Mangers

Born In a Barn

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.

But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord.

This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger. (Luke 2:8-12)

Ever hear the expression, “Were you born in a barn?” I did a little research and there are two theories on the origin of that phrase. The first is from a blog by Amanda Thomson who suggests that it was originally, “Were you born in Bardney?”

Bardney is the site of the Tupholme Abbey in Lincolnshire, England. Apparently, when the King, Saint Oswald, was killed, his followers tried to bring his bones to the abbey, but the monks kept the doors shut. During the night, however, a pillar of light allegedly shone from the cart of bones, convincing the monks that Oswald was indeed a saint and that they’d been wrong to shut out the cart with his bones. Legend has it that, forever after, the monks left their gates wide open. So, the phrase that developed, “Do you come from Bardney?” meant that you’d left the door open.

Of course, it’s also possible that the phrase’s original question was, in fact, “Were you born in a barn?” It was a custom to leave barn doors open in the early morning to let the cows out to pasture, and they stayed open all day until the cows were herded back to the barn for milking again in the early evening. Hence, leaving the door open.

I heard it when I tracked mud on the carpet.

My youngest son, William, was born in one of those birthing suites. He had the good fortune of being born at a time when they were just coming into vogue. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Maybe you’ve even been in one before. Yeah, they’re those comfortable, clean, warmly lit rooms where the entire family can be present for the birth, surrounded by the latest in medical technology. It was exactly the sort of place where you'd want your child to be born.

But Jesus? Not so much. He wasn’t born in one of those immaculate birthing suites. He was born in a barn and laid in a manger – a place where they feed animals. And the question is, “Why?” I mean, of all the places he could’ve been born, why was he born in a barn with a manger as his cradle? Unfortunately, I ponder these things, especially during this time of year.

But it got me to thinking. Maybe Jesus was born in a barn and laid in a manger to fulfill the scriptures. You know, the prophecies in the Old Testament predicting his coming? There’s just one problem with that kind of thinking – there are no prophecies in the Old Testament about the Messiah being born in a barn. Hmmm.

So, then I thought, well, since Jesus is called the “Good Shepherd,” maybe he was born in a place cut out for shepherds. Now, it's true that shepherds would often take shelter out in the fields, like in a stable, to avoid the elements. But that kind of place was usually a cave of some sort, and shepherds didn’t live there, they just took shelter there. And they certainly didn’t give birth there. I mean, shepherds were social outcasts and all; they were the poorest of the poor. But even a shepherd wouldn’t be born in a manger. (Ahem, … a barn)

And then it came to me. The obvious answer is provided by the story itself: Jesus was born in a barn and placed in a manger because there was no room at the inn! Yeah, that’s it. You know. It wasn't something that was planned – it was just an accident. Jesus was a preemie! But then I got to thinking that in the life of Christ there were no accidents – everything was planned. Everything. Down to the last detail. Before the beginning of time. OK, then why the manger?

Well, if you take stock of a real manger, a few things stand out. First, a manger can be cold. And if you subscribe to Jesus being born during an Israeli winter, it’s that damp sort of cold that chills you to the bone. Further, the only heat source would have been the body heat coming from the cows when they came in to feed, and their breath. But in winter, their breath would have made for a cloud of steam that, given the right conditions, could freeze, mid-air.

A manger’s dark, too. In fact, most mangers were located underground, in a cave or below the house it served. So, even when the sun’s shining, it's dark in there. And, perhaps stating the obvious, a manger is filthy: it's full of slobber, drool, mud, dust and cobwebs. It smells bad, too. There's no such thing as a hygienic manger. At Christmas time, however, we tend to romanticize the manger. We turn it into something beautiful and heavenly – a first century birthing suite of sorts. But a real manger just isn't like that. The truth is that Jesus was laid in a place that was cold, dark, dirty and smelly. But again, why? I mean, if Jesus was God Incarnate, God with skin on, couldn’t He have picked a better spot than a filthy feeding trough? You know, a mangy manger?

Maybe it’s because Jesus is always born in a manger. Huh?

You see, when Jesus comes into our lives, he’s born in a manger of sorts because the human heart is just like a manger. Our hearts are cold because we don’t know the love of God; our hearts are dark because we don’t have the light of Christ, or the hope of salvation; and our hearts are dirty because we are stained and soiled by sin. But the miracle of Christmas is that Jesus is willing to be born into hearts just like that! No matter how cold and dark and dirty our hearts may be, Jesus is willing to come in and be born – born in the manger of our lives.

His birth, and where he laid, reminds us that Jesus always meets us at the manger. He encounters us in that place where we feel utterly lost, hopeless and helpless. He meets us in the darkness of our grief and sorrow, and he meets us in the blackness of our despair. He comes into our lives when we feel unloved, unlovable and alone – when inside we feel cold and half frozen to death. Jesus meets us in all the mess and filth of our sin – even those sins which we think are unforgivable.

A while back, I picked up a Newsweek and read an article about Anne Rice. She’s a famous novelist, and her books have sold 50 million copies the world over. Most of her books deal with the occult and vampires, like Interview with a Vampire. The article told the story of her life – how her mother died when she was still very young, and how she grew up afraid of the dark. Later on, she got married and gave birth to a baby girl named Michelle. But when Michelle was just a few years old, she died of leukemia. Crushed, Anne began drinking heavily and sank into a deep depression. So, she began writing about vampires as therapy because vampires, so they say, are able to live forever.

Her novels brought her wealth and fame, so much so that she bought a huge mansion in New Orleans and entertained her many guests with lavish parties. But then a strange thing happened. Anne began reading the Bible, including a number of Christian books. And even though she hadn't been to church since she was a little girl, she felt a strange longing to take communion. Then, in 1998, she renewed her faith in Jesus Christ, and in 2005 decided that she would no longer write about vampires. Describing that moment she said, “I was in church, talking to the Lord, saying, ‘I want everything I do to be for you.’ Then it hit me: ‘It will be for you. All of it. Every word.’” So, it should come as no surprise that when her autobiography, Called out of Darkness: A Spiritual Confession (2008), was released, it rocked the publishing world; it was bordering on the inconceivable that Anne Rice, the queen of the vampires, was now a devout believer in Jesus Christ.

But then again, maybe that shouldn’t surprise us after all. Because Jesus is always born in the manger of dark, cold, and dirty hearts that long to be called out of darkness into light. Out of bondage into freedom. Out of fear and into joy. Out of self and into Christ. Maybe being born in a barn isn’t so bad after all.

Grace,

 Randy