The road to Bethlehem. Over 2000 years ago, angels, kings and shepherds made their way down the road to Bethlehem. In my mind, I picture that road as a dusty, winding road, perhaps difficult to travel. These shepherds, these kings, these angels – why did they journey down that road? They went to Bethlehem to herald a king. A king born in a humble manner – in a wooden manger, in a stable. A king born to simple parents – a virgin mother and a father who was a carpenter by trade. A king born to be their deliverer, their hope, their blood atonement, their salvation.
This king, this baby in the manger, this carpenter, this brother, this perfect man, this Son of God, has drawn many down the road to Bethlehem over the course of time. Some walk that road out of curiosity, some out of contempt, some out of fear, some out of need, some out of deep hurt or pain. Some come seeking a friend, some an escape, some a provider – but all come in need of a Savior.
I traveled that road to Bethlehem only a few years ago. For me, it was a dark and dusty journey. A journey that spanned my lifetime. A journey that was filled with steep embankments and sharp edges. A journey that passed through shadowy valleys and deeply rutted canyons. A journey that snatched me from the very jaws of death and hell. Truly a journey that led me to that manger, that stable, that King Eternal.
I had spent my life traveling down a different road, a wandering road, a deadly road. I was empty inside, searching for something or someone to fill that emptiness, that ache deep within my soul. The road I followed was dangerous, filled with sin and despair. My life had become a meaningless existence, defined by my reckless defiance of all things pure or holy. Through the love and faithfulness of three close friends, friends who were devoted followers of this King, I finally arrived at the place of the manger. Battered, bruised and broken, convinced that I could never be forgiven, stripped of all my pride, desperate, desolate, hopeless – I came to the manger.
You see, on a cold and rainy Monday, I met the King. The King who was born in the manger, who lived and walked and worked and loved and taught among us. The King who healed the sick, caused the blind to see, made the deaf to hear, changed water into wine, cast out demons, the King who raised the dead. On that Monday, that same King stood before me with outstretched hands, hands that bore the marks of another piece of wood – the cross on which He hung and died for me.
And the King asked me to make a choice. A choice to give Him my life. To believe in the King of the manger; to trust, to trust in the King of the cross; to follow the King of the resurrection. A choice – belief or unbelief. A choice – life or death. A choice – heaven or hell.
I chose the King. That cold and rainy Monday, I took the final steps along the road to Bethlehem, and I met Him. The King. Jesus. Lord of Lords, King of Kings and Prince of Peace. He's transformed my life, He's renewed my mind, and He's given me a whole new heart. And now, He stands waiting, hands outstretched, heart filled with love, ready to change you. On that Monday, I fell on my face and I made my choice. Now, in this moment, if you haven't met the King, if you haven't truly met the King, the choice is yours.
