A Way in the Manger

A Way in the Manger

Away in the manger, no crib for a bed, the little Lord Jesus lays down his sweet head. . . .  Beautiful song, isn't it?  Beautiful image—a humble, rustic barn with a splintered feeding trough; an innocent newborn, his wrinkly hands with their nearly non-existent fingernails clenched into small fists; his little mouth, lips slightly swollen from the ordeal of birth, rooting gently into the swaddling clothes.  Doesn't that just make you want to scoop him up and snuggle his silky tuft of hair into your neck?  I guarantee every woman reading this is smiling right now. 

Good starting place.  But I invite you tonight to look a little closer with me at this picture, to consider it with the eyes of faith. 

O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining!  It is the night of our dear Savior's birth . . . . What does it mean that we have a savior, and that he was born?  Well, for starters it means that we've been saved from what might be called futility.  You know that feeling that comes as you're trying to fall asleep—or should I say trying to wrestle down the flailing regrets from the past day and fears of the one to come—when you notice in the corner of your mind a hollow whistling sound: why?  Why are you still fighting like this?  When all is said and done, what does the equation equal?  You freeze, dwarfed by the enormity of the question.  Then you turn back to the wrestling, which seems at least more manageable somehow. 

Enter Emmanuel.  And his word to us?  Let go.  Let go in order to gain.  You see, no matter how convinced we are that we know what will bring us peace and joy, we don't have the big picture.  It's only by letting God direct our decisions and our dreams that we'll become part of a purpose larger than our imaginations, larger than our self-focused selves.  Consider again the little guy in the barn.  That baby-soft skin bound nothing less than the all-powerful Creator.  "Though he was God, he did not demand and cling to his rights as God.  He made himself nothing . . . and appeared in human form."  And because Jesus was willing to let go of his own way, his own path to glory, God exalted him to the highest heaven.  We can choose to follow in his footsteps.

Hark! The herald angels sing glory to the newborn King. . . . It's not likely that the occupants of the Bethlehem Motel noticed anything unusual coming from the direction of the manger.  Anyone pushing the door open a crack would have probably seen only a very tired, pale teenager with a baby and a confused, concerned husband nearby.  In our humanness, we seldom see the sometimes glorious nature of the ordinary.  But the angels saw.  And the angels understood--and celebrated!  Now, angels are no insignificant beings.  We read throughout the Bible that often it only took the coming of one from heaven to earth to cause a huge earthquake.  Luke tells us that not just one, but the "armies of heaven" filled the sky with their praise and rejoicing!  They saw not just the sweet Christ Child, but that "because of God's tender mercy, the light from heaven [had come] . . . to those of us in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide us to the path of peace."    To guide us to the manger, and the cross, and the highest heaven. 

Joy to the world!  The Lord is come.  Let earth receive her King!  Jesus was indeed born.  The one-silo town of Bethlehem—"the house of bread"—gave rise that night to the Bread of Life.  And he is still very much alive today.  That innocent child in the feeding trough calls you to empty yourself of your emptiness, and follow him to a life made of the stuff which makes angel armies dance! 

Are we looking now with the eyes of faith?  Dare we see?

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, to you. . . .