The Manger is the Model

Leading with radical hope in an upside-down world

By Allison van Tilborgh-Martinous

More than one pastor I’ve worked with has jokingly referred to Christmas as “the second Super Bowl”—second only to Easter, of course. It’s a giving moment, a growth moment, a guest moment. And somewhere between the candlelight service and the offering envelope, there’s a subtle but very real pressure to perform it well.

Maybe you’re thinking, I get it. I know the story. I know the virgin birth. The magi. The shepherds. The star.

But . . . do you?

When was the last time you actually sat with the story—not as a sermon to preach or a script to stage, but as a real, raw, deeply human moment in history?

Let me remind you of the cast: an unwed teenage girl, nine months pregnant, far from home ... her fiancé, who’s not the father, trying to figure out what faithfulness looks like ... poor shepherds, who show up with nothing but their wonder ... foreign millionaires who bring impractical gifts and a bit of holy confusion ... a few barn animals, just doing their part ... land that offers what it can when no human would ... and a helpless infant, swaddled in obscurity, rumored to be the downfall of empire.

It’s all completely upside down. And that’s the point.

Because nothing about this picture screams “God with us.” And yet, it is precisely this messy, misfit, subversive scene that reveals the greatest truth of leadership and life: there is still hope when the world is upside down.

Especially for those called to lead in it.

Mary: leading when everything falls apart

Think back to when you were 16. What kept you up at night? High school drama, fashion choices, a crush not texting back. If you were born around the millennium like me, probably your Instagram grid.

Now picture Mary—probably that same age—navigating one of the most disorienting, wildly inconvenient and poorly timed leadership assignments in human history. She’s pregnant, unmarried and far from being in control of her own narrative.

And just when it seems like things can’t get any more complicated, she’s forced by imperial decree to travel more than 150 kilometers while nine months pregnant. On foot. Through hills. For a census. Because of her fiancé’s distant ancestral connection to King David. That’s the logistical reason. The actual reason? Imperial control.

Nothing about this situation is ideal. Everything about it is strange.

And yet—she moves.

This is leadership when nothing makes sense. When the timing is all wrong, the conditions are all wrong, the systems around you are indifferent or hostile and the people around you have no idea what you’re really going through.

It’s easy to lead when the strategy is clear and the spreadsheets line up. It’s something else entirely to lead when the path ahead is unknown, your body is exhausted, your name is being whispered in gossip circles and your only certainty is the vague memory of a divine whisper you said yes to months ago.

Søren Kierkegaard once defined faith as “holding onto uncertainties with passionate conviction.” That’s Mary. Not blind obedience, but stubborn, embodied conviction in the face of absurdity. Not because she’s fearless. But because something holy is happening—whether anyone else sees it or not.

She doesn’t get to control the timing. She doesn’t get to choose the conditions.

But she carries the calling anyway. Not because the circumstances are affirming—but because the voice of God once was.

Mary’s leadership wasn’t loud. It wasn’t public. But it was steady. She shows up to the stable—tired, probably bleeding, surrounded by strangers, still reeling from birth—and somehow, she’s still leading.

And Scripture tells us, “Mary treasured all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19).

Not after things got easier. Not once the story made sense.

Right in the middle of the mess.

Joseph: the strength to support what you didn’t start

By now, it’s no shock to anyone that first-century Palestine was a deeply patriarchal society. Everything—status, lineage, legitimacy—ran through the man’s name. That’s why Mary, at the end of her pregnancy, was forced to travel such a long distance: because, legally and culturally, she already belonged to Joseph—and his lineage dictated her location more than her wellbeing did.

We learn very little about Joseph—just that he was pledged to marry Mary, and that when he learned she was pregnant, he resolved to quietly break off the engagement. Not because he was angry. Because he didn’t want to disgrace her publicly. Quiet strength. Steady character.

Eventually, he comes around on the whole “Holy Spirit conception” situation. He stays. He marries her. He names the child. And he raises someone else’s son.

That last part matters.

Because in leadership, there will be seasons when you are asked to carry a vision you didn’t cast. To protect something you didn’t conceive. To make room for someone else to shine—even when the spotlight used to land on you.

Joseph doesn’t fight for center stage—even though he was probably raised to believe he should. Instead, he chooses not to insist on a spotlight he was culturally conditioned to expect. He knows his role, and he plays it with strength.

That’s leadership. And it’s rare.

Because leadership isn’t always about being appointed. Sometimes it’s about stepping in when you weren’t expected to.

It’s about taking responsibility for something you didn’t create, defending someone you don’t “owe,” investing in something that won’t ever bear your name.

Joseph could have walked away. In fact, every cultural script available to him probably suggested he should.

But instead, he stays. He listens. He adapts. He raises a child who isn’t his, and anchors a family that wasn’t his to begin with.

Joseph shows us a version of masculinity—and ministry—that isn’t about dominance, but presence. He protects. He provides. He believes. He stays.

