(6) “She Placed Him in a Manger” (Luke 2:1-7)
Many of us have our own private feelings about
Christmas, distilled from the pleasant memories of childhood — manger
scenes and kings in exotic robes, carols and trees, and eggnog and sleigh rides
in the snow. It goes almost without saying that the greater part of these have
no Biblical basis. Furthermore, it is generally recognized that our traditional
date for Christmas is derived from ancient pagan festivals and unfounded church
tradition, and is probably off the mark by months.
These popular Christmas accompaniments may be
harmless enough in themselves (though it can be proved that many still bear the
evidence of their pagan origins). The greater danger arises when the popular
celebration of Christmas obscures, and perhaps displaces altogether, the
realities of Christ’s birth. It is possible that, even as we become
“full-grown” in our understanding of the ministry, death, and
resurrection of Christ, we may remain mere “babes” in our
understanding of his birth. The imprints of childhood may leave our minds
impervious to the sublime and beautiful lessons of these early
narratives.
The human drama
A walking trip from Nazareth to Bethlehem —
almost 100 miles — and a delivery in a stable may be the source material
for countless Christmas songs, but we may be sure these events were not a
pleasant holiday lark for Mary and Joseph.
And yet, as we grasp the harsher realities of the
story, we are moved deeply by the sheer human drama of redemption. God does not
bring salvation to the world by royal proclamation. One might have expected that
this climactic manifestation of God to man would be like His earlier ones, only
greater. But one looks in vain for burning bushes, pillars of fire, or partings
of the sea. God’s Son is born into the world through almost clumsy human
efforts. The way of Mary and Joseph is beset by problems, difficulties and
embarrassments. Is it any wonder, then, that the same thing happens today; that
God’s children even now are “born” in difficult circumstances,
and that they “grow up” in the midst of discomfort and travail? So
it has always been.
It really happened! It really happened to a young
woman, scarcely beyond childhood, and to a young man probably not much older.
God could have granted this great privilege to some older (and, we might think,
better-prepared) woman, perhaps one of the “temple virgins” who
served perpetually at Jerusalem. But He did not.
What does it mean ? Perhaps it is a subtle
reminder that there is something for each of us to do, even the younger ones
among us. Do we challenge our young people as we should? They are capable of
great things, with the guidance of God. There are Divine purposes to be
accomplished, and God needs tools — idealistic, dedicated minds in strong
young bodies. It is better to try great things, and sometimes fail, than never
to try at all. God can work today through any of us, even the youngest and least
experienced, if we let Him.
The story of Joseph and Mary is one of the
greatest love stories in the Bible. It tells of a love beginning in the
freshness of youth, but quickly maturing amidst severe hardships. It tells of a
love which is not selfish, but sacrificial and mutually supportive; of a love
which is not taking, but giving. It is a great love story because it is centered
upon the fulfillment of God’s purpose, and thereby it touches eternity. It
is a love story, then, that does not end at the graveside; it is only
temporarily suspended. God grant that we all may find love like theirs, with
husband or wife if He wills, but certainly with those kindred spirits who make
up our greater family, the faithful in Christ.
Caesar and Christ
“In those days Caesar Augustus issued a
decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world” (Luke
2:1)... or... “that all the world should be enrolled” (RSV).
Luke is an inspired historian, who can therefore
look into the heart of things and think on a grand scale. The story he presents
is a fascinating interplay of Roman imperial authority and obscure Jewish
compliance. But even the decrees of mighty Caesar are bent to the Divine
purpose. Augustus, with all his armies and bureaucrats, is no more than a
servant of God.
For centuries the religion of
“freedom” (see, for examples, Rom. 6:18,22; 8:2,21; Gal. 5:1) was
destined to contend against the despotic power of a great empire, a totalitarian
state which never hesitated to make the lowly masses subservient to its own
will. (Such states have not gone out of style, and will not, as long as man is
left to rule his own affairs. They have changed their names and ideologies, but
not their essential characters.) Even in his birth, the founder of the new
religion was tossed to and fro at the whim of the emperor. When he went to his
death thirty-odd years later, it was again as a mere random piece of humanity,
to be “processed” by the same state, one among many misfits and
criminals impaled by Roman nails on Roman crosses.
