see you’ve heard of me. I’d like to think you’ve heard about my inn and how we treat travelers with the utmost care unless they don’t pay and then we break their knees. Ha, ha. Just kidding. We’ve never broken any knees because they sneak out before we can catch them. My good wife Sapphira suggested we tie everyone to their beds, but that idea didn’t seem to sit easy with anyone.
Anyway, as I was saying, I’d like to think you’ve heard of Keloe’s Inn in Bethlehem. It’s not perfect, of course, and I have been accused of possessing an excessive zeal for cleanliness since I require my employees to bathe once a week whether they need it or not and we wash our dishes once a month or if flies become a problem. And we do NOT serve rat — although if we did, my cook Linos would dip it in a grain and honey batter and fry it in olive oil. Delicious! Not that I’ve had it before, of course. We don’t serve rat, having fortunately found a supplier of that rarest of creatures, four-legged chickens.
But of course, you’ve not heard of my excellent Inn — just inside Bethlehem across from the Roman road, turn left at the marker stone, we’ll leave a lamp burning for you — no, what you’ve heard is that I made a young couple spend the night in my stable. What’s worse, as you’ve doubtlessly been told by people who wouldn’t know the truth if it bit them on their brazen bottoms, is that the woman was great with child, and she was forced by my heartless actions to have her child out among the animals. Well, I am here to set the record straight, I tell you!
I remember that night well. We were crowded. Crowded to the rafters. See, Caesar Augustus had send out orders that everyone had to return to their hometown so that they could be counted and taxed. I have no idea why he required everyone to return to their hometown. I hear tell that it was because Rome was overflowing with everyone except Romans so Caesar and the Roman Senate thought they could empty the streets of the riffraff and have the steam houses and baths to themselves. Didn’t work, of course, since they hadn’t considered all the Romans who would be returning to Rome due to the decree, Romans who had picked up all sorts of barbarian ways. Typical of government to create a new problem while attempting to fix an old one.
So we were crowded. Why, people were sleeping six to a bed and ten to a pallet. And they were paying through the nose — I mean, paying a competitive reasonable price. Our wine was flowing like water — not that it’s watered down. That’s another rumor spread by Nero. Nero owns the Seven Seas Inn in Bethlehem and likes to boast of his salad dressing. It is good, but otherwise, his food isn’t fit to serve to a sickly slave. You have to know the town was crowded when I tell you that even the Seven Seas was full up.
We were busy, and to my regret, I had to turn people away. The bedrooms, the main room, the servants’ holes, everywhere we had people. I was bringing another amphora of wine to a table of particularly thirsty Greeks when Dora Ruth, one of our serving girls, yelled, “Keloe, there’s someone at the door. Wants a room. I says we ain’t got none, but he wants to talk to you.”
“Tell him to go away!” I yelled back, but she had bustled back to the kitchen. As I threaded my way through the crowd, I tried to figure out one more place to put some people. And to my eternal credit, I considered the outhouse only for a moment. Or two. Not long.
I went to the open door, intending to send whoever it was quickly on their way because I was too busy to bother with people who would not be crossing my palm with coin.
“On your way,” I told the young man. “We have no room.”
“Sir, please,” the man pleaded. “My wife ...” He motioned behind him, and I noticed her. A pretty young girl, clearly with child, sat wearily on a small, run-down donkey.
“No room,” I said again.
“Surely there’s somewhere!” the man insisted.
I pulled my stomach up. “There is no room. Go on down the road. Try Nero’s.” I eyed their clothes. “You look their type.”
The donkey, probably hungry, brayed and headed toward our stable. Then I got a great idea. “You can stay in our stable if you’d like,” I said. “But at full price.”
The man agreed gratefully and turned to his wife.
I yelled for the stable boy. “Gregor, take these people to the stable. We have no room here.”
The dimwit boy rolled his eyes at me, but he did what he was told. I closed the door, nodding in satisfaction. My good wife Sapphira would be pleased with the extra coin. I spent the rest of the night, carrying wine back and forth, breaking up disagreements, and generally working myself to the very bone.
So you understand now that sending them to the stable was all I could do. There was no room in our inn. And much later I would realize there was no room in our hearts, either.
The next day, after the couple had left, I learned all sorts of crazy things happened at the stable the night before. The baby was born, shepherds and their flocks showed up to worship him, and Magi from the East came galloping up on their camels. I was told angels appeared, and a huge star shone overhead. I can’t vouch for all of this, but I know the sheep and camels were there because they left evidence, if you know what I mean.
And there’s this: All those who saw the child had their lives changed. My stable boy and one of my serving girls, my cook, the shepherds, the Magi, all of them were changed.
But not me. I never saw the child.
No, I stayed inside serving my customers, fetching wine and roasted meats, praising the drunken Roman soldiers and the educated Greeks. My wife and I went to bed late that night, pleased with the coins we had earned, delighted with the good life they would purchase for us.
The next day the couple departed, going on to the home of their relatives they told my stable boy. The man actually gave Gregor a gold coin! Where did he get gold? They looked so poor.
My wife said I should be happy. We made money. That’s what counts, she said. And we do have money. Our inn has flourished during the thirty or so years since that night. I have many servants and slaves. I have everything this world can offer. But I am empty. I am hollow. My soul cries out for more.
So today I am traveling with you and all these other pilgrims to hear the words of this new prophet. This Jesus who heals the sick and raises the dead and offers living water. I tell you, my friend, I am determined I will be empty no more.
Copyright 2011 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Excerpted from Tales from Bethlehem. All rights reserved. No copying without express written permission from the author and publisher.
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