“These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. Their worship of me is made up only of rules taught by men.” — Isaiah 29:13
The sanctuary glowed with soft candlelight, the kind that makes even the most ordinary pews look holy. Pine garlands draped across the altar rail, their scent mingling with the faint sweetness of cider served in the fellowship hall. Children in wool scarves shuffled in, their cheeks red from the December wind, eyes wide with anticipation. Tonight was the living nativity.
Beyond the sanctuary doors, neighbors streamed in from the frosted streets, families bundled in scarves and mittens, children tugging at their parents’ hands. They came as pilgrims of Christmastide, drawn by tradition, eager to witness the pageant that had become a yearly ritual. For them, this was more than a performance—it was a seasonal pilgrimage, a chance to feel the warmth of belonging, to rehearse the story that had been told for centuries.
The choir hummed carols, voices rising like incense. A hush fell as the curtain opened: there it was, the manger scene. Mary in her blue robe, Joseph with his staff, shepherds bowing low, wise men bearing gifts. And at the center, swaddled in cloth, the baby Jesus—rosy-cheeked, perfectly still, lying in the cradle of straw. The crowd leaned forward, hearts warmed by nostalgia. Cameras clicked. Parents whispered, “Isn’t it beautiful?”
The ritual unfolded with precision. Scripture was read, candles lifted, hymns sung. The babe in its cradle, adored by all, a symbol of innocence and hope. The people smiled, satisfied that they had honored the season.
But outside, beyond the stained-glass glow, the wind howled. A figure stood at the door, unseen, unwelcomed. His breath rose in the cold night air as He knocked softly, waiting. His hands bore scars of nails. His eyes searched not for pageantry but for hearts.
Inside, the doll received worship. Outside, the Living Christ was left in the dark.
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