kenosis emptying you don't add to God you get
out of the way he emptied himself not power not
glory self and until you learn kenosis you don't
know God at all Hey, before we settle in, let
me tell you what you've wandered into. This episode's
called No Room, Still God. It's a slow walk through
Luke 2, the part of the Christmas story we think
we know, but we usually hear it too fast. This
isn't about decorations or pageants or making
room in our hearts. It's about what it means
God shows up in a world already crowded, already
tired, already saying no. Tonight, we're listening
for the scandal beneath the carols, the holy
truth that God doesn't wait for ideal conditions.
He comes anyway. Here's the thing. You didn't
stumble into a studio or a polished production.
You've stepped into a midweek fellowship dinner
and Bible study just a few days shy of Christmas.
There's coffee on, maybe a little leftover dessert,
folding chairs pulled close because it's cold
outside, and everybody is carrying something
heavy this time of year. You don't have to catch
up. You don't have to perform. Just grab a cup,
find a seat, and breathe for a minute. We're
going to open the text, tell the truth, and stay
with it longer than is comfortable. But I'll
see you on the other side. Well, I think there's
something interesting about that in that, again,
We read the humanity out of these characters
in the Bible and everybody's pristine and nobody
argues and nobody says catty things to the other
one and nobody gets on anybody's nerves, right?
Because Holy Spirit, man. And that's just, that's
not real life. It's not. And so when we recognize
the humanity, I think in, especially in the New
Testament, but through the whole Bible, I feel
like it. Makes more sense to me. So, having said
that, Wayne, there it is with the big thumbs
up. We are now, this is a series that we're doing
called Four Nights in Bethlehem. This is week
three. We're going to get started. So, we've
been walking the long road from Nazareth, watching
a teenage girl. say yes to God in a one -room
house, watching her cousin Elizabeth turn pregnancy
into prophecy in the hill country, and we've
been learning that God doesn't wait for the world
to get pretty before God shows up. This evening
we land in Bethlehem, and it's not quiet, and
it's not peaceful, and it's not a snow globe
that you can shake and watch the glitter settle.
It's actually overcrowded, chaotic, and... There's
no room. But God shows up anyway. The empire
sent out a decree and the roads filled up with
bodies. People going back to towns they left,
sleeping on floors they used to know, walking
roads their grandfathers walked. Somewhere in
the crush of it all, a girl nine months pregnant
climbs off a donkey and knocks on doors that
won't open. The world is too full. The rooms
are all taken, and the Lord of heaven is about
to be born where animals eat. Friends, tune your
ears to the reading of Scripture, the Gospel
account according to the historian Luke, second
chapter of his Gospel account, beginning verse
1. In those days, a decree went out from Emperor
Augustus that all the world should be registered.
This was the first registration and was taken
while Quirinius was the governor of Syria. All
went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph
also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee
to Judea to the city of David called Bethlehem.
Because he was descended from the house and the
family of David, he went to be registered with
Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting
a child. While they were there, time came for
her to deliver their child, and she gave birth
to her firstborn son, wrapped him in bands of
cloth, laid him in a manger, because there was
no place for them in the guest room. No place
for them. Not sorry or booked, not tried down
the street, just no place. And that's where God
is born. You know what it's like this time of
year? Thanksgiving just happened, and maybe you
hosted. Maybe you're the one pulling folding
chairs out of the garage at four in the afternoon,
wiping dust off card tables, trying to figure
out how to fit 14 people in a dining room built
for six. Somebody's kid ends up on the floor
with a paper plate. Somebody's uncle is asleep
for halftime. The house is full. Jackets piled
on the bed. Too many cars in the driveway. Not
enough outlets for all of the crockpots. And
maybe it's good. Maybe it's loud and warm, full
of laughter. But maybe you also know the other
side. Maybe you know what it's like to be the
one who doesn't have a house full of people.
