The rain had been relentless all morning, icy droplets needling the earth, turning the fields into a muddy stretch of misery. A lone man stood in the doorway of his barn, a haven of warmth and plenty. Inside, fresh hay piled high, grain filled the troughs, and the shelter provided protection from the biting cold.
Outside, a flock of birds shivered in the storm. He watched them hop about in the wet grass, their small bodies trembling from the cold, their desperate pecks at the frozen ground yielding nothing but frustration. The barn was only a few feet away—a sanctuary—but they didn’t know it.
How could he tell them? He tried scattering grain near the entrance, but they were too wary to approach. He walked outside, beckoning them, calling, attempting to guide them toward the refuge. But how could birds understand the intentions of a man?
If only he could become a bird, speak in their language, earn their trust, show them the way.
And in that moment, understanding dawned.
This is what Jesus did for us. Humanity, lost in the storm, blinded by its own fears, uncertain of where to find true peace. And so, God, knowing that words and signs weren’t enough for those who couldn’t comprehend His ways, did the only thing that would make sense—He became like us. He stepped down from heaven, walked among us, spoke our language, shared in our struggles, and pointed the way to the shelter, the place of provision, the warmth of eternal love.
The man sighed, watching as the birds continued their futile search in the cold. And he wondered—how many people today are still shivering in the storm, unaware that the door to the barn has always been open?
Would they recognize the voice that calls them in? Would they trust the hands that scatter grain at their feet?
Would they, at last, enter the warmth and accept the gift that has been there all along?