And in a world that celebrates bold visionaries and platform builders, Joseph reminds us that sometimes the most vital leaders aren’t the ones up front—but the ones who quietly anchor the story from behind the scenes.

The culture around him may have expected him to walk away. Instead, he leans in. His job isn’t to be impressive. His job is to be faithful.

And for pastors and leaders, especially those in second-chair roles, that may be the most radically important role of all.

The Shepherds: The power of wonder in a cynical world

It was just another night shift. A crew of shepherds, probably half-asleep, chatting quietly to stay awake, scanning the horizon for predators. The same old rhythm: protect the flock, stay alert, try not to get eaten. Then, a sound. A flicker of light. Something strange in the air.

One of them thinks he sees a ghost. Before they can confirm or deny, the sky explodes with some kind of mystical army. They’re terrified. Confused. But maybe ... a little exhilarated? Nothing interesting ever happened to poor shepherds like them.

And yet, they’re the first ones to get the memo.

The message is bizarre: The Messiah is here (like, right now), He’s a baby and you’ll find Him wrapped up and lying in ... an animal’s food dish

The kind of news that should have gone to palace officials or religious elites instead comes to the guys who sleep in fields and smell like sheep.

And maybe that’s the point.

The kingdom breaks in, not through power or prestige, but through proximity and perception—through those who are close enough to the margins to still be paying attention.

The shepherds don’t over-analyze. They don’t dismiss it. They don’t demand clarification or credentials. They simply wonder. And then they move.

Maybe the shepherds immediately understood what the rest of us still struggle with: that in this new world, the small things matter most. That wonder is not weakness. That humility is not the absence of leadership—it’s the starting point of it.

They didn’t come bearing influence or insight. They didn’t have a strategic framework. But they brought something we too often forget to value: pure, unfiltered awe.

In an age where leadership is often synonymous with certainty, vision and control, the shepherds remind us that some of the greatest movements of God begin with interruptions and wonder—not spreadsheets and strategy.

They didn’t have much to give that night. But they offered their curiosity. Their joy. Their movement toward mystery. And in return, they witnessed glory.

Sometimes the most faithful thing a leader can do is pause, behold and let their hearts be moved again.

The Magi: The humility to worship where you least expect it

The Magi could not have been more different from the shepherds. Wealthy. Educated. Likely older. Traveled. Religious, yes—but not in any way that aligned with the Jewish faith. These weren’t insiders. They weren’t locals. They didn’t share the theology, the lineage or even the language of the story they were stepping into.

And yet, they show up.

Picture it: traditionally, three rich foreigners walking into a barn that smells like livestock and birth. They step over animal droppings, past a dazed teenage couple, and into a moment so wildly underwhelming, it must have stopped them in their tracks. This was not where they expected that brilliant star to lead them.

They brought expensive gifts—frankincense, myrrh, gold. None of it practical. None of it needed in the moment. (Imagine trying to trade perfume for a clean blanket or a place to sleep.) And still, they bow. Still, they kneel. They don’t correct the scene. They don’t question it. They worship.

Which makes you wonder: maybe this whole encounter did more for the magi than it did for the Holy Family.

Because this is what wise people do: they know when to release control and when to let awe take over. These men, used to being treated with honor, fall to their knees in a stable. They don’t send a messenger. They don’t schedule a meeting. They get low. On the ground. In the dirt.

This is what real leaders eventually learn—that not everything is meant to be directed, shaped or fixed. Some things are meant to be witnessed. And some moments are meant to break you open in all the best ways.

Their worship wasn’t efficient. Their timing wasn’t perfect. Their gifts weren’t exactly practical. But what they offered was what the world is often starved for: unentitled, uncalculated reverence.

They didn’t try to elevate the space to match their status. Instead, they let the poverty of the place elevate their perspective.

That’s the kind of leadership that actually shifts things.

Because the truth is, if you lead long enough, God will eventually bring you to a place where everything you thought you knew gets redefined. Where your wealth, wisdom and strategy won’t buy you clarity—and all you’ll be able to do is kneel in the mystery and call it holy.

That’s not a detour. That’s the arrival.

Creation: The leadership of silent, faithful witness

When 13th-century art depicted the Nativity, it was often presented much rosier than the barnyard reality presented in the Bible. Saint Francis of Assisi was on a mission to bring the story to life through guerrilla theater. He set up the scene in a nearby cave in Greccio, Italy, where he assigned townspeople roles to play, such as Mary, Joseph and shepherds whom he had watch real sheep. Critical to his display was the inclusion of live animals and real hay. He was convinced that without a live donkey and ox, it would not be a true nativity display. Why the insistence?

Isaiah 1:3 prophesies: “The ox knows its owner, and the donkey its master’s crib; but Israel does not know, my people do not understand.”

Following the birth of Jesus, this verse was interpreted to refer to the actual animals that may have been present at the time of His birth. They began to play an important part in understanding the birth of Jesus as a representation of the world being upside down—and that upside-downness being our salvation.

The manger itself is not incidental. It’s eucharistic. The animals offer what they have—their space, their food—and Christ lays Himself in the place they turn for sustenance. A preview of the day He would become food for the world.

