A Place of Humility Luke 2:1-14 KJV Rev. Dr. Rhonda Abbott Blevins December 21, 2025
And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.) And all went to be taxed, everyone into his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:) To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child. And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn. And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
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Several years ago, when I was living in Athens, Georgia, I had been out of town for a friend’s funeral hundreds of miles away. I found myself driving back, exhausted from my trip and from the hours alone behind the wheel; I was eager to get back and sleep in my own bed. It was getting pretty late, almost midnight. I was on a stretch of highway between Atlanta and Athens that was undeveloped, with only one or two gas stations, when I saw a bright light shining in the darkness. It said, “Low fuel.” I knew I needed to stop at the first gas station I saw or spend my night stranded on the side of the road.
About then my cell phone rang. It was a friend calling to keep me company on my long trip home, so we began to talk, and I got engrossed in conversation. When we hung up, I realized I had missed my gas station! My gas gauge was well below empty . . . lower than it had ever been. I was definitely in trouble.
I knew that my only hope of filling my tank . . . my only hope of not being stranded in the middle of the night on the side of the road . . . was a gas station in the little town of Bethlehem.
Bethlehem, Georgia is a little nowhere town between Atlanta and Athens. The only reason you’d ever go there would be to have your Christmas cards postmarked, “Bethlehem.” Having little use for such frivolity, the greatest thing to me about Bethlehem in my Georgia days was that strategically placed gas station which had been my salvation more than once. Bethlehem had the only gas for miles on that stretch of highway between Atlanta and Athens. That night I was beside myself, worried that I would break down before reaching that gas station at the Bethlehem exit.
I continued to chug along. I turned off my heat and my radio (I don’t know if that really helps, but hey . . . people do stupid stuff when they’re desperate!) Then to my surprise, there stood a BP I had never noticed. I whirled into the station and up to the pumps. I noticed it was pretty dark; no attendant in sight. I swiped my debit card. Nothing. Swipe. Nothing. Another hopeful swipe. Nothing. It was closed. Now, I was definitely desperate for Bethlehem.
In our scripture lesson today—the one most commonly associated with the traditional Christmas story from Luke 2—we meet a couple of people who, like me, were desperate for Bethlehem.
Mary and Joseph were traveling some 100 miles on foot at the decree of Caesar Augustus, reporting to Joseph’s hometown of Bethlehem for the census.
Bethlehem in the first century was not so different from Bethlehem, Georgia—a small, humble town that most people passed through on their way to somewhere more important. It sat about six miles south of Jerusalem, perched on a ridge in the hill country of Judea. While it had some claim to history as the birthplace of King David centuries earlier, by the time Mary and Joseph arrived, Bethlehem was just another dusty village—maybe a thousand people at most, farmers and shepherds mostly, living in simple stone houses clustered together for protection.
This wasn’t a destination; it was a detour. It wasn’t a place of power or prestige. There were no palaces, no temples, no centers of learning or commerce. Just narrow streets, modest homes, and the smell of livestock. When the Roman census required Joseph to return to his ancestral home, he wasn’t heading back to claim some grand inheritance or reconnect with influential relatives. He was going back to nowhere, to a town so unremarkable that if it hadn’t been David’s birthplace, it probably wouldn’t have made it into Scripture at all.
And yet, this is exactly where God chose to enter the world. Not in Rome, the seat of empire. Not in Jerusalem, the religious capital. Not even in a respectable home within Bethlehem itself, but in the most humble corner of a humble town—a stable, a feeding trough, the smell of animals and hay. The King of Kings born in the last place anyone would look for royalty. God’s ultimate act of humility, choosing Bethlehem—a “Place of Humility.”
Isn’t it just like God to use such a humble place in the origin story of One who would be called the King of Kings? Isn’t it just like God to bring greatness from humility? In fact, that’s one of the major themes of the Christmas story, isn’t it? Messiah didn’t arrive in the world in a chariot with great armies beside him. Messiah showed up as a vulnerable infant, in a meager manger, in a humble town.
When Mary and Joseph arrived in Bethlehem that night, exhausted from their journey, Mary heavy with child, they went looking for a place to stay. And this is where we encounter one of the saddest characters in the entire Christmas story—the innkeeper who turned them away.
