Dear Church Family,

With the Christmas season in full swing, I thought I’d share a devotional from Rich Bitterman. Looking forward to seeing you Sunday!

A Throne Hidden in Straw

A rustic wooden stable beneath a starry night sky, softly illuminated by a brilliant star overhead.
The wind slipped through Bethlehem’s alleys like a thief. Nothing stirred but the rattle of a shutter and the far-off creak of leather sandals. The man walking up the hill, cloak heavy with dust, jaw set against the cold, looked down and tightened his grip on the reins.

Behind him, a girl moaned. She was young. Her body bent with pain she couldn’t disguise anymore. She tried not to cry out, not here, not this close to the edge of the road. But her hands kept drifting to her belly like they were praying.

The baby was coming.

A few yards away, a door slammed. Laughter rose from a lit window and then died just as quickly. Nobody noticed the girl on the donkey. Nobody saw her face clenched in agony. No one thought to give up their bed.

And why would they?

This was Bethlehem. A forgotten dot on the census list. A place to be from, not a place to stay.

But somewhere above that quiet town, something waited. Not in the sky. Higher than that. Further back. Before stables. Before stars. Before breath.

A voice had already spoken. Not tonight. Not recently. Seven centuries before.

“But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah,
though you are small among the clans of Judah,
out of you will come for me
one who will be ruler over Israel,
whose goings out are from of old,
from days of eternity.”

Micah said it first. A prophet with nothing but a burden, standing in a nation collapsing under its own sin. And yet he pointed far forward, past judgment, into the dark toward a birth. A ruler. A child who was older than time.

He was not born from history. He is its origin.

He did not rise among rulers. He outranks them all.

He came wrapped in flesh, but robed in eternity.

The prophets pointed forward. He was already there.

The King was always coming. But no one was looking anymore.

–A City That Should Have Known–

Jerusalem was only six miles away. Close enough to hear the sheep bleat from the hillside pens. Close enough that when the wise men showed up, they caused a stir.

They asked a question with no subtlety.

“Where is he who has been born King of the Jews?”

Not born to be king.
Born King.

The city froze. Herod’s wine soured in his mouth. The scrolls were unrolled, the priests called in. Micah’s words spilled out easily since they’d all memorized them in childhood.

Bethlehem.
That’s where he’s supposed to come.

But they did not go.

The very men who knew the Messiah’s birthplace… stayed home.

Meanwhile, star-chasing Gentiles packed gold and frankincense and myrrh into saddle bags and followed a sky they barely understood to a town the priests had abandoned to memory.

That tension…that irony…still hums through every Christmas season. Some who’ve heard it all stay in their pews. Others who’ve never cracked a Bible bow low beside the manger.

–A Throne Without a Palace–

He came to a barn.

The floor was packed dirt. The air smelled of straw and dung. The first robe that touched his body wasn’t velvet. It was blood and vernix and the trembling hands of a girl from Nazareth.

The angels had seen him crowned in glory. Now they saw him swaddled in rags.

This was a surrender. The Son of God laying down his claim and not to let go of it, but to make it stronger. To make it available.

And he ruled. Even then.

He ruled from the manger when the wise men dropped to their knees.

He ruled as a boy with the Word of God on his lips.

He ruled as a carpenter, as a rabbi, as the kind of man who could touch lepers and silence demons with the same fingers.

He ruled when the nails went through his wrists. When the crowds spit. When the sky turned black and the earth shook under the weight of his silence.

He ruled when the tomb cracked open.

And he rules now.

The Risen One, seated beside the Father, holding the scepter with nail-scarred hands!

–The Ruler Over Israel… and More–

But what Israel?

Not just the nation. Not just the bloodline. The Scriptures say not all who are descended from Israel belong to Israel. Abraham’s children are those who believe, those who look to Christ as their righteousness.

That olive tree still grows. Some branches were broken off. Others, wild, unexpected, scandalous, have been grafted in. You and I, perhaps. Not Jewish by birth. But children of the promise. Sons and daughters by faith.

He rules over this Israel. Not with a rod of iron, but with a word that pierces, with grace that remakes.

He rules over hearts the way a fire rules a forest.

This is Bethlehem theology.

A theology that bleeds. That sweats. That cries out in a stable while the angels watch, stunned again by the strangeness of it all.

–Eternity in Reverse–

Micah said his goings out were “from days of eternity.” The Hebrew stumbles over itself trying to contain the phrase. You can almost hear the translator give up and say: It’s too long ago. Beyond reckoning. From forever.

This baby didn’t begin in the womb.

He didn’t begin in Bethlehem.

He had always been.

He walked with Adam in the garden breeze. Wrestled with Jacob till dawn. Stood before Joshua with a sword drawn and told him to take off his shoes.

He stood in Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace, fourth in the flames.

He went out, and went out, and went out.

But this was different.

This wasn’t a visitation.

This was incarnation.

He didn’t appear like a man. He became one.

The angels watched the throne.

They saw the Father remove the Son’s crown and not discard it, but veil it. They saw robes of glory folded away. Riches hidden. Majesty wrapped in silence.

And then he stepped down.

Smaller and smaller.

From throne to womb.

From fire to flesh.

From the voice that called stars into being… to the cry of a newborn wrapped in cloth, reaching for milk with trembling fingers.

And still he ruled.

Because that’s what real kings do.

–A Question in the Dust–

That girl who gave birth in the night… she knew the promises. She knew the prophets. But nothing could’ve prepared her for the weight of holding the One who held the universe.

The animals stirred. The town slept. The stars leaned close.

And in that hush, a question still hangs like fog in the alleyways of Bethlehem.

Will you bow?

Will you kneel with the outsiders, or sit still like the insiders?

Will you search with the wise, or sleep through your chance?

This is not about nostalgia. This is not about carols or candles or sentimental memories of a baby in a manger.

This is about a King who never stopped ruling.

This is about a throne that has never once been empty.

This is about the God who left heaven so you could enter it.

So kneel.
Not tomorrow.
Not when it’s easier.
Now.

Before the cry of the infant is drowned out by the shout of the returning King.

Before the stable gives way to the sky splitting open.

Before the Bethlehem of yesterday becomes the judgment seat of tomorrow.

He came.
He lived.
He died.
He rose.
He reigns.
And he is coming again.

“Out of you, Bethlehem… shall come for me a ruler…”

He came once in secret.

He will come again in fire.

O come, let us adore him.

Press on,

Mark