An Edenic vision for the renewal of the earth was afoot—a new world ahead of them; one that, in many ways, is still ahead of us. Even as humble animals, they possessed a knowing about the truth of Jesus that humans could not, because it did not make sense to them. Instead of intellectual or theological platitudes, they offer Jesus everything they have, however meager it may be.

Whereas the logical human response to the baby king may be, “That’s no Messiah!” it is the lowly animals who know their true owner, while the rest of us are blinded from the truth of the Nativity event. The animals bore quiet witness, offering what little they had. They didn’t need to speak. They didn’t need to understand. They simply made room.

And so did the Earth.

Every human door had been closed to Joseph and Mary, but the Earth did not close hers. When no person made room, the Earth itself did. It offered its cave for shelter, its hay for warmth, its ground for the cradle of God. Even the sky participated, guiding the Magi not with words, but with a star brighter than any oil lamp.

The created world responds to Christ’s coming with hospitality. With alignment. With presence.

There is something deeply instructive here for those in leadership. Not all participation is vocal. Not all leadership is platformed. Sometimes the most sacred work is making space—when no one else will.

The logic of the Nativity is not domination or control, but quiet cooperation. The Earth and her creatures play their role with a kind of knowing that predates theology. They don’t strive to impress. They don’t strategize their contribution.

They simply show up.

And sometimes, that’s the most powerful kind of leadership we can offer.

Jesus: God’s ultimate reversal of power and leadership

What a preposterous idea.

A virgin birth? An infant king? A peaceful Messiah?

The birth of Jesus is the birth of the greatest paradox the world has ever known.

God among us—but wrapped in flesh.

Heaven on earth—but swaddled and silent.

Weak, strong. Last, first. Born again.

The meek will inherit the Earth.

This is the Good News we were waiting for? This child? For whom? For when?

His parents didn’t even have the resources to birth Him in a proper room. He arrived on the margins of the margins—born not just poor, but rejected, out of place and entirely dependent on the generosity of others. And this—this—was how God chose to enter the narrative?

No armies. No coronation. No position of power. Just a newborn in a borrowed stable, surrounded by animals, a teenager and her bewildered fiancé.

And yet somehow, this is the beginning of the kingdom.

Sam Chand has said that “the distance between expectation and reality is disappointment.” And I imagine the Nativity was disappointing to more than a few. Not because of the reality itself, but because their expectations were rooted in force, not humility. In swordplay, not surrender.

They wanted the empire to be overthrown—loudly. What they got was a child who couldn’t yet speak.

But leadership has always been defined more by what we assume it looks like than by what it truly is.

So how does God lead? By letting go. By stepping down. By arriving not in strength, but in need.

And that is perhaps the greatest reversal of all: that the Savior of the world came not to dominate, but to dwell. Not to command, but to connect. Not to display power, but to become powerless.

No money. No weapons. No territory to His name.

Just a child and His mama.

And a band of interspecies witnesses.

And somehow ... that was enough.

Hope came from that in the most upside-down way.

It’s easy to become desensitized to the Nativity story. Magi this. Manger that. Shepherds here. Virgin birth there.

The details blur with each passing year, softened by repetition and wrapped in commercial nostalgia. The radical edge of the story—the sheer absurdity of it—starts to feel predictable. And many of us, especially in ministry, find ourselves relieved when the holiday season ends so we can “get back to work.”

But what if this is the work?

What if the Nativity isn’t just something we remember—but something we lead from?

One of the most common mistakes we make is chronologizing the birth of Christ—treating it like a historical footnote, something to honor and admire at a distance. We remember what He did for us, but forget what He is still doing through us.

The Orthodox liturgy offers another lens. On December 25, worshippers don’t sing, “The Virgin once gave birth ...” They proclaim, “The Virgin today gives birth to the Transcendent One.”

Today.

Not yesterday.

Not long ago in Bethlehem.

Now.

The incarnation wasn’t simply a one-time event. It’s an ongoing disruption—a living, breathing invitation to participate in the kingdom breaking in, not just when the world feels upside down, but through us, as we help turn it upside down in all the right ways.

And here’s the challenge for leaders: What if every day is the Nativity?

What if every boardroom, every pulpit, every tough decision, every disappointing budget, every chaotic staff meeting—is a stable in disguise? What if the manger is still showing up in inconvenient, unimpressive places, asking if we’ll notice? If we’ll kneel? If we’ll make room?

This is what the Nativity teaches us: that peace doesn’t come through performance, polish or positional power. It doesn’t arrive with status or strategy. It breaks in through humility. Through weakness. Through wonder.

It comes to unwed teenagers, blue-collar dreamers, night-shift shepherds, wandering outsiders, barn animals and dry earth.

And it keeps coming.

To leaders like us.

Today.

 

Allison van Tilborgh-Martinous, MTS, is director of digital media at Four Rivers Media and brand coordinator for several Four Rivers Media Magazine Group titles.