The state had its purposes, but God had His also.
Each purpose was fulfilled, but how different they were! In ordering the
enrollment, the state was seeking to achieve greater control over its subjects,
and laying the groundwork for taxation. God made use of these materialistic
enterprises to fulfill the prophecy that His Son, as the “governor and
shepherd of Israel”, would be born in the little town of Bethlehem (Micah
5:2).
“This was the first enrollment, when
Quirinius was governor of Syria” (Luke 2:2, RSV).
The KJV uses “taxing” in the Old
English sense of a census, although the collection of revenue was probably a
secondary purpose too. Luke, in using the word “first”, seems to be
saying that another enrollment followed later. The second census, approximately
ten years later, is the one referred to in Acts 5:37. (At one time, since
secular historians confirmed this census but knew nothing of an earlier one,
Bible critics presumed that Luke had made a serious error in chronology. Recent
discoveries have quite satisfactorily cleared up this confusion, by confirming
the earlier census and substantiating Luke’s record.)
“And everyone went to his own town to
register” (Luke 2:3).
Usually the Roman practice was to register people
at their place of residence. This was not done in Palestine, probably because
Jewish law and tradition attached people to their original tribal homes, not to
their current residences. Because Joseph was of the “house and line of
David” (v. 4), it was necessary that he return to David’s land of
inheritance, Bethlehem in Judah.
It has been suggested that women would not have
been required to travel back to their original family homes. Even if this were
so, Mary would have desired to go with Joseph, since they could scarcely have
been unaware of Micah’s prophecy (Matt. 2:5,6). The decree of Augustus
merely provided the reason, or pretense, for their trip.
Significantly, Mary is still called the
“pledged”, “espoused”, or “betrothed”, wife
of Joseph (Luke 2:5). Even though she had been living in his house, Joseph
nevertheless had “had no union with her” (Matt. 1:25), in accordance
with his resolution, until after the birth of her son.
From Nazareth to
Bethlehem
They left Nazareth and headed south, probably
detouring around Samaria, which was customary. (Years later, Mary’s son
would scorn rabbinical restrictions, and travel directly through the land of the
Samaritans, with wonderful results: John 4.) It was an arduous trip. There were
no buses, trains, or automobiles; no motels with hot water, no roadside
restaurants. Instead we may imagine a cave, or a grove of trees, with a campfire
to scare away wild animals.
What did they discuss in those evenings by the
fire? They were cut off from the past by the hand of God, and they faced a
future of uncertainties. Where would God lead them? And would they recognize the
signs He would surely give them?
That could be us on that road. “Trust in
the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your
ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight” (Prov. 3:5,6).
Somehow it seems so much easier when we are well fed and have money in the bank,
and when we know (or think we know) where we will be and what we will be doing
next week, and next month, and next year. But what about when the way is dark,
and our friends have disappeared; when nameless fears haunt our nights, and God
seems a million miles away? Then it becomes all the more necessary that we learn
and practice the lesson of faith.
“Riding on a
donkey”
The final legs of the journey would take the
couple from Jericho to Jerusalem, and then to Bethlehem. Giving the imagination
free rein, it is easy to picture the last day of the journey. The sun is well on
its downward course as they ascend the mountains east of Jerusalem. The Holy
City looms before them, its hues of gold, tan, and brown reflecting the evening
sun, as it crouches on the mountains — the “lion” of Judah.
Its majestic temple stands out, an emblem of purity in dazzling
white.
But there is no time to pause. Bethlehem is still
some miles away, and if they arrive too late the inn may be full. So, passing by
the city walls, they continue southward in haste. And no one notices them, just
a young man, and his wife on a donkey. The city walls stand silent, in the
lengthening shadows of evening, towering over them as they pass
by.
Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, here is your King! He
is lowly, and riding on a donkey (Zech. 9:9). He came to his city for the first
time, but for him there is no welcome, only brooding silence. Asleep in his
mother’s womb, he passes on, into the gathering darkness. But, Jerusalem,
he will come again, once again riding upon a donkey, and you will throw your
arms open in joy to receive him: “Hosanna to the son of David.” One
day he will come to you, and you will rejoice and shout. But shortly thereafter,
you will reject him and turn him over to a cruel cross. And yet another day he
will come to you and establish in you his throne, bringing peace to all nations.
In that day his dominion will stretch from sea to sea, and from the river to the
ends of the earth (Zech. 9:9,10). One day and another, and another again... how
his fortunes will be intertwined with your streets and walls and buildings and
gardens. Oh Jerusalem, with such mixed emotions will you welcome or repulse this
baby in the womb after he is grown to manhood. But not yet...
Joseph and Mary walk over the hill toward
Bethlehem and disappear from view. The great city of Jerusalem — with its
proud temple and prouder people — is left behind. Soon it is
night.
“Her firstborn
son”
It is late when they come to Bethlehem, a little
town secluded on a limestone ridge about six or seven miles south of Jerusalem.
Here, long years ago, the patriarch Jacob laid to rest his beloved Rachel. Here
Boaz claimed Ruth of Moab as his bride. Here Samuel chose and anointed the young
shepherd David. But Bethlehem (which in Hebrew means “the house of life
and bread”), once a bright light in Judah, was now a spent candle,
overshadowed by the nearby capital city. Bethlehem, now “little among the
thousands of Judah” (Mic. 5:2), was prepared for one final
glory.
“While they were there, the time came
for the baby to be born” (Luke 2:6).
Out of apparent disarray, the right people come
to the right place at the right time. How amazing is the providence of God! And
the greatest wonder is that His providence still works today.
“When the time had fully come”, Paul
says, Jesus was born “of a woman ... under the law” (Gal. 4:4). She
partook of the sorrow and pain of childbirth, passing under the curse of the law
of Moses and becoming unclean. It was the shadow of a reality still to come,
when the baby, grown to manhood, would, of his own volition, come under the
curse of that law in his death, so that the curse might be once and for all
removed (Gal. 3:13).
“And she gave birth to her firstborn, a
son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no
room for them in the inn” (Luke 2:7).
No human setting could improve upon the luster of
this perfect “jewel”. Jesus’ status would not have been
enhanced in the slightest if he had been born in a palace.
Human ingenuity would have been baffled to
contrive a fitting entrance into the world for God’s Son. But God would
rather choose the weak things, and the lowly, so that nothing of the flesh can
boast against His glory (1 Cor. 1:29). He bids us enter the stable, where a
humble woman, scarcely more than a girl, clasps to her breast a fragile newborn.
In the darkness of that special night a tiny cry mingles with the murmurs of the
beasts: “O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of
God!”
“The ox knows his master, the donkey his
owner's manger, but Israel does not know, my people do not understand”
(Isa. 1:3).
Centuries before, God had uttered this plaintive
cry. Now, in the stillness of the stable, the brute beasts turn quietly to gaze
upon the “crib” where the prospective owner of all creation lies.
But outside, the nation of Israel slumbers in darkness, not considering the
wonder of the little baby in the manger, the little baby who will one day assert
his right to universal dominion (Gen. 1:28; Psa. 8:6).
There was “no room for them in the
inn”. They stood at the door and knocked, but they were turned away. Jesus
stands at the door today, the door of our hearts, and knocks (Rev. 3:20). Do we
have room for him in our lives? Or do we have too many other
“guests”, so that Jesus is shunted aside, or given the lowest place?
Let us fling open every chamber of our hearts, so that the King might enter and
find a home.