In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.) And everyone went to their own town to register. So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them. Luke 2:1-7 (NIV)
Dear Lord Jesus, whether or not you entered our world anywhere close to our December 25th is irrelevant. What matters is that you actually came from eternity into time and space—not as a metaphor or myth or fable or legend, but as our Savior.
Luke took great care to detail the history of your birth; but it’s the quietness and “smallness” of your birth that is noteworthy. Any other king would’ve come with great fanfare and a royal entourage. But you came into our world in utter stillness and profound weakness. “No room in the inn” wasn’t an insult to you; it was your choice, your plan, your gospel. We praise, bless, and adore you.
Indeed, you didn’t consider your equality with God something to be protected or hoarded. Rather, you made yourself “nothing,” becoming one of us—tabernacling among as God in the flesh, the Servant of the Lord, the second Adam. And with joyful obedience, you fulfilled the law for us; and with measureless humility, you died in our place upon the cross. Hallelujah, we cry, over and over again.
Thank you for coming to us, Lord Jesus; thank you for saving us from our sins; thank you for ruling the world with your truth and grace; thank you for committing to make all things new. So very Amen we pray, in your great and gracious name.