Primate's Message: “I was a Stranger, and You Welcomed Me...”

Unexpectedly, this past Christmas was a time of deeper-than-usual reflection for many of us. To be sure, the miraculous nativity of our Lord Jesus Christ—Son of God, humanity’s savior—is a time of joy, which brings hope and optimism to our hearts every year. And indeed, we rejoiced in it this year, as well.

But also this year, the miracle of Christmas was mixed with sadness: the heavy weight of the terrible tsunami disaster, with its staggering loss of life, and the certainty that a great humanitarian crisis had arisen. As Christians, we believe that God can speak to us through events great and small: through tragic events, like a natural disaster, or joy-filled events, like the birth of a child; through events in our own lives, or in the life of the world around us. And so it seemed to me that, especially in the season of His son’s birth, we needed to think about what God might be telling us.

Reading the Bible’s Nativity stories in this frame of mind, one line took on a new significance. It is such a minor verse, really: the type of thing one usually passes by without much thought. But in light of the heartbreaking news from Southeast Asia, it seemed to be pregnant with meaning. The verse occurs twice in St. Luke’s account of the birth and boyhood of Jesus: once in the middle, and once at the very end. After telling the whole familiar Christmas story—all the details we know so well: the Holy Child’s birth in a manger, the glory of the angels, the amazement of the shepherds—after all that, the evangelist concludes: “and his mother kept all these things in her heart” (Luke 2:51).

Why does Luke tell us this? It seems to me that he is explaining how he learned the story. After all, he was not a first-hand witness to the Nativity; someone had to tell him the story of Christ’s birth. And like a modern-day reporter, Luke gives us his “source”—and lets us know that he has learned the story from the best authority: our Lord’s very own mother. It was Mary who had remembered all these things; Mary who years later told them to Luke—and through Luke’s gospel, told us.

We can hardly doubt that these are the things Jesus Himself was told, when as a boy He asked His mother about the story of His birth. His mother would have told him a story of joy, to be sure; but also one of hardship. Mary would have told Him about the difficult and even dangerous early days of their family. About their rejection from the inn. About their desperate flight from the assassins of King Herod. About their hard days as refugees living in Egypt. Who can say what recollection Jesus had of the events surrounding His infancy? But certainly, the stories His mother told would have left their mark on Him. Perhaps we hear an echo of their influence in the teachings of His ministry: “For I was hungry,” said our Lord, “and you gave me food. I was thirsty, and you gave me drink. I was naked, and you clothed me. I was a stranger, and you welcomed me” (Matthew 25:35-36).

This past Christmas, we were all painfully aware that on the other side of the world there were people who were hungry, and thirsty, and naked, and who were looking for someone to help them. They were strangers to us, mostly: people we would never actually meet. And yet, it was our duty to welcome them into our hearts, as we would our own fellow countrymen.

The stories of their affliction were—are—touching, and heartbreaking, and sometimes too terrible to endure. The child found wandering alone, sole survivor of a village that had been wiped out. The scattered families, who did not know whether they would ever be reunited again. The mother who was forced to choose between saving the life of one child or another.

These are the sad stories that will be kept in the hearts of the disaster survivors. They are the stories the children of those survivors will hear; the stories that will shape and influence their future lives.

But those stories need not be solely focused on bitterness and loss. We can never eliminate the great tragedies of mortal existence. But we do have it in our power to respond to those tragedies with stories of our own: stories of help and generosity. Stories that, with God’s help, might shine a light of hope into the darkness surrounding any person who suffers affliction.

I need hardly mention that we Armenians, too, have our own stories of sorrow and hope. As recently as 1988, our own homeland was struck by a natural disaster. Ninety years ago, our people fell victim to the man-made catastrophe of genocide. Like St. Mary, our own mothers and fathers kept those stories in their hearts, and conveyed them to their children. And all of us have been shaped by those experiences.

But we have also been shaped by stories of generosity, charity, and love, which lifted our people out of the depths of despair, and allowed us to endure to better days.

Today, and every day, I believe that God asks us to respond in kind to the poor people who live in hunger, nakedness, and fear—whether they live half a world away, or right next door. Perhaps this past Christmas, in the very season of our Lord’s birth, we were being reminded how best to honor Him who fed the hungry, who welcomed the stranger—and who gives comfort to all who have ever been afflicted.

For as Jesus taught: “Truly, I say to you, when you do this to even the least of my brethren, you have done it to Me” (Matthew 25:40).

May we all be worthy of someday hearing these words from our Lord. And may His consolation and mercy be upon all the world’s afflicted people, and upon all God’s children, now and forever.

Archbishop Khajag Barsamian
Primate