The one who works a double shift at the truck
stop on Thanksgiving because rent's due and the
schedule doesn't care about your loneliness.
Maybe you know what it's like to sleep in the
Walmart parking lot in your car because the shelter's
full and it's safer than parking on the street.
Maybe you've been the one knocking on doors this
year, looking for work, looking for help, looking
to place the land, and every door says the same
thing. No room. That's the world. And that's
the world Jesus was born into. And it's not the
world that we put on Christmas cards, not the
world we sing about with twinkle lights and fake
snow. The real world. One where Caesar sends
out a decree and everybody has to move, ready
or not. The one where a pregnant girl and her
fiancé show up in a town bursting at the seams
and nobody's got space for them. The world says
no room is the world that God chooses anyway.
So let's go there. It's Bethlehem. Small town,
maybe a thousand people on a busy day. But this
isn't any normal day. Caesar Augustus sitting
on his throne in Rome. Decides he wants to count
everybody. He wants to know how many bodies he
owns. How much tax revenue can he squeeze out
of the provinces? So he sends out a decree. Everybody
go back to your ancestral home and register.
And just like that, the roads fill up. Imagine
it. Families packing up, old men who haven't
been in their hometowns in 40 years now walking
dusty roads with blisters on their feet. Women
eight months pregnant bouncing on the back of
a donkey, kids crying, people sleeping in ditches
because the inns are full 20 miles out. Bethlehem,
this little know -nothing town south of Jerusalem
is suddenly packed. Every relative you haven't
seen in years is back. Crashing in the guest
room, sleeping on the floor, taking up every
spare corner, every inn, every rental room, every
cousin's couch. Taken. The whole town smells
like sweat and livestock. Too many people in
too small a place. And into this chaos walks
Joseph. Nazareth to Bethlehem is about 90 miles.
If you're walking, that would be like four to
five days. And if you're nine months pregnant
and riding a donkey, it's longer. Every step
is a gamble. Every night you're hoping the baby
doesn't come yet. Not here, not on the side of
the road, not in some stranger's barn. They don't
have a choice. The empire doesn't care if you're
pregnant. The empire doesn't care if the timing
is bad. The decree goes out, and you go. So they
arrive, tired. Dusty marries contractions starting,
and Joseph starts knocking on doors. First, a
cousin he hasn't seen in 15 years. Cousin recognizes
him, hugs him, genuinely sorry, Joseph, man,
I wish I could help. We've got my... Brother's
family sleeping in the guest room, my wife's
parents in the back. There's literally people
on the floor. I don't have anywhere to put you.
Second house, family friend opens the door, sees
Mary leaning on the donkey and winces. Joseph,
I'm sorry. We rented out our guest room two days
ago. There's a family from Hebron here with four
people in it, and I can't. Third house doesn't
even open the door all the way, just a crack,
just a woman's voice for full. Try the inn. Fourth
house, the inn. And it's not an inn like we picture,
by the way, not a hotel with a vacancy sign.
It's somebody's house where they rent out the
extra room during census time. And the owner
is standing in the doorway, apologetic but firm.
I've got people wall to wall. I've got folks
sleeping in shifts. I don't even have any floor
space left. And Joseph keeps on walking. Mary's
breathing is harder now. The contractions are
closer together. The sun's going down. The temperature
is dropping. Joseph's running out of doors to
knock on. No room. No room. No room. And I wonder
if you've ever been there. Where you're asking
and asking and asking and every answer is the
same. Where you're not even mad at the people
saying no because you can see they're telling
the truth. They genuinely don't have space. But
you still need a place to land and there isn't
one. That's where Joseph is. That's where Mary
is. And here's what we do with the story. We
turn Christmas into a pageant. We put a halo
on Mary, a beard on Joseph, some sheep in the
corner, and we light it up like a Hallmark movie.
We sing away in the manger, and we make it sweet.
