The Manger Luke 2:1-20 Rev. Rhonda Abbott Blevins December 24, 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, every one 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 Saviour, 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.
And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us. And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child. And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds. But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart. And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.
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I set this symbol before us this Christmas Eve—a meager, rough-hewn collection of wood and nails. This symbol has taken on such significance for people of faith, as well as for the broader culture. It’s unmistakable in its form. Unambiguous in its meaning.
The manger.
If you’ve been worshipping with us throughout the Advent season, you’ve been on a journey with us through some of the most significant geographical places in which the Christmas story took place.
· We began in Rome, the seat of power and authority for the Holy Family, subjects of the Roman Empire.
· We made our way to Jerusalem, the location of the Temple, where Zechariah was visited by an angel who told him that he would have a son—John the Baptist—who would prepare the way for the arrival of Messiah.
· Then to Nazareth in Galilee, a kind of “nowhere” place where Jesus grew up.
· And on to Bethlehem, another largely insignificant location at the time—a small village in the hill country outside of Jerusalem, but where the prophets foretold that Messiah would be born, just like King David before him.
Today we find ourselves in Bethlehem once again, but zooming in on Google maps from the region, to the town, to the very specific coordinates—the longitude and latitude—to the very spot where a dirty, rough-hewn, empty feeding trough awaits the fulfillment of its life’s purpose some 2,000 years ago on a silent night that would forever alter the course of human history.
The manger.
How long that manger had been there, no one knows. Chances are it had been there for years, quietly, humbly serving its purpose, holding the feed for the sheep or the donkeys or the cows or whatever animals the innkeeper held there. It wasn’t an exciting life for the manger—it didn’t travel to exotic locations, it didn’t receive a world-class education, it wasn’t the subject of human thought or conversation. But day after day, it showed up for work. Served its purpose. Fulfilled its task. It held the feed, and it held it well.
The manger.
How inconsequential. How boring. How mundane.
And yet, these 2,000 years later, a makeshift replica adorns our altar—a symbol for us—the Savior of the world would arrive not with chariots blazing, not with trumpet sounding, not with camera crews or paparazzi jockeying for the perfect angle. The Savior of the world would arrive in a dirty stable, under terrible conditions, worse (dare I say?) than any of our birth stories.
On this Christmas Eve, I invite you to take a good look at the manger, but not just as a symbol of Christmas, but as a metaphor for each of our lives.
You see, there’s a manger within every one of us. A meager, imperfect, rough-hewn place. An inconsequential, boring, mundane place. Within each of us, there’s a place that feels rough and raw. There’s a place of shame or sorrow. There’s a place that didn’t measure up or didn’t show up when it mattered the most.
Within each of us, there are places, spaces that aren’t named, aren’t discussed around the dinner table. Within each of us, there are places, spaces we don’t post on social media, feelings, memories, habits, thoughts that don’t quite make it to our Insta accounts. Day after day, these feelings, memories, habits, thoughts—they quietly, humbly take up space in our lives that feel dark and void of light.
And it’s exactly those places, those spaces that need light the most.
There’s a meager, humble manger within each of us that desperately awaits the light that only the Christ child can bring.
What does that manger look like in your life this Christmas Eve? What brokenness did you bring with you to worship on this holy night? What place in you is most in need of a bit of light to break in, to break through, to bring hope and healing into the crevices of your being?
My dear friend, tonight you’ve come to the right place. For right here, this very evening, Christ is ready to be born anew in you. The Light of the World is eager to shine into your brokenness in the same way the Light of the World came into a broken world over 2,000 years ago.
In the words of Leonard Cohen, “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”
What manger in you longs for light? Might you allow the light of Christ’s tenacious love for you to break in?
As we prepare to light the Christmas Eve candles, symbolic of the inbreaking Light of the World, I close with a poem for pastor and poet, Jan Richardson, entitled “How The Light Comes.”
I cannot tell you
how the light comes.
What I know
is that it is more ancient
than imagining.
That it travels
across an astounding expanse
to reach us.
That it loves
searching out
what is hidden
what is lost
what is forgotten
or in peril
or in pain.
That it has a fondness
for the body
for finding its way
toward flesh
for tracing the edges
of form
for shining forth
through the eye,
the hand,
the heart.
I cannot tell you
how the light comes,
but that it does.
That it will.
That it works its way
into the deepest dark
that enfolds you,
though it may seem
long ages in coming
or arrive in a shape
you did not foresee.
And so
may we this day
turn ourselves toward it.
May we lift our faces
to let it find us.
May we bend our bodies
to follow the arc it makes.
May we open
and open more
and open still
to the blessed light
that comes.