It was a quiet Christmas morning, one of those days when the world feels still like it’s holding its breath. I was 17 years old, serving at the bishop’s residence in the small town of Orlu, Nigeria. Orlu, in the warm eastern part of the country, is a place where smiles are easy, voices are lively, and the people welcome you with open arms. But the house felt different that day. It wasn’t its usual energetic self. Instead, it was so silent it felt as though I was walking through an empty church, where every step echoes.
The stillness was broken when Bishop Gregory Ochiagha (now late) called me to his office. At the time, Bishop Gregory was a man respected far and wide. He was known for his wisdom, fierce dedication, and generosity. “Only the best is good enough for Orlu diocese,” he often told his priests and seminarians. He stood tall, with an air that could make you both nervous and proud to know him.
When I entered his office, I could feel his disappointment before he even spoke. “You left the gate open,” he said firmly, his voice sharp and accusing.
I was startled. I hadn’t done it—I was sure of that. But what could I say? I was just a teenager, standing before a man who seemed larger than life. I bowed quietly, unsure how to defend myself. He refused that I say a word. So, I left the room with my confidence shaken.
From Accusation to Seeking Forgiveness
For hours, I sat in the quiet house reception area where I was stationed, turning his words over and over in my head. I wanted to explain myself, to prove that he was wrong, but the opportunity never came. Then, out of nowhere, the call came again. “Come to my office,” he said.
This time, things were different. When I entered the room, the Bishop’s face was not stern but soft, even kind.
“My son,” he began, his voice gentle. “I need to ask for your forgiveness.”
The words hit me harder than his earlier accusations. I stood there, stunned. This was the bishop—the man I looked up to, the most powerful figure I knew—asking me for forgiveness.
He explained everything. He realized he had made a mistake. I wasn’t the one who left the gate open. He admitted he had judged me unfairly and never even gave me a chance to explain myself.
“I was wrong,” he said, his voice full of sincerity. And then, to make up for his mistake, he handed me a gift—a beautiful Christmas present he had sent someone to buy just for me. I couldn’t believe it.
A Life-Changing Christmas Moment
That moment taught me something I’ll never forget. I learned that real greatness isn’t about brute power or perfection. It’s about humility, admitting when you’ve made a mistake, and choosing kindness over pride. It’s about learning to learn and retooling from one’s past. Rooted in it is a humble state.
On that same Christmas morning, I couldn’t help but think of the very first Christmas—the story of Jesus’ birth. It’s one we all know well. The Bible tells us in Luke 2:7, “Mary wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn.”
The Son of God, the one of whom Isaiah says, “Upon his shoulder dominion rests,” and who is called “Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero, Father-Forever, Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:5-6), wasn’t born in a grand palace. He didn’t even have a proper crib. Instead, he was laid in a manger, surrounded by earthy smells and animals’ cacophonies. Besides, the dustiness of the typical stable in the Middle East at the time could be felt through every browned grass of the stable bedding upon which the child must have been laid.
The Humility of the Child Jesus
That image—the King of Kings born in such humble surroundings—fills my heart with awe every time I picture it. The Bible reminds us in John 1:14, “And the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.” Jesus didn’t come to tower above us. He came to be with us, to live as one of us. The creator of everything entered the world in the lowliest way imaginable.
I think about that each time I see a nativity set. Today, we decorate the scene with lights and ornaments, making it beautiful. But the real stable wasn’t beautiful. It was probably cold, rough, and far from clean. And yet, that’s where God chose to begin his earthly life. That’s where humility met divinity.
As you look at the nativity scene in your home this Christmas, pause for a moment. Think about how Jesus humbled himself for us. Then, just as the bishop taught me that day, bring that humility into your life. Reach out to others with kindness and understanding. Be gentle with those who are struggling, forgiving toward those who make mistakes, and generous to those in need.
Isaiah 9:2 says, “The people who walk in darkness will see a great light.” This Christmas, be that light to someone. Pass on the humble example, whether through small acts of love or brave moments of forgiveness. After all, that’s what the manger is all about—love so extraordinary that it finds beauty in the lowest places.
Let us carry forward the light of humility, shining it into the lives of those around us, one small act of kindness at a time.
Merry Christmas!
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