We make it nice, and we miss the scandal. The
scandal of the story, friends, is the world has
no room for God. Not because the world is evil,
not because the innkeeper is mean, but because
the world is full. Full of people trying to survive,
full of empire's demands, full of exhaustion
and chaos, and too many bodies in too small a
place. The world is doing what the world always
does. And in the middle of that, there's no room.
And we like to think that if God showed up, we'd
recognize him. We like to think we'd roll out
the red carpet, clear out the guest room, make
space. We tell ourselves, if I'd been there,
I would have let them in. But the truth is most
of us meet God in places where we got pushed
aside. Most of us meet God in the hospital waiting
room at 2 o 'clock in the morning. The doctor's
taking too long and you're too tired to pray
anymore, but you do anyway. Most of us meet God
in the job you didn't get, the relationship that
ended, the eviction notice taped on the door.
Most of us meet God in manger spaces, a place
where the world says there's no room, and you
have to figure out how to live there anyway.
We want God to show up neat, clean, comfortable.
We want the angel choir and the star and the
wise men with gold. But God shows up in a barn,
and at the very first breath, the Son of God
takes, smells like animals. So I wanna slow this
down and actually look at what Luke is actually
telling us. Verse one, in those days, a decree
went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world
should be registered. Now, like I'd mentioned
when I was reading scripture, Luke doesn't start
with Mary, he starts with Caesar. He starts with
empire. In those days, that's historian language.
That's Luke saying, let me set the stage for
you. And the stage is this. The most powerful
man in the world sitting in Rome, decides to
flex. He wants a census. He wants to count his
subjects, measure his reach, and remind everybody
who's in charge. And when he does, the whole
world moves. That's what empire does. It doesn't
ask, it demands. And if you're a poor carpenter
from Nazareth with a pregnant fiance, you don't
get to say, actually, this is a bad time for
us to go. You walk the 90 miles. You show up.
Verses 4 and 5, Joseph also went from the town
of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea to the city of
David, called Bethlehem, because he was descended
from the house and family of David. He went to
be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged.
And who was expecting a child? Notice what Luke
does here. He gives us Joseph's genealogy, descended
from the house and the family of David, which
is important because that's royal lineage. Joseph
is from the line of kings. Kings don't walk 90
miles because Caesar says so. Kings don't show
up in overcrowded towns with no place to stay.
Except this one does. Because this king being
born under Caesar's rule, under empire's boot
in a world doesn't recognize him yet. Verses
six and seven, while they were there, the time
came for her to deliver her child. She gave birth
to her firstborn son, wrapped him in bands of
cloth, laid him in the manger because there was
no place for them in the guest room. Luke doesn't
give us a lot of detail, no description of the
birth, no mention of pain or blood or Mary's
fear, just the facts. The time came, she gave
birth, she wrapped him, she laid him in a manger.
But that last line, because there was no place
for them in the guest room, that's the hinge.
The Greek word for that is kataluma. And it doesn't
mean in like we would think, like a hotel. It
means guest room, the kind of room a family keeps
for the visiting relative. The kind of room that
in a town packed for a census would get filled
up very quickly. So Mary Joseph ended up in the
only space left, the place where the animals
are kept. Maybe a cave, maybe a lean -to attached
to somebody's house, somewhere with a feed trough.
A manger, that's what that is, where you pour
grain for the donkeys and the sheep. And that's
where the Lord of heaven is born. Not in a palace
or a temple, not even a clean bed in a quiet
room. In a place where animals eat. Paul saw
this in his Philippian letter. He writes, Let
the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
who, though he was in the form of God, did not
regard equality with God as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave
being born in human likeness. Emptied himself.
The theological word there is kenosis, and it
means self -emptying. It means God who holds
all power. All glory, all authority chooses to
let it go. Not because he has to, because he
wants to. Because the only way to reach us, the
only way to meet us where we actually live is
to step into that mess with us. And the manger
is where that step first lands. king of kings
lying in a feed trough, word made flesh wrapped
in rags, the light of the world squinting at
a barn ceiling. That's not sentiment, that's
scandal. God didn't wait for the world to make
room. He showed up anyway. He took the space
the world wouldn't give him and made it holy.
So here's my question for this evening. Where
have you been told no room in this year? For
some folks, this is an actual literal thing.
You lost your apartment. Maybe you're couch serving,
sleeping in your truck, trying to figure out
where you're going to land. Maybe you're one
medical bill away from losing the house you've
lived in for 30 years. Maybe it's relational.
Maybe your family doesn't make space for you
anymore because you're divorced, because you're
sober now and they're not. Because you ask too
many questions and they don't want to hear it.
Maybe the friend group you thought you would
have forever doesn't return your phone calls.
Maybe you showed up at the holiday gathering
and felt like a ghost in the room. Maybe it's
the job you thought you'd retire from, but they
told you we're restructuring you. Maybe you sent
out 50 applications and got 50 rejections. Maybe
you've heard the words, there's nothing more
we can do, and you're trying to figure out how
to live with that sentence. Maybe it's spiritual.
Maybe the church you grew up in told you there's
no room for questions or no room for doubts,
no room for you unless you get in line. Maybe
you've been knocking on the door of faith for
months and it feels like nobody is answering.
No room, no room. And here's what Advent says
to that. Advent says that's exactly where God
is not afraid to be born. The manger isn't God's
backup plan. It's not where he ended up because
the palace was full. The manger is God saying,
I'm not waiting for you to clean up. I'm not
waiting for you to make space. I'm coming to
a place you've pushed aside and I'm making that
space holy. You think God needs a guest room?
And God doesn't need your permission. He doesn't
need your readiness. He doesn't need the world
to roll out a red carpet. He shows up in a barn.
He shows up in the no room spaces and he says,
this is where I'll be born. This will be where
grace starts. So I'm asking you, to do something
hard this evening. Name your manger space. Name
the place the world said to you no room and you
had to figure out how to live there anyway. And
stay with me here. Dare to believe that God is
not absent there. Dare to believe that the same
God who chose a feed trough is choosing to meet
you in a place where you got pushed aside. And
you don't have to have it all figured out. You
don't have to be strong. You don't have to make
it pretty. Just have to be willing to let God
be born there. Because that's what Christmas
is. Not the story of how we made room for God.
Story of God showing up when there was no room.
Made it enough. The world is crowded. The doors
are closed. The guest rooms are full. God is
not deterred. He's born in a barn. He breathes
in the straw. He makes the manger holy. So go
into the rest of this week knowing wherever you've
been told no room, that's where God is not afraid
to be. Grace that chooses the margins. Friend
is still choosing you. Amen. Amen. Thanks, guys.
Hey, before you go, let's sit with this a moment
longer. If tonight stirred something in you,
comforted you, maybe unsettled you a little,
that's okay. That's often how the truth comes
to us. Not loud, not neat, just steady. Luke
doesn't give us a polished Christmas. He gives
us a crowded world, closed doors, tired people,
and God showing up anyway. If you're walking
into Christmas carrying grief, regret, exhaustion,
or questions you don't have words for yet, hear
this clearly. Lack of room in your life has not
kept God away. He knows how to be born there.
He always has. You don't need to fix anything
tonight. You don't need to resolve the tension.
Just let the story stay with you for a little
bit. Let it work on you slowly. Advent was never
meant to rush us. It was meant to teach us how
to wait without losing hope. And if what you
heard tonight mattered to you, if it helped you
breathe a little easier, or maybe even see the
story a little differently, consider tossing
that old like in the offering plate. It's how
we know the bell's worth ringing again. And if
you'd like to walk with us all the way through
Christmas, go ahead and tithe your subscribe.
That way... You'll know when we're back at the
table opening the text again and telling the
truth together. Hey, thank you for spending time
with us. Till next time, be blessed.