Now, before we’re too hard on this innkeeper, let’s acknowledge the reality: Bethlehem was packed. The census had brought everyone back to their ancestral home, and every room was full. The innkeeper wasn’t being cruel; he was being practical. He was full up. Booked solid. No vacancy. He probably turned away dozens of travelers that night.
But here’s what breaks my heart about this moment: the innkeeper was so full—so occupied with managing what he already had, so focused on the guests already filling his rooms—that he had no space to receive what God was offering. He missed the divine encounter of a lifetime because there was no room.
“No room in the inn” has become such a familiar phrase that we’ve lost the tragedy of it. The Son of God arrived, and the door was closed. Not out of malice, but out of fullness. The innkeeper wasn’t a villain; he was simply full.
And isn’t that often our story too? We’re not bad people. We’re just full. Full of obligations, full of busyness, full of our own plans and agendas, full of our carefully managed lives. We’re so occupied with what’s already filling our space that we have no room to receive what God might be trying to birth in us.
Humility creates space. Humility says, “I don’t have it all figured out. I don’t have all the answers. There might be room for something—or Someone—I didn’t plan for.” When we’re humble, we’re open. We’re available. We’re receptive to surprise, to mystery, to God showing up in ways we never expected.
The shepherds had that humility. They were out in the fields—not important enough to have a room in town, not significant enough to be counted in the census in any meaningful way. But they had space. And when the angels appeared, they were ready to receive the message. They dropped everything and ran to see this thing that had happened.
Mary had that humility. “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” She made herself available, even when it didn’t make sense, even when it was inconvenient, even when it would cost her everything.
But the innkeeper? He was too full to receive. And he missed Christmas.
Jesus was born in a humble place. Jesus waits to be born again in the humble places in our lives . . . the places not too full to receive him.
So as we stand on the threshold of Christmas, the question before us is this: Is there room? Not in some theoretical inn two thousand years ago, but in your life, in my life, right now. Are we too full to receive what God wants to birth in us?
What would it look like to practice humility—to create space—so that Christ can be born in us again this Christmas?
· Maybe it means saying no to one more obligation, one more party, one more thing on the list, so we actually have time to be present, to be still, to notice God’s presence. Humility creates space when we admit we can’t do it all.
· Maybe it means letting go of the need to have the perfect Christmas—the perfect decorations, the perfect meal, the perfect gifts—and instead making room for the imperfect, messy, beautiful reality of who we actually are and who’s actually around our table. Humility creates space when we stop performing and start being.
· Maybe it means releasing our grip on how we think things should be—how our lives should look, how our families should function, how our faith should feel—and opening our hands to receive what actually is. Humility creates space when we surrender control.
· Maybe it means admitting that we’re running on empty, just like I was that night on the highway to Bethlehem—that we’re exhausted, depleted, desperately in need of refilling. Humility creates space when we acknowledge our need.
· Maybe it means choosing to be interruptible. The shepherds were interrupted. Mary was interrupted. What if, instead of seeing interruptions as inconveniences, we saw them as invitations? What if that person who needs help, that unexpected call, that moment when someone needs us—what if that’s where Christ is being born? Humility creates space when we’re willing to be disrupted by love.
· Or maybe it simply means pausing—right now, in this moment—and asking yourself: Where am I too full? What am I clinging to that’s keeping me from receiving what God wants to give me?
That night on the highway, I finally made it to Bethlehem, Georgia. I coasted into that gas station on fumes, filled my tank, and made it home. I was desperate, and Bethlehem saved me.
Friends, if you’re running on empty this Christmas season—and so many of us are—Bethlehem can save you too. Not the Bethlehem of a strategically placed gas station, but the Bethlehem of God’s humble, surprising grace. The Bethlehem where God chose to show up small and vulnerable and real.
The good news of Christmas is this: God doesn’t require us to be impressive or important or put-together. God comes to the humble places. God comes to the empty places. God comes when we finally stop filling every space with ourselves and our plans and our noise, and we simply say, “Here am I. There’s room. Come.”
So this Christmas, may you have the humility to make room. May you have the courage to empty yourself of whatever is keeping you too full to receive. And may you discover that in the humble, ordinary, desperate places of your life, Christ is waiting to be born again.