No Room.

When Jesus was born, He wasn’t delivered in a hospital. He wasn’t born in the home that Mary and Joseph expected. They were traveling, stretched thin, and vulnerable, and when they arrived in Bethlehem, they found no welcome. The only space offered was a place meant for animals, and the sign of His arrival was not a crib but a manger.

If you had an Irish Catholic mother like mine, Christmas Eve meant putting the final touches on a nativity scene passed down like an heirloom—each figure placed with care, each detail teaching without words.

Unlike many births—met with family gathered in joy and anticipation—Jesus arrived quietly. No waiting room. No crowd chanting His name. Just a young mother, a faithful man, and the weight of heaven coming down in the dark.

The God of all creation humbled Himself not only to walk the earth, but to enter it in circumstances so ordinary they almost offend our instincts. Not crowned. Not celebrated. Gracefully simply given.

And Mary and Joseph, still in that tense space of betrothal, carrying a story most people would misunderstand, become the first frame of the gospel: God choosing what the world calls “unlikely” and calling it holy.

Luke says it plainly: “There was no room for them…” (Luke 2:7). That line is more than a travel problem. It’s a mirror. Because the question is not just what Bethlehem did with Jesus. The question is, what do we do with Him?

Will I make room for Him in my schedule?

In my plans?

In my control?

In my pain?

Jesus entered the world with no privileges, though everything is His. Born near the margins, He made Himself approachable—so the poor would not fear Him, and the proud would have no excuse to avoid Him.

And the manger matters. A manger is a feeding trough. The Lord of glory was laid where animals eat—as if heaven was preaching before Jesus ever spoke: He will be Bread for the hungry. He will be nourishment for the empty.

God is who He says He is: Provider, Sustainer, Redeemer. And His work in us often feels like a slow burn, sometimes miraculous in a moment, sometimes faithful over years. But always purposeful.

That’s why so many of us reach a point where we whisper, How did I get here?

How did this relationship leave me shattered?

How did this job leave me exhausted?

How did this season hollow me out?

And yet, this is where Yahweh loves to meet us. Not after we clean ourselves up. Not after we “figure it out.” But in the place that feels like “no room,” where we have nothing left to offer but honesty.

Jesus didn’t wait for a room at the inn. He entered the world anyway, humbly, gently, just like the same way He knocks at the door of the human heart.

The best part is this: He loves us too much to leave us unchanged. He makes room in us, rearranging what we thought we needed, healing what we thought was permanent, and teaching us to trust His goodness even when His provision comes in a form we didn’t ask for.

Sometimes we asked for bread and received a fish. But in time, we learn: His provision has wisdom. And His wisdom has love.

Maybe this Christmas, you renew your relationship with the God who cares for you more than you could imagine. Maybe something awakens within you—joy that overflows, or pain finally given words. God will draw near and comfort you.

And whatever rises in you, may we make room for Jesus, the Savior of the world, in every chamber of our being.