Splintered and Holy

Splintered.
Weathered.
Sagging under years of bearing burdens.

I'm a vessel for hay and slop, nothing more.

Someone hastily hammered my uneven planks together for function, not beauty. I'm good at my job, but no one ever thinks of me. I'm not much to look at, so one looks twice at me except the cows and the donkeys, and they only care when I'm full of food or if I have been empty too long. Everyone ignores me unless my rusted nails have wiggled loose and feed spills onto the floor through a loose board. Then, it's a quick pound of the hammer, and they tuck me back into the shadows of the stable, forgotten again.

I am just a manger.

But that night, everything changed.

A young man stumbled into the stable, taking slow, weary steps as though carrying something heavier than the journey itself. His hands trembled as he searched. His eyes were restless and desperate until he saw me and paused. With a relieved sigh, he said, "I think this will work."

Work?
Work for what, exactly?
I didn't notice any animals arriving with him; the resident beasts had already eaten. What kind of work did he need me to do?

His hands, coarse and strong, gripped tight to my boards, and he pulled my heavy frame across the stone floor, out of my shadowy corner, and into the faint glow of starlight peeking through the entrance and the cracks in the ceiling. In the light, I saw a young girl on the floor, resting her back against the wall. She had the unmistakable determination and strength of a mother. Yes, a new mother. Then I heard his voice. A thin cry came from the bundle in her arms. She held him closer and rocked him, whispering comfort in his ear. But his cry crescendoed into a wail. The man quickly gathered anything soft he could find. He filled my trough with bits of straw, leaves, and wool scraps. "It's ready," he said as she rose from her spot on the floor, rocking her bundle back and forth.

She carried him toward me, her steps careful and deliberate, and laid him gently on the makeshift bed. My uneven boards should have been unworthy, but everything changed when his tiny body touched my frame.

I wanted to cry out. No! Not me! Find something clean, something worthy of a baby. But there was no crib, no pillow—only me.

Splintered.
Weathered.
Worn out.
Uneven me.

But the child split the night with His first cry, and everything inside me stilled as they laid him on me. His weight was so small, yet it pressed against the deepest parts of me as I held him. I could feel holiness brushing against my splinters and eternity against my weathered soul.

His warmth spread through me, and I marveled at the mystery of what I held—a fragile, crying baby who was so much more. He carried the weight of eternity. How could divinity be so small, so breakable? Yet here he was, choosing the ordinary, the splintered, the lowly—choosing me.

Why me? How could something so fragile and holy rest in something so unworthy?

You may have asked the same question. Why would God choose me? Or maybe you believe God would never choose you. But, isn't that the story of Christmas—that God's Love meets us exactly where we are, splintered and weathered, and still says, You are enough?

Yes, he chose me. So I held him, and his cry settled. He gave in to sleep, and as I held him, I felt loved, known, and free. For years, I held nothing but scraps and leftovers, hay and slop.

But, that night, I held the Light of the World.

In the morning, he stirred with the light and the noise of the animals who had gathered around, looking for their breakfast. His mother, smiling, lifted him gently from my arms, cradled him, and said his name. "Good morning, Jesus." The man pushed me back to my shadowy corner, returning things as they found them before they left. I was back in the shadows, but not as they found me. Since that night, I have never been the same. I'm the same old manger, worn from the years. The animals still eat from my trough, as sloppy and irreverent as ever.

But I remember holding Jesus.
He was more than a baby.
Jesus was Love.
He was the Christ who came into the world to set us all free.

I am still a splintered, weathered, old, and worn-out manger. I'm a vessel for hay, not holiness. But that night, I was a throne.

Jesus made me whole and holy.

---

I wonder how God's Love is waiting to rest in my uneven, ordinary places.

Maybe that's the scandal of the Incarnation—that God would not only enter the mess of this world (and my life) but abide with me in it.

In her poem Wild Geese, Mary Oliver writes,

"You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves—Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting - over and over announcing your place in the family of things."

This story we enter every year:
A baby in a manger.
The word made flesh.
Of God coming down.
The birth of Jesus.

This story reminds us that "our place in the family" is in the family! WITH GOD, WHO LOVES US BEYOND ANYTHING WE COULD DESCRIBE OR COMPREHEND! And not as that one family member who no one wants at the party, but you have to invite them because they are your dad's third cousin's uncle twice removed.

No, our place is in the family.

Fully loved.
Fully welcome.
Fully included, as we are—even when we find ourselves splintered, uneven, worn out, and falling apart.

The life of following Jesus isn't about perfecting ourselves; it is about learning to cradle perfect Love in our imperfections—learning to be loved as Christ loves us and learning to love others in the same way.

Am I willing to bring myself? Not my best self, with everything figured out and wearing my Sunday best. Just myself, as I am?

God doesn't need me to be ready.
God only asks me to be willing.

And even the simplest things—the splintered wood, the weary heart, the unpolished places of my life—can hold the weight of glory when Love arrives. And Love has arrived this night. So, tonight, I proclaim with the angels,

"Do not be afraid, for see, I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger." And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